My car stereo doesn’t work, and with only the rumbling of the V-8 engine to keep me company, my thoughts were copiloting. I imagined myself wearing an aviator’s cap, since this is what it must have been like for Amelia Earhart out over the Pacific. If she could do it, I could do it. My logic was, if my car broke down out here in the middle of nowhere, I could still survive, providing a pack of starved wild coyotes didn’t find me first, or the person driving by to pick me up wasn’t a serial killer. If Amelia’s plane had suddenly stopped working, had her propellers just stopped, she was fucked. It’s not like she could land the plane on the ocean, flip the hood, fix the radiator, and be on her way or wait for help. I could at least do that, minus the fixing part.
With the engine rumbling beautifully, I drove along for a bit. Once the sun finally set, there was absolutely no light at all inside my vehicle. Pitch-dark. I guess a fuse or something had blown, and right now, I couldn’t see any of the meters on my dashboard. I had no idea how fast I was going, how low the oil pressure was, how high the engine temperature—not that either of those last two gauges worked to begin with—but more importantly, I could not see how much fuel I had in the tank, which I suspected was also broken.
I kicked myself for not purchasing a couple extra gallons of water and food provisions back at Walmart. I might wither from dehydration out in this vast nothingness, but it’s a good thing I’d thought ahead so that I could do so with a cigarette hanging from my lip.
I sped by a lone deer on the side of the road that seemed tempted to jump out in front of me, and finally on the approaching horizon I saw signs of civilization. When I finally rolled into the small town of Austin, Nevada, I pulled into a lonely gas station and parked. Cramped from sitting so long, I limped inside. The lady working behind the counter had a huge smile on her face, her eyes fixed on my car.
“Did you drive that thing all the way here?” she asked with what I thought might have been a southwestern accent. I smiled back and told her that I had, and a bigger smile appeared on her face. She commented that the back fins of the car looked like wings, motioning with her hands that it looked like it could fly. If only she knew.
After a long drive like that, I needed a drink or two, or five or ten. So after filling up the tank I moved the car behind the gas station and, noticing the crickets chirping, made my way to the old bar across the street. Once inside, I saw that the bartender was an old-timer, and that there were only a couple people in there, all seated at the bar. I took a seat and ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer. I had my backpack with me, with my laptop and camera inside it; I brought it in with me to avoid losing anything if somebody should decide to break into my car.
I set my bag on the ground by my feet, and when the barkeep came back with my order, he asked where I was headed. I told him east.
“Hitchhiking?”
“No. Driving.” The whiskey felt good.
“What you driving?”
“A 1964 Mercury Comet Caliente.” The beer felt better.
“That’ll do it.”
As I left town the following morning, the road wound uphill for a bit, then straightened out, stretching as far as the eye could see, all the way to the horizon. At one point, looking into the rearview mirror, I could see exactly the same thing behind me as in front, nothing but the road just traveled. The sun was hot, the sky blue. Not a cloud in sight.
Operating radio or not, one of the many joys of long drives is allowing your mind to wander. Wearing my old desert tan BDU undershirt, I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. A combination of my reflection and my surroundings reminded me that I could easily have been in Iraq right now, instead of doing this, which then brought Georgia into rotation, drifting once again back to Kerouac.
It was late 2003 when we crossed the Kuwait-Iraq border, driving all the way up through the middle of Iraq. We drove through Baghdad, spent some time in the Sunni Triangle, then moved on to Mosul, in the northern part of the country, near Syria. The path to that hell was very similar to the one I’m on now, except that there you’d pass by a burned-out Iraqi tank lying on the side of the road, .50 cal bullet holes slicing across the road. I remember even over there thinking of Kerouac, and how I was “on the road” in Iraq, feeling the excitement of an adventure while crossing the border into a combat zone, wondering whether or not I’d make it. Looking back, it might have been one of the happiest moments of my entire life.
