Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Despite everything, or maybe because of it, the day went smoothly. Dinner was the usual success, and I won ten dollars from my father when Minnesota trounced Detroit 27 to nothing. No one mentioned the draft or the war, as if neither hovered over us like a specter. If there was any news about either, we didn't hear it, as the television stayed tuned to football and then The Jim Nabors Hour . It was as if, by mutual agreement, we all decided to pretend Vietnam didn't exist. Jack and I, too, pretended. We pretended everything was fine between us. We pretended school was going well for us both. We pretended so well that I almost believed it, until I overheard Jack telling his mother about his new friend, Andy, and how nice he was. Then I remembered. I avoided being alone with Jack for the rest of the day, afraid of what I might say to him. When he left, we made no plans for the following day.

  On Friday, the news came that the draft would be held on the following Monday, December 1. This was accompanied by an announcement from the White House that all men currently enrolled in college would be allowed to finish out their education. Upon hearing this news, my mother cried with relief. I, too, felt a sense of having narrowly escaped something, although I was also struck by the unfairness of the deferment. Why, I wondered, should those of us who could afford college or who had gotten there by other means get to stay, safe in the halls of academia, while men who either couldn't afford school or who had elected not to go for other reasons were conscripted? I imagined what Chaz would have to say when we returned to Penn. I could hear him already, his voice ripe with righteous indignation as he decried the burden being placed upon the backs of the poor and the uneducated. With the threat of the impending draft gone, the remainder of the weekend was free to be enjoyed as much as possible. Jack and I extended our truce, joining together on Saturday to help our fathers clean the gutters and bag the final leaf fall of the year. It almost felt like before, when we had no reason to question one another's loyalty. Only when Sunday dawned did I feel the uneasiness in my stomach stir again, as I contemplated the ride back to school and what we would, or would not, talk about. We left after lunch, so as to be there before dark. My mother loaded us down with Thanksgiving leftovers, our fathers with cash tucked into our pockets as we said our good-byes. We promised to call soon, then were on our way.

  To my surprise, Jack was the one to speak first.

  "That wasn't so bad," he said.

  "No," I agreed. "It wasn't so bad." I said nothing else, deciding that if he wanted to discuss our relationship, it was up to him to do it.

  "I've been thinking," he said after another ten miles had passed silently. "Maybe we should get different roommates."

  Nothing he could say could have surprised me more. I stared at him, my mouth open. "You know, next semester," he said, speaking quickly. "They let you switch around in January if you want to. I read it in the student book." "You want to room with someone else," I said flatly.

  "Maybe," said Jack. "I mean, yeah, I guess. I think it would be good for both of us." "Just who do you have in mind?" I asked him.

  He shrugged. "I hadn't really thought about it," he answered. "Nobody in particular." "So not Andy," I said.

  "Andy?" said Jack. "Why would I room with Andy?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Maybe because he's so nice ?" I emphasized the word so he'd know I'd overheard him talking to his mother. "Maybe because you like sucking his dick?" Jack started to say something, then stopped. He looked straight ahead, as if it took all of his concentration to keep the car on the road. "It's not like we're married," he said finally.

  "No," I said. "It's not. So do whatever you want. You're right, it will be good for us."

  Everything was unraveling. I couldn't think, and I couldn't breathe. The car felt suffocating. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out into the fresh air, letting it wash over me until my skin was numb and I could barely feel my fingers when I touched them to my face.

  CHAPTER 16

  No American man born in the years 1944 through 1950 will forget where he was on the date of Monday, December 1, 1969. Chances are, he was glued to a radio or television set, waiting to find out whether or not he might be headed for Vietnam. The lottery system proposed by Lyndon Johnson and championed by his predecessor, Richard Nixon, was about to be put into effect only five days after being signed into law, altering the lives of millions of young men. Despite the promised deferment for college students, that day the campus of Penn State was eerily silent.

  Although the voices of a handful of protesters rang out, mostly we were hushed as we went from class to class, if we even bothered to attend. Most of us, unable to think about our studies, congregated in communal rooms or wherever there was a television. The lottery wouldn't be held until the late evening, but we began gathering early, to talk and share what rumors and gossip we'd heard. Some of the men had brothers, uncles, or friends who were already in Southeast Asia. A number of these soldiers had returned with tales of atrocities committed on both sides and accusations of government propaganda being disseminated to mask miserable conditions, while others insisted the war was being won and that Communism was on the brink of collapse. Depending on their point of view, men were either excited or apprehensive about the coming draw, and most often were a mixture of both. Strangely, I remember no fighting between opposing camps. I think no matter what our political stance, we all simply wanted to know where we stood. Those of us in our first year would have three more of safety, while seniors would have only until graduation before becoming eligible. I hadn't spoken to Jack since he'd informed me that he thought changing roommates would benefit our relationship. Upon arriving at Pinchot Hall the night before, I'd opened a book and pretended to study, while Jack had left, saying he was going for a walk. I'd eventually smoked a joint and gone to bed. When I woke up, Jack was in his bed, asleep with his back to me, and I'd left before he rose. I hadn't seen him all day.

