by Kahn, Denise
For the next twelve months I quit everything except for smoking (cigarettes). I was so afraid that any drug would trigger the LSD again I wouldn’t risk it. I didn’t even drink. As a matter of fact I wouldn’t take any medicine either. Not even an aspirin. I had sunk so deep into depression I would force myself to go out with my friends or my girlfriend at the time. I had everyone fooled. They really didn’t know what was going on. Well I think I did tell Jimmy. I couldn’t fall asleep at night unless the TV was on. I refused to be left alone with my own thoughts. I needed to hear another voice. It made me feel like someone was there. It gave me comfort. I would always consult with my mother throughout that year of my life, and every day she stood strong by my side. I will always hold my mother closer for that time when she was my savior. When I had no one, I had someone! Thanks Mom, I love you.
One morning, approximately one year later, I woke up and felt normal! It had left me and I woke my mother up to tell her. She told me it was the first time she had seen me smile, really smile, in a long time. I gave her a hug. I had overcome. I had adapted. The chemical didn’t own my body any more. I owned the chemical. I was free. It was a great feeling.
A couple weeks after that morning, I smoked pot. Now I know this sounds bad after the negative experience I had just gone through with drugs, but what this meant was I was sure enough in my own mind. I was strong enough to handle it. And smoking pot was just how I had left it. I would never again mess with acid or any other drug. As I write about this moment of clarity I hope I will be able to overcome the ongoing struggle I might always have with drugs. I think I can do it. I hope I can do it. I don’t want to make my parents go to my funeral. I don’t even want to be at my funeral, well, until it’s my time, and only the Big Guy upstairs knows when that is. So I decided if I wanted to stay alive and get rid of my addictions I was going to enlist.
Max was on a bus, full of young men like himself, in the middle of the night, somewhere near their destination. It was just as dark in the bus as it was outside. And there was complete silence. No one spoke. They were all lost in their own world, in their own thoughts.
They were sleepy, slipping in and out of their dreams, thinking about their young lives and possibly what lay ahead for them. Some were boys just out of high school, others came from farms, and some had never been any further than their county. A few of them always dreamed about being a Marine and wanted to become leaders in the military community. A few joined up to get help with an education or wanted to see the world on the military’s dime. Some were missing a number of teeth, possibly from gang related activities, and the military possibly provided them with an honorable career and life, instead of a penal or even death sentence on the violent streets. Yet another little group like Max were addicted to drugs, alcohol, or both, came from a myriad of backgrounds, some wealthy, some not, and figured the military was their last resort.
They pulled into Parris Island. One of the first things they noticed was a gigantic and beautiful Eagle, Globe and Anchor, the Marine Corps’ insignia, on what looked like two massive stainless steel doors. They were all immediately awake. The ‘tss’ from the air brakes sent a shiver down their spine—this was it—they had arrived at their destination.
So Max went through ‘detox’ the hard way, the really hard way. His welcome, along with the other young men, greeted them in the shape of a Sergeant, wearing green pants, a tan shirt and a Smokey Bear hat. Even in the darkness the men could tell that Smokey didn’t have a single wrinkle on his uniform and they were absolutely positive that under it his body was just as faultless—his height, weight and dimensions seemed scripted to his job. Every muscle appeared effortlessly tuned, his face flawlessly shaven, and his stance impeccable. The Sergeant looked like a poster for the Marines. The young men were getting their first dose of the Corps—anything less than perfect was unacceptable.
Smokey jumped on the bus screaming at the top of his lungs. “GET OFF MY FUCKING BUS! YOU BELONG TO ME NOW! FALL IN!” The men scrambled into formation, and not very efficiently. “ON THE YELLOW FOOTPRINTS, AND IN AN ORDERLY FASHION!” He watched the boys for a moment and started up again. I WANT YOUR FEET AT A FORTY-FIVE DEGREE ANGLE! KEEP YOUR FUCKING CHINS UP! YOU ARE ON RECRUIT DEPOT PARRIS ISLAND. MANY HAVE STOOD WHERE YOU ARE NOW STANDING, MARINES WHO FOUGHT AND DIED FOR THEIR COUNTRY, RECIPIENTS OF THE HIGHEST COMMENDATIONS IN THE MILITARY, THAT’S WHO!”
