As I got older, I was beginning to understand the rage my mother had within her. It didn't make the abuse right, but did explain it. My father had deteriorated to the point that I really wasn't sure he was even going to survive. I have no memory of him sober during my high school years. He was usually half in the bag by the time he got home in the evening and he always passed out very soon after dinner, which meant he was unconscious when I got home.
My mother was beginning to suffer from thyroid, liver, and kidney problems (a result of alcohol, I'm sure). She also had a heart problem, but kept it hidden from everyone. I could tell that her health was deteriorating by the way she cooked our meals. Things were either undercooked or burned to a crisp. No in-between. And because so much money was going out for booze, the meals were barely enough for two adults, never mind my three sisters, and me. So I actually stopped eating at home. I'd do odd jobs at a couple of local restaurants in exchange for a meal, or would wash a car or two for food money.
I wish I could say that my social life was like everyone else's in my high school years, but it wasn't. I was always the kid that came from "those projects." I kissed my first girlfriend through a screen door on my eleventh birthday—her name was Theresa Lammington, and she was also a twin. Her brother's name was Bruno. They were from the French-speaking area of Quebec, in Canada, and neither could speak English very well. I think her language was the primary turn-on for me at the time. That sexy French accent, well . . . you know what I mean. But then, what does an eleven-year-old know? I remember she had very soft lips and dark eyes, and something turned over in my stomach whenever I was close to her. That was a long time ago, but it's something you just don't forget.
My first passionate love affair was in eighth grade, with a dark-haired little vixen named Ann, who's last name I can no longer recall. She actually let me undress her in the backseat of an empty station wagon. Of course what's good for the gander is good for the goose, but nothing ever really happened beyond satisfying our very young curiosity about what the other sex might look like sans clothing. We went steady for about six months, and I got to exchange sodas and ice cream for a soft warm kiss on occasion, which seemed a fair trade for exposing ourselves to one another at such an early age. I stopped seeing her when her stepfather threatened me. I knew in my heart that he was probably abusing her, but there was little I could do about it, as he was nearly six times my size.
After that brief experience with unbridled nudity, I dated dozens of different girls for one reason or another all through high school. I think I dated so many for a lot of reasons. First, I was looking for love. I knew I had little of it in my life, but really didn't know what it should look like in the first place. Secondly, I was intrigued by the opposite sex. They were so completely different, one from the next.
Some of the girls I dated couldn't speak a word of English. One very beautiful girl from Venezuela had long straight blond hair down to her waist and blue eyes that were very pale and looked like cracked marbles. She only spoke Spanish and my Spanish really sucked. Her grandmother always went on the dates with us, and her English was passable. We'd walk hand-in-hand to a movie, with her grandmother always strolling along ten paces behind.
I also double-dated with a guy who must have been seeing Al Capone's granddaughter. What nights those were! Driving around town with one large black limo to the front of us and another one to the rear—each carrying two huge guys with dark hats. I always thought the guy had a lot of cojones to be necking with some Mafioso's granddaughter under the watchful eyes of "The Hulk" and his brothers. The shadows never spoke, never interfered, and were never more than ten feet away.
I met my first serious love purely by accident. My buddies talked me into going to a dance at one of the other Catholic high schools. The dance was sponsored by a local chapter of the CYO (Catholic Youth Organization). I saw her standing across the dance floor when I first walked in, and I knew she was the one for me. The fact that I was only fifteen didn't seem to matter. I didn't let the fact that I had never learned to dance stand in my way either. Her name was Arlene Jackman. We went steady for nearly two years, then I went by her house one Saturday morning and her father told me that she had eloped with another guy she had been seeing for some time. I was absolutely crushed. I never saw it coming. So much for being psychic, I guess. I have since learned that you can be psychic about almost anything except yourself.
In revenge, I skipped around from girl to girl for nearly six months, then fell passionately in love a second time with a young lady named Marcia Benedict. She occupied nearly my entire senior year. But as much as I loved her, it was hard being with her. If you can imagine two people totally from opposite sides of a street in all ways—we were certainly those two people. We fought like cats and dogs over the dumbest things, but we also loved each other deeply. It gave me even more insight into the relationship that existed between my mother and father, at least at the outset of their lives together. Being a lot older and wiser now, I know that none of these relationships could have worked out. The kind of love I was searching for then was not the kind they were capable of giving. They were safe harbors in a time of need, and for that I am eternally grateful. Real love was a lifetime away and beyond my comprehension then.
Marcia's father was always noncommittal, but her mother was into subtle sabotage. I was fine with her until I arrived one Saturday evening to take Marcia to a drive-in movie. By then I was driving a 1952 Ford I had bought from a junk dealer and had fixed up. Marcia's mother was standing next to the car saying what mothers do when their daughters are going out on a date, "be careful, be home early," etc., when I started the engine to leave. As women do when wearing a short skirt, Marcia put her feet against the car floor and pushed to pull her skirt down further, and the entire front seat suddenly flipped over backward, forming what I'm sure looked like a perfect bed. I tried to explain that I had repaired the front seat with a bad bolt, which fell on deaf ears. From that point on, her mom always seemed to be in the way. It was really tough to have a private moment. The good part was getting to drive her mother's car to the movies all the time. It was a brand-new Thunderbird with bucket seats.