Years later, once again a civilian living month-to-month in San Francisco, having thoughts of checking out, I received a lovely letter in the mail, causing me once again to think of Kerouac. The top left-hand corner indicated that it was from the U.S. Department of the Army, my previous employer. Inside were orders indicating that I had five weeks to report to Fort Benning, Georgia, “Home of the Infantry,” for in-processing. They stated that I’d be assigned to an infantry unit. Purpose: a return engagement to Operation Iraqi Freedom.
A couple days after receiving this letter, I took my parents out to dinner at an Italian restaurant in North Beach, my mother still in perfect health at this point. I remember telling my father that one of our relatives, still in the army, had suggested I go back to Iraq. This was before the presidential election, and there was some debate on the future of the war, McCain versus Obama. I told my father that he had reasoned that if a Democrat won the election, I’d be there during the retreat, er, withdrawal, maybe even less than a year.
My father made a career of the military. He was in Vietnam, experienced the Tet Offensive, and would go on to retire a lieutenant colonel in the army. I was nervous as to how he would react when I told him that I didn’t want to go back to Iraq.
“Don’t listen to him,” he said immediately. “I don’t think you should go back. I’ve seen plenty of elections in my life, and right now, the Democrats are just talking about drawing down to get votes. You’d be a fool to believe that we’re going to pull out of Iraq anytime soon.”
When my father got up from the table to go to the restroom, it was just my mother and I. “I’ll support whatever decision you make,” she said. She then looked around the restaurant for a second before saying, “The other night, when you called with the news, your father couldn’t sleep. He stayed up all night.”
As of right now, though “the American combat mission in Iraq has ended” we’re still in Iraq, there is no real end in sight, and I wonder if anything will ever change. Perhaps one day I’ll have a similar conversation with my own son.
I read somewhere that during the height of “The Good War,” Kerouac managed to get an honorable discharge by convincing military doctors that he had “strong schizoid trends” and was thus “unfit to serve.” Online you can find the official U.S. Naval Reserve file. “Facts” are as follows:
Military: Very poor adjustment. “I just can’t stand it; I like to be by myself.” Sexual: He had a sex contact at age of 14 with a 32 year old woman, which upset him somewhat. Habits: Smokes pack and a half a day. Spree drinker. . . . A review of this patient’s health records reveals that at recruit examination he was recognized as sufficiently abnormal to warrant duty status, and that during this period neuropsychiatric rambling, grandiose, philosophical manner . . . without any particular training or background, this patient, just prior to enlistment, enthusiastically embarked upon writing novels. He sees nothing unusual in this activity. . . . At a staff conference on June 2, 1943, the diagnosis was changed to constitutional Psychopathic State, Schizoid Personality, it being unanimously agreed that this patient has shown strong schizoid trends which have bordered upon but not yet reached the level of psychosis, but will render him unfit for service. His discharge from service is recommended.
When I reported back to Fort Benning, Georgia, I found myself numb, staring blankly out onto the historic military post from the top floor of the barracks. It’s a beautiful base, surrounded by well-rooted trees, classic southern-style homes reserved for office
rs, a river nearby, not far from the Alabama border. The sun was about to set as soldiers, some in uniform, others not, casually walked by below. Evidence, to me, that with or without you, the army keeps rolling along.
The army changed its mind about rehiring me, kindly providing me with a one-way ticket back home once I showed them the letter the VA Medical Center in San Francisco had given me:
Mr. Buzzell came into the evaluation visibly distressed, uncomfortable, presenting with flattened affect and speaking with soft, mumbled speech. When asked about his experiences in Iraq, he became more agitated and asked if it was necessary for him to talk about them. When told that he could refer to them very generally, he replied that one of the main incidents involved a firefight that lasted all day that took place when he was driving along a major street and his vehicle was ambushed. During the course of talking about this incident, Mr. Buzzell’s speech became increasingly softer, more incoherent and more disjointed, as he was visibly disturbed and easily stimulated to flooding by this retelling. Mr. Buzzell added that there were other traumatic incidents that occurred aside from this roadside ambush, but in the interest of containing this vet, I told him that the information he provided was sufficient for the time being.