Max wondered if Smokey only had one octave. It seemed his voice knew one particular decibel—extremely loud. The sergeant went on and on, and the new recruits understood that this was the beginning of the end of life as they had known it so far. Every single man who had been on the bus believed they were mentally tough and could handle anything the Corps would throw at them. That thought was quickly dissipating.
By the time the sergeant came up for a breath the new recruits had subconsciously learned enormous amounts of Marine Corps history.
“This is definitely not the City of Lights!” Max whispered through his teeth to no one in particular, thinking that one of his favorite cities in the world—the other Paris—had absolutely nothing in common with this island.
“You’ve been to Paris?” The man with a southern drawl standing next to him whispered back. Max looked at him from the side of his eye, thought this was possibly the biggest black guy he had ever seen, and that he should be a linebacker for some professional football team. He was also concerned that the big man was one of those gentle giants, quiet and polite, until someone really pissed him off. Smokey, with enough ribbons on his tan shirt to decorate Christmas packages, and who kept screaming at the top of his lungs, would probably get him to that point.
“Always in my dreams,” he whispered back.
The sergeant saw Max’s lips move. He moved directly in front of him, his face about two inches from his face. “IF I HEAR ONE MORE FUCKING SOUND OUT OF THAT PIECE OF TRASH YOU CALL A FUCKING MOUTH I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING TONGUE OUT RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!” He said all in one long breath.
Max especially appreciated Smokey’s spittle hitting him in the face. What the fuck have I done? What the hell did I get myself into this time?
Later that night a barber, some civilian with a small case, showed up. The men lined up, one at a time, and took turns sitting in the guy’s chair. With the precision of a neurosurgeon who had flunked out of med school, and lasting no longer than thirty seconds at a time, the barber managed to make them all into bald eggs.
Max combed his head with his hand, felt the almost nonexistent hair and wondered what ever possessed him to join the Marines.
During the next few days the new recruits were shown the different areas of the island, given clothes, went through physicals and orientation, and listened to lectures and classes on Marine Corps traditions. The Instructor was precise and a hard ass. Of course no one liked him. Although the young men had hardly slept in several days, they pushed themselves to stay awake. When they were finally allowed to sleep they immediately past out. As soon as they closed their eyes the doors flew open and three Drill Instructors, the ones that would be with them for the next three months, stormed in. They had slept a few hours, but to the recruits it felt more like a few minutes. The young men lined up as fast as they could in front of their beds. Some stumbled, others literally fell over each other. They were young, all-American boys, ranging between seventeen to twenty-two years old. They had dreams and questions, but all of that completely vanished when the Drill Instructors stormed in as if they had just landed once again on the beaches in Normandy. The young men held their breaths, their faces trying vehemently to hide their fear and the knots in their stomachs. In a split second their green t-shirts started to get soaked from their perspiration, but the cold sweat of panic running down their spine was worse. For the next two hours the three Drill Instructors took turns, or even all together, hammering the recruits until they were soaked, not only from their own sweat, but from the maniacal screaming, spitting, swearing and overbearing comportment. The effec
t was draining, and the recruits forgot any dreams or questions they ever had, as well as their past life in the civilian world. By the end of their training at boot camp they would be on their way to becoming a finely crafted military force. At that precise moment they would have never believed it, but the young men would become proud Marines and discover a brotherhood they would intensely love and which would always exist in their lives.