  As night fell and the hour of the lottery drew nearer, more and more guys filled the fifth-floor lounge, which housed Pinchot's lone television set. In open defiance of university rules, joints and bottles of beer were in abundance. Some students were already partaking, needing the narcotic effects of alcohol and marijuana to help calm jittery nerves. Others kept them nearby, ready for either celebration or consolation depending on the outcome of the draw. Around half past nine, Andy appeared. He seemed relaxed and confident, as if he cared little one way or the other what transpired in the next hour or two. Drinking from a bottle, he sat down beside me on a couch and asked, "Anything going on yet?"

  "No," I told him. "I think they're starting at ten."

  "Cool," he replied. "How was your break?"

  Again he was acting as if there was no cause for strain between us. He made no mention of Jack, or of how he'd been sleeping with both of us for who knew how long. He either assumed the matter had been decided between Jack and myself, or he didn't care. I wanted to hate him, both for what I saw as his two-timing of me, but more for his lack of concern. I'd even rehearsed what I would say when I saw him again. Now, though, the angry words died on my lips.

  "It was good," I answered. "How about yours?"

  "Great," he said, offering no further details.

  Andy began a conversation with the boy next to him, and I settled into tense silence. Finally, shortly after ten o'clock, the lottery began. Jack still hadn't appeared as the television cameras, broadcasting direct from the Selective Service National Headquarters in Washington, showed us a room filled with people, both civilians and government officials. On a table in front of a podium sat a tall glass jar perhaps two feet high. It was filled with blue plastic capsules.

  We watched as the ceremony began with an invocation in which God was asked to lend his wisdom to the proceedings. I couldn't help but feel that the organizers were invoking God as a way of assigning blame for the results to divine providence. I scanned the faces of the government and military representatives, most of them much older than the men whose lives they were playing with. Behind
them sat a number of neatly-dressed young men and women, some of the 650 state delegates from the Youth Advisory Committees founded by President Nixon to provide a voice for America's next generation. I wondered what they were all thinking, or if, like those of us watching, they were simply waiting for it all to be over.

  When the first capsule was drawn, by New York Congressman Alexander Pirnie of the Armed Services Committee, we waited anxiously as it was opened and the slip of paper inside removed. "September 14," the announcer said. "Draft number one goes to September 14." There was no sound from the men in Pinchot Hall, but a woman in the television audience screamed, whether because she was proud or terrified that her son would be one of the first ones drafted, we couldn't tell. None of us, it seemed, had the chosen birth date. Again we waited, as capsule after capsule was removed from the jar by a member of the Youth Advisory Committee and its contents revealed. The general consensus was that any number below 100 was a guaranteed ticket into the war, so the greatest reactions came from men in the 1 to 99 group. There were a number of them, and as their birthdays were called they cheered or groaned. For those of us who had yet to hear our dates called, the tension built with each successive pick.

  Having the YAC representatives draw the capsules was another brilliant marketing ploy used to sell the draft, and the war it fed, to the American public. Young people choosing for their peers was the ultimate symbol of support for the action in Vietnam, particularly as some of them surely would be going to Southeast Asia themselves. What the cameras didn't show, however, were the delegates from Michigan, Alaska, and the District of Columbia who refused to draw, and were therefore excluded from the televised proceedings. Also unknown is how the years affected the consciences of those who chose early on, knowing that the men whose date of birth they drew from the jar would almost certainly encounter the risk of death.

  At the time, I had other concerns, in particular listening for the announcement that August 11 had been drawn. The first dates to be chosen were taken heavily from the later months of the year (eight of the first ten fell in September through October), and I knew that, statistically, my odds were increasing. Years later, it would be argued that the lottery system, rather than providing an equal chance to all, was actually weighted against those born in the last quarter of the year, as the capsules were placed into the jar chronologically and, even though they were stirred up, those from the final four months remained largely at the top, and therefore most easily reached by the choosers. The first date in August to be selected corresponded to draft number 11. Hearing the month read, my heart stopped for a moment until the date—the 31st—followed. I then had another respite until the drawing of the 21st number. It was August 10. For a moment I congratulated myself on escaping by one day. Then I remembered that the 10th was Jack's birthday. He'd been chosen, and early. We'd always joked about how he'd come into the world only a few minutes before me. Now, those few minutes might mean much more than who got to blow out the candles on our shared birthday cake first. I wondered if Jack even knew, if he was watching or listening somewhere else or if he'd forgotten about, or decided not to witness, the lottery. Momentarily forgetting my anger at him, I was tempted to go find him. But I had to push this urge away and stay to hear my date called. Jack would have to wait. So would I. As the roll call continued, I heard many other birthdays announced. One by one, the men in the room learned where they stood in the luck of the draw. Some sat grim faced, comforted by those around them. Others claimed excitement at the prospect of fighting, declaring their solidarity with "the boys in Nam." Beer flowed freely, and a cloud of pot smoke hovered above our heads. As the number reached, then passed, 100, the mood of those of us still waiting to hear lifted perceptibly. Knowing we were not likely to be called, we relaxed a little. In sympathy for those already called, we were not overly enthusiastic, but I sensed that I was not, by far, the only one whose heart had slowed from its earlier thundering beat. Free to consider the future, we did so with much more optimism than we had an hour before.