I finally graduated in June of 1964 with two partial scholarships to universities. I eventually chose the one closest to home—the University of Miami—simply because I couldn't afford an apartment.
"What a zoo!" Those were my first words on sitting down in my orientation class for freshman year. I had a stack of textbooks on the desk in front of me that I had busted my buns for nearly two weeks to pay for. And there I sat, not being able to make out what the professor at the front of the hall was saying. Everyone was shouting and talking to everyone else all at the same time. The professor, apparently oblivious to the commotion going on around him, continued to speak and simultaneously write something on the blackboard that I couldn't see. It looked like he was carrying on a conversation with the air. The last straw was a lanky, thin-boned kid with freckles, dropping an IBM punch card on my desk and telling me to memorize the number on it, which was my student identification number. I realized that, as difficult as high school had been for me, at least there I could see and speak directly to my teacher. I stood up and slid my stack of books over to the kid sitting next to me, and said something like, "Help yourself." Then I walked out. No way could I endure four years of that.
At the same time, I knew that I couldn't go back to my summer job, which had been working in a warehouse unloading boxcars under the beautiful Florida sunshine. I'd have to come up with a better plan.
Chapter Two
From Enlistment through School
I loved Miami, especially in my earlier years. I was in the unique position of being a fifth-generation Miamian. So I knew things about Miami that most didn't at my age. The first house I lived in as a small child was my grandmother's old house, which stood very close to the Miami River. (Where the house was now sits an expressway off ramp.) The exterior wood of the house was weathered a splotch
y brown from countless years of neglect and hurricanes. It was the same house her mother and her mother's mother lived in. A two-story structure, it had originally been a saloon and dance hall back in the early 1800s. I remember playing in the front yard, which was filled with old statuary of seminaked women in fanciful Greek costumes. By the time I was playing in the courtyard, the statues had become embedded deeply within the trunks of very old live oaks surrounded by mimosa trees—the trees having encapsulated most of the statues, at least partially.
While living there, I remember my dad reading something in the evening newspaper that noted the population had finally broached 100,000, and saying to my mother with a bit of surprise, "The whole city is going to hell in a hand basket!"
Now here I was a high school graduate, the only one in my graduating class who wasn't going to go to college. An interesting quandary: If not college, then what?
Everyone was subtly aware of the increasing possibility of war in Vietnam. Many who could read the handwriting on the wall were doing what they could to avoid the situation. I didn't really have any serious thoughts about it one way or the other. I don't even recall knowing where Vietnam was on the map.
So, what to do?
Surprisingly, I didn't have long to wait for the answer. It came while standing at a bus stop about a week after I had quit my job. I had approximately half a dollar in my pocket excluding the bus fare. It was most definitely one of those times I made a decision that was totally intuitive.
It was very late, sometime past eleven, and as I stood there, I looked up at the moon. It was one of those sultry Miami moons, not quite full but awash with a deep orange glow—what I've since learned to call a "blood and sand" moon, larger than life.
A small voice in the back of my mind said, "I wonder if that's the way it looks on the other side of the world right now?"
It was at that point I knew that I was going to have to leave home, leave Miami, and even leave Florida. I knew in my heart that I was going to strike out on my own. The bus arrived soon after I made the decision, and I bought a ticket to its last stop.
The last four miles I had to walk in order to get home. In that four-mile walk, with the moon for company, I came up with a number of plans for leaving home. I can now say that most of them were pretty stupid.
If you've ever been to Florida, you'd know initially the hardest obstacle to overcome is just getting out of the state.
Back then, with a 55 MPH speed limit, it took the better part of two days by car. I needed to find a way out of town that would guarantee a quick trip, otherwise I'd probably lose my courage . . . old patterns are the hardest to break.
What I eventually settled on was simple: I'd just sign up for one of the military services. I was eighteen, so I wouldn't need my parents' permission. Vietnam wasn't yet a great concern. Besides, the only people they were sending there were Special Forces, or at least that was the rumor.
Early the next morning, I called a couple of my buddies and we agreed to meet downtown, in Courthouse Square right after lunch. Courthouse Square was the tallest building in Miami at the time and that is where the military recruiting offices were located.
Not surprisingly, the recruiters were all pretty much the same. Any one of them could and would talk the fuzz off a tennis ball. I mean, after all, they'd have to be at least that good if they were going to talk someone into being voluntary cannon fodder. I still had a young mind back then, and couldn't see the forest for the trees. So, I spent nearly half an hour with each recruiter and seriously listened to their pitch. Boy, did they lay it on thick! Initially I had a strong leaning toward the Navy, because my Uncle Red and many of my distant relatives had done their time with the Navy back in the Big War. But it was clear to me that the Navy recruiter was spinning a superlative fairy tale, if not outright lying. And he wasn't even trying to hide it! "Oh yes, and a girl in every port, travel to exotic places, any job you want."