♫
BOSTON 1999
CHAPTER 4
Samantha Baxter grew up in Newton, a posh suburb of Boston. She was the only child of Frank and Mildred, old New England families that were said to have come over on the Mayflower. Her young life had been a happy one, filled with the love from her parents and the wealth that provided nannies and a good education. She had tutors for languages, and a teacher for her beloved guitar she had purchased in a little store in Madrid during one of the trips around the globe with her affluent parents. Her friends were of the same milieu and she excelled at sports. She was of course up to date with the latest fashions from Paris and Milan. And she had Sandstorm, the beige cat she rescued in the middle of a snow blizzard when he was just a half frozen kitten. She was a happy teenager in her last year of high school before going on to college, her sights set on a medical degree from Harvard.
But her young, happy life changed dramatically when she was summoned to the principal’s office her senior year. She waited in front of the secretary’s desk to be called into the office. The older woman kept glancing at Sam, not saying a word. She thought the older woman’s behavior odd. Ms. Nagel looked like she had perhaps been crying, or was very upset about something. Sam was curious to know, but didn’t want to be rude by asking. Why was she seeing the principal, anyway? Had she done something wrong? She didn’t think so, and she was a ‘straight A’ student.
The principal opened his door and waved her in. Out of the corner of her eye Sam shot another glance at the secretary.
“Ms. Baxter, please sit down.” Sam did as she was asked. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“I’m not graduating?”
The principal laughed. “No, no, of course not, you’re one of the best and brightest students in the school.”
“Oh,” Sam said, relieved. “So why am I here? What’s the bad news?”
“There’s been an accident, a terrible accident.”
Sam’s eyes grew very wide. She sat motionless, trying to understand, and then it hit her. “Mom?’ She whispered. “Dad? Are they alright?” The principal didn’t answer. “Are they alive?”
“I’m very, very sorry. They didn’t survive.”
“Dead? They’re dead? Both of them?”
He nodded slowly. “A truck ran a red light. They never had a chance. They were killed instantly.”
Was that supposed to make her feel better? Well, maybe a little, at least they didn’t suffer. What was she going to do now? “What happens now?” Sam asked. She was in a daze. Sam was usually in complete command of a situation, a smart girl and a quick thinker, with what she loved to say ‘a solution to every problem’. But there was no solution to death, and she was furious that she couldn’t remedy that. She now had no idea what lay ahead of her or what she was supposed to do.
“You can of course take some time off and return to school when you’re up to it. Do you have any relatives?”
Sam shook her head. “No, Mom and Dad don’t…didn’t have any other siblings, and my grandparents died a long time ago.”
“Alright, I’ll make some phone calls. Ms. Nagel will take you home and will stay with you.”
When Sam entered the historic, hundred year old beautiful house, the once happy home seemed dark and gloomy. It was so empty. Even the house must know, she thought. How could her parents not be here? Would there ever be laughter again? Would she even be able to smile? The fact that she was all alone in the world was starting to hit her and then, like the survivor that he was, Sandstorm jumped into her arms. She hugged him so tight the poor cat could hardly breathe.
“Thank you, Ms. Nagel, I’m going up to my room.”
“Of course, Sam, I’ll go to the kitchen and make something for you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know, but maybe later.”
Sam nodded, deciding the effort to decline the offer too much of a hassle. “Thank you,” she said simply, and climbed the stairs with Sandstorm in her arms.
She lay on the bed, motionless, the cat on her chest. With the extra sense that animals possess he didn’t move either. He knew something was wrong and had to be there for her. Sam’s eyes were glassy. Her heart was in a knot and the lump in her throat was painful. And then it came, a deluge that had been held back so fiercely now just burst uncontrollably. Sam never knew so many tears could come out of one person, and the spasms racked her young body. She cried for hours, Sandstorm faithfully by her side. She didn’t bother to get out of bed, never went down to eat, and never felt so alone. She stared at the ceiling, watching her short lifetime as if a film was projecting the highlights, the laughter, the travels, and the good times with her doting parents. Would she ever be happy again? Even just a little? The tears streamed down her lovely young face and Sandstorm gently wiped them away with his paw.
♫
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA
SUMMER 2001
CHAPTER 5
Max made the mistake of staring at his Drill Instructor, and it would be the only time.