  Andy, his spirits bright as ever, continued to chat with whomever was at hand. Then, as the date of October 24 was called, he let out a whoop. "What number am I?" he asked.

  "Number 196," a boy closer to the TV told him.

  "Right in the middle," declared Andy. "Maybe yes, maybe no."

  He sounded pleased with his position. At any rate, he returned to enjoying himself and seemed to forget all about why we were all gathered in the room. I ignored him, continuing to wait as number after number was assigned to dates other than mine. I sat through the 200s, then the 300s, until finally I found myself drawn at number 324. By then I had stopped worrying. There was virtually no chance that men of my draft number would be called, even if education deferments were abolished. I could look forward to my sophomore year without worry.

  Free now to remember that Jack hadn't been as fortunate in his draw, I left the few remaining guys to await the end of the lottery and went to my room. Jack wasn't there, so I donned my jacket and went outside, walking to the student center and using the pay phone there to call my house. My mother answered, and by the tone of her voice I knew that she, too, had watched the drawing. I asked her if Jack's mother was there as well.

  "Clark took her home a few minutes ago," she answered. "Is Jack okay?"

  "Yeah," I lied. "I mean, he's in college, so he doesn't have to worry."

  My deception was based partly on wanting to reassure her, but more on the fact that I didn't want her to know that Jack and I had not watched the lottery together. She would find that suspicious, and I wasn't in a mood for answering the inevitable follow-up questions. So I allowed her to think that everything was fine, even though I was far from sure that it was.

  I hung up and looked around, thinking I might see Jack among the students talking about the night's events. He wasn't there, though, and once more I walked outside. The night was clear, and the stars bright. Looking up at them, I tried to imagine a soldier on the other side of the world doing the same thing. What did he see in their patterns? Did he watch them and dream of home? Did he curse them for having directed his fate in an unexpected and unwelcome direction? It suddenly seemed so absurd, the decision to send all the men born on a certain day into battle together, as if somehow their all being Aries, or Capricorns, or Libras would provide them some kind of instant kinship with one another, and therefore an advantage over the enemy.

  I was thinking this when I heard someone say, "What's your number?"

  I looked behind me and saw Jack standing there. He had a bottle in his hand, and by the way he swayed I guessed he had already drained a few before it. "Three twenty-four," I told him.

  He raised his bottle. "Congratulations," he said.

  "You should call home," I told him. "Your mother's worried."

  He ignored me, taking a long swallow from the bottle and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He sat down on a concrete bench beneath a lamppost and leaned back, looking at the sky. I hesitated a moment, then went to sit beside him.

  "Don't worry about having a low number," I told him. "They won't take you if you're in school." Jack reached into his jacket pocket, removed something, and handed it to me. It was an envelope. "What is it?" I asked.

  "Open it," he said.

  I opened the envelope and removed the piece of paper inside. It was a letter on university stationery. I scanned the contents quickly, puzzled as to why Jack was showing it to me. It was a notice of academic probation. Jack's midterm grades were below what he needed to keep his scholarship, and he was being informed that unless he raised his grade point average, he would have to pay for his next semester himself.

  "I guess this is where you tell me I told you so," said Jack as I folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.

  "So you might have to pay for school," I said. "It's not the worst thing that could happen." Jack looked at me. His eyes were glassy. "You don't get it," he said, anger in his voice. "It's not about the fucking money. It's about the
grades." He took the letter from me and waved it in my face. "They only give you a deferment if your grade point is above two-point-oh."

  I looked at him, unable to think of a response. Never having had to worry about my grades, I was unaware of the requirements for deferment. I didn't know where Jack had gotten his information, but I had no reason to doubt its accuracy.

  "Now do you understand?" he asked. "Now do you fucking see why I'm so fucking screwed?"

  He stood up and jammed the letter into the back pocket of his pants. I stared at his back, thinking. "You still have time to get your average up," I said quietly. "Finals aren't until the end of the month, and term papers are almost half your grade anyway." Jack turned around and looked at me. He shook his head. "The only way that's going to happen is if someone a whole lot smarter than me does my work for me," he said I understood what he was saying. He wanted me to help him. I looked away. Jack sat next to me.

  "Come on," he said, his voice pleading. "It's just a few papers. Maybe some homework. Just help me out, Ned. You always have before." I closed my eyes and breathed deep. I could smell Jack's stale breath as he waited for my answer. He was right. He could probably get his grade point up with a few spectacular term papers. And I could write them for him. I'd done it many times before. This would just be one more time.

  "Please," Jack said. "I know I've been an asshole, but I still love you." I opened my eyes and looked at him. He smiled the smile I'd always loved to see, the one that made me feel as if nobody else existed for him. How many times had he used that smile to get what he wanted? How many times had I given it to him?