Mr. Buzzell reported that he has tried very hard to “push out of his head” the aforementioned incident and many others since returning from Iraq. He reported that he drinks heavily every day as a way to avoid these traumatic memories, usually to the point of blacking out so he can eventually fall asleep. He has been using alcohol for the past three years as a way to numb intrusive thoughts and reminders of his combat trauma since his return from Iraq. . . . He is severely isolated, spending most of his day in his room and sometimes going for several days to weeks without speaking to anyone. Upon returning from Iraq, Mr. Buzzell and his wife divorced. . . . When asked whether he has thoughts of harming or killing himself, Mr. Buzzell endorsed having a passive suicidal ideation. . . . Mr. Buzzell also stated that he does not own a firearm because he is scared of what he might do with it when he is drunk . . . while he has gotten into a couple of fistfights in bars, he has never had an urge to hurt or kill someone. . . . In sum, Mr. Buzzell reports extremely significant functional impairments resulting from PTSD symptoms related to his military service in Iraq, including severe intrusive thoughts of his trauma in Iraq, irritability, hypervigilance, difficulty sleeping, feelings of depression, and avoidance of people, places, and things that trigger him or remind him of his service in Iraq.
I had recently flipped through some photos of me in Iraq, about six or so years old now. I look so young in these snapshots, and what is amazing is how many of them depict me naturally smiling. Nobody back then told me to smile when they took a snapshot.
A couple hours later on U.S. 50 I hit Eureka, “The Friendliest Town on the Loneliest Road in America.” I pulled into the gas station, filled her up again, took a piss, and purchased coffee and a hot dog. I walked around a little to stretch my legs. U.S. 50 goes right through the middle of town. Every streetlight pole along this main street held a banner bearing a service member’s name; the young men and women of Eureka, population 1,628. I felt touched by that.
I sat down on a park bench and, sipping my coffee, wondered whether I had done the right thing while I was in Georgia. A car passed by.
That letter I had received calling me back up to active duty was for a deployment to Iraq, at a time when word was going around that we were going to pull out of Iraq and end the war. If that was the case, why in the hell did they need me? If we were going to withdraw anyway, what’s the point?
Afghanistan, however . . . that’s a whole other story. If that letter I received had requested my presence for Operation Enduring Freedom over there in Afghanistan, I think I might have gone. Not because I believe in the mission over there any more strongly than I believe in Operation Iraqi Freedom, but because I enjoy traveling, especially when it’s on the government’s dime. I’ve never been there before, and who knows, it could be kind of interesting. That, and the last time my life made any sense at all was when I was in the military. It didn’t feel that way at the time, but it does now.
But since my orders were for Iraq, I handed the army my medical records and psychiatric evaluation. Leaving the main gate at Fort Benning that very last time, knowing I’d never have to return, I felt as though I’d just woken up from one of those dreams that don’t make any sense, plaguing you the bulk of the day.
The entire time I was in Iraq, I wished I was stateside. Now that I’m here, there’s this part of me wishing I was back there. I wonder if I wouldn’t miss home as much the second time around, or even at all. You come home and think everything’s going to be great, but it’s not. You realize that even though after a bad day there, nothing in the world could be remotely comparable, it still seems that, just like when you were over there, every time you tell yourself things cannot possibly get any worse, they do. Tenfold.
Over the years, I’ve had moments I wish I had been killed in Iraq. I have a son now; I tell myself I shouldn’t be having these thoughts. After tossing my coffee cup in a trash can and field-stripping my cigarette butt, I get up and make my way back to the car to hit the road again.
You sometimes witness strange things out in the middle of nowhere, such as the tinted-window late-model Ferrari passing by, probably on its way to Los Angeles, and then a couple of psychotic cross-country cyclists. You lose track of how long you’ve been driving, and suddenly the road comes to an end. I thought to myself that I’d really miss the Loneliest Road in America. It had been just me, my car, the road, my thoughts, my war, and the barren earth around me. I let my imagination go with that for a while, until far up on the horizon I see it, coming directly at me, twelve o’clock.