“ARE YOU EYE FUCKING ME?” The sergeant screamed. Was he not supposed to look at him? Was that what he meant? I was just being polite, Max wanted to say, as he remembered his mother always insisting on manners. One of her pet peeves was not looking at someone in the eyes. Forget that one, Mom! Max never felt so alone. His parents weren’t there, the support system he vehemently knew would always exist was a very distant memory. There was no one to ‘bail him out’ of whatever predicament he found himself in. He was on his own and insisted he would make the best of it.
The Drill Instructor screamed at the recruits for hours, interspersed with PT, physical training, which consisted of endless repetitions of pushups, jumping jacks and pull ups. When Max firmly believed that these screaming maniacs were trying to make his body explode with flames internally burning him, he knew he was just about ready to pass out. And this was only week one. Twelve more to go. Max had to get through this. Others had done it, so would he. He listened to the sounds around him—men panting, groaning; boots repeatedly hitting the earth, bodies falling from exhaustion, and Drill Instructors yelling at the top of their lungs. Max smiled at the idea forming in his mind. He listened again: bam, bam (the boots), humph, humph (the panting), boof, boof (a couple bodies dropping), and the inevitable “YOU CALL THAT A PUSHUP? GET YOUR FUCKING DICKS OFF THE GROUND! OR I’LL PERSONALLY PICK YOU UP BY THOSE PEBBLES YOU CALL BALLS!” Max’s mind went into ‘music’ mode. Boof, boof, humph, humph, bam, bam, dicks, pebbles… Oh, this was becoming a great tune, Max thought and smiled. His mind forgot the pain as he concentrated on the waves of sounds emanating all around him. He did another fifty pushups and never felt the fire in his arms. He kept building on his melody and repeated it time and time again until he actually created a song. He then sang this to himself over and over, letting his mind concentrate on the music in his brain. His body mechanically did the exercises, without the prior pain he had experienced. His temperature decreased and his limbs seemed to have enough oxygen for any PT the Drill Instructors were throwing at them.
After hours of exhaustive training, physical as well as instructional, the recruits headed to their barracks where they received guidelines on how to make their beds, better known as racks. Max’s eyes opened wide as he realized he had never made his own bed before, other than throwing a blanket over the sheets at a buddy’s house the morning after a night of debauchery. And the ensuing hangover certainly didn’t help in the precision of any semblance of a well-made bed. And now these screaming lunatics, the Dri
ll Instructors, wanted their racks to be so precise that quarters were supposed to bounce off the blanket. This, to Max, would be a greater challenge than any of the PT exercises, but eventually he mastered the ‘art of the rack’.
That evening Max stood outside the barracks, craving a drink and a smoke. He couldn’t have either and he was miserable. He kept repeating to himself that it would pass and soon, and he hoped sooner rather than later, that the cravings would go away. Thankfully the Corps kept the men continually busy and that was a great help.
Colin Haferty walked up to Max. It was the big guy from the bus. He wondered what he wanted.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Colin said.
“Sure.”
Today at PT the Drill Instructors pushed us to our limits, and even beyond. The guys on the field were breathing hard, some were vomiting, others were bent in half, and a few more were trying to catch their breath, except you. “How did you do that?” He asked.
“Do what?”
“You never seemed to get tired. Here we were dying and you looked like you were going on a picnic or something.”
“It’s all in the mind.”
“Yeah, I figured that much. So what do you do, some sort of meditation?”
“Kind of.”
“Spit it out, man.”
“If I tell you you’ll tell the others and then I’ll never hear the end of it, especially if the Drill Instructors find out.”
“You can trust me.”
“How?”
“You have my word of honor. As a gentleman from New Orleans, and as a soon to be, God willing, a U.S. Marine.”
Max liked this guy, and his gut confirmed it. “I believe you are a Southern gentleman, Monsieur.” Max knew that most Louisiana natives spoke some French or were even fluent.