The Air Force recruiter was just as bad. He promised things like a private room with your own bath during basic training and everyone could try out for flight school. I guess he simply forgot to inform me that to fly, you needed to start with a four-year college degree, and an advanced degree was even better.
The Marine Corps recruiter, on the other hand, was offering what sounded like a Club Med membership, with maybe a few glorious battles to round out your tour of duty. Do you know how many famous battles Marines have been involved in since the beginning of time? He probably told me, but I've since forgotten. I just remember there were an awful lot of them, and he made it all sound like it was fun to be shot at in the company of good comrades, under the protection of Mother Corps.
The recruiters made their best efforts to turn me on by bending reality. The truth would have been better. I learned from the Brothers of the Holy Cross and Jesuits that sometimes the truth is bitter, but it's a whole lot easier to deal with. The fact of the matter is, it doesn't matter for what branch of service you wear a uniform. An honorable man is an honorable man, and anyone who serves his country should be respected for it. And there are a lot of ways to serve one's country that don't include a uniform.
The Army recruiter took me by surprise. He offered no fancy sales pitch, didn't dress up the facts or touch only on the good points. He looked me right in the eyes and asked me if I knew what a "bullet launcher" was.
Of course, I didn't. I think I might have muttered a gun or something like that. He reached over and tapped me gently on the chest with his right index finger and barely whispered, "You. You're a bullet launcher. And, a bullet catcher."
I could feel the cold wind of death brushing past the hairs on my arms. At the same time, I felt indirectly challenged. The feeling I was having is kind of hard to describe. But I knew at the time, this man was telling me the truth. If I joined the Army, the very least that I could expect was being shot at, and without a doubt having to shoot back.
It was enough of an adrenaline rush to get me into a seat next to his desk, where I took the Army entry tests, after which I signed on the dotted line. He told me I had two weeks to clear up any personal business and then I would be headed for basic training in Fort Jackson, South Carolina. More important to me, I'd soon be headed out of state and away from home, which was my entire focus and plan.
When I met with my buddies a bit later, I found that my best friend, Jimmy Powers, had signed with the Navy. The rest had chickened out altogether.
To say that my mother was terribly upset would be a complete understatement. She was absolutely livid with rage. She told me in no uncertain terms to go back down to the Recruiting Center and give them their damned papers back. I refused, of course.
It was a Kodak moment, frozen in time, one I'll never forget. Suddenly I found myself face to face with her never-before-revealed fears. Seeing the light in her eyes change was like watching an ember slowly dying in the face of a cold north wind. As that light slowly faded from her eyes, I knew that all the rage she had expended up until that point was her way of dealing with her life's frustration. I just stood there and watched as she slowly let out her breath, turned, and walked away. I could feel something breaking deep inside me that day, but I have never been able to identify what that might have been. I just knew that some meaningful connection between my mother and me was severed forever. Could that have been the apron string snapping? In hindsight, I'd have to say that it was more like a major feed line to my heart.
Surprisingly, my father didn't seem to be upset at all. While seemingly somewhat confused by my decision, because he had always thought that I would join the Navy, he was otherwise very supportive.
Why the Army?
I tried to explain my reasons, but knew in the voicing of them they fell on already-deafened ears. In a sense he was proud of me, I suppose, maybe even a little bit jealous.
He had tried to join the Army back in the beginning of the Second World War, but they had caught him in his third week of basic training trying to hide his polio-deformed foo
t. As a result, he was honorably discharged for the good of the service and sent home. It forever distorted the view he had of himself. This was further complicated by the fact that most of his childhood friends and boot-camp buddies were killed in a bus accident while moving from basic training to their first assignment.
I can understand the military viewpoint in discharging him, but I've always wondered why they couldn't create a special category for people like my dad. They could always use such people to fill in a stateside job, which would further relieve an additional able-bodied soldier to serve overseas, especially during a time of war. It would relieve some of the shortfalls the military suffers in some of its more menial job categories„ or, by filling such categories, the shortfalls they suffer in the combat units.
In a visit to Russia in 2000, while standing in a rehabilitation center in a veterans hospital outside of Moscow, the Russian commanding general and I were discussing a man who had lost both his legs to a mine in Chechnya. I was amazed, watching him playing tennis on artificial feet, and I commented on his rehabilitation. When the general told me the man was about to be discharged from the hospital, I asked if he would receive a disability pension. The general said it wasn't necessary, because he was going back to full service with his original unit. In even more amazement, I asked why. He told me that they felt it was more humane to demonstrate to the man that he was just as valuable after he was wounded as before. He added, "We don't throw people away like they do in many countries." While many will find that comment arguable, I can see the value in continuing to use a well-trained man for a job that he understands. Of course, the man will be working in a noncombat role, but his pride is intact, and he can share with those around him valuable knowledge that would otherwise be lost forever. I believe that my dad and many other fathers who were denied this possibility were unjustly categorized and suffered for it.
The Stargate Chronicles: Memoirs of a Psychic Spy Page 5