It was one of those compact Smart cars. It takes a certain type of individual to be able to drive around town with the word Smart on the back of his car. It was heading in the opposite direction, west, probably on its way to San Francisco.
Though it probably would have pleased my publisher if I went all green and did this road trip in some fuel-efficient corn-oil vehicle, the thought makes me cringe. Nothing against fuel-efficient vehicles, or the people who can afford to drive them; I’m all for the movement, but it’s just not me. Not right now, that is. I’m way too vain for that. The first image that came to mind when preparing for this journey was driving an old vintage car, something sexy, like my Caliente. Just me and my car, on the road. That’s it: no corporate sponsorships, no hours and hours beforehand of writing grant proposals and please-give-me-money-so-I-can-endorse-your-products-on-my-car letters, no vinyl stickers with my dot-com address plastered to the side of my vehicle to ensure people can follow me on my constantly updated blog or Twitter feed; there will be no goddamn tweeting. Just me, my car, endless cigarettes, low-grade coffee, high-grade fuel, the road.
After the Smart car passed by, I’d let my mind wander again when suddenly a bird shot out of nowhere right in front of my car, resulting in a loud thump on my grill, an explosion of feathers. My luck, it was probably an endangered species of some sort, the first miniature flamingo ever to be seen in Nevada, I am positive. With help from the wind, it removed itself, blowing up only to hit my windshield, looking at me, quickly flying off; I watched in my rearview mirror as it hit the asphalt behind me. It fluttered around a bit, then stopped, dead. The small, defeated body gradually became smaller and smaller as I continued driving.
Chapter Four
A Veteran in a Foreign War
“If you’ve seen one redwood tree, you’ve seen them all.”
RONALD REAGAN
Utah. Mormons and polygamy. Sundance and skiing.
Pulling off the freeway in downtown Salt Lake City, I cruised up to a red light and waited. The coffee shop to my left seemed packed, outdoor seating, many of the patrons covered in tattoos, coffee and cigarettes in hand. The car next to me was a Toyota, tricked out with a
custom green paint job. The guy driving it couldn’t have been much younger than me, and was wearing a baseball hat, cocked to the side, rap music blasting from his sound system. A scruffy hipster with a beard and bike messenger bag, though I doubt he was a bike messenger, pulled up alongside my rumbling vehicle on his fixed-gear bike. I shifted my attention over and stared at him. When the light finally turned green, he started pedaling. I put some pressure on the gas.
The first thing I noticed about my friend Pete’s house when I walked in was that a woman was living there. The furniture had been moved around a bit, and the place was tidy and clean. Nothing like the way I remembered it five years before, the last time I came to visit. Back then, his place was beautifully thrashed, like a bohemian crash pad Ginsberg might have used as a backdrop to a photo shoot.
Pete’s now married, which probably explains damn well the interior makeover, and the homemade meatloaf dinner his wife Kendra made. After dinner, Pete and his wife charmingly washed dishes together, as I sat at the table drinking a bottle of beer. After finishing a six-pack I felt bloated and wondered why I wasn’t drunk yet.
Out for a tour of SLC with Pete, I felt a lightbulb going off in my head as we passed by the Department of Labor. We pulled into a 7-Eleven first, to grab a couple Big Gulps, and walked over to the DOL. A minivan from a local news station was parked outside. When we entered, a news camera crew was inside interviewing a lady about her job search.
I asked the girl behind the counter where the job board was located and she told me that all the jobs are now listed online, and if I wanted to find one, I only needed to sign in, and I’d be allowed to use one of their computers. There were dozens of people in front of these computers, looking for work. We signed in, took our Big Gulps with us and took a seat at the computer next to the lady who was being interviewed. Eavesdropping, we found that she was a journalism major who was now looking for something called a job.
Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey Page 4
