by Rob Rufus
A picture of Hana’s poster flashed in my mind.
“Fuck the draft,” I muttered, barely audible beneath my breath.
Dad shoved me against the wall by the throat.
I heard the drywall crack behind me before I realized what happened.
“What’d you just say to me?”
His face was inches from mine. I smelled the stale Jax on his breath.
“Nothing,” I whispered.
“Oh, no, you said somethin’. Now I want you to repeat it.”
“No. I–”
“You sure?”
I stayed silent.
“You sure you don’t have nothin’ else to say, smartass?”
“ . . . ”
He gritted his teeth and let me go.
I took a few harsh breaths. My vision blurred in and out.
“If I knew you’d be giving a communist lecture,” he spat, “I woulda told the doctors to finish your voice off for good.”
Then he walked back to the table to work on the wrestling schedule with Lewis, who was staring down at the schedule, probably pretending he couldn’t hear me or Dad.
I hurried upstairs to my bedroom. I slammed the door behind me. I undressed as fast as I could and got into bed, too angry to sleep.
I flipped off the lamp. I stared into the dark with my hands behind my head.
“Fuck the draft,” I mumbled again.
Then I drifted off into a peaceful sleep, chock-full of American dreams.
―
Mr. Donahue wrote in fast, dramatic swipes. He scrawled the words across the blackboard as soon as the morning announcements ended. Then he jabbed at the board with the nub of chalk.
WHAT IS COURAGE?
“What say you, ladies and gentlemen?” he asked.
My ride to school with Dad had been brutally silent, so I was happy that first period started with a discussion. I hoped it would allow me to refocus my mind, because turning it off was getting harder to manage.
A girl in the front of the room raised her hand.
“Bravery?”
“Bravery,” Mr. Donahue nodded. “Good. Anyone else?”
“It means having balls,” Benji Curtis grinned. “I mean, having guts.”
I chuckled and shook my head.
“Very good, Benji. That was such a good answer, I’d like you to stay after class to discuss it.”
Benji groaned.
“Moving on,” Mr. Donahue said. “When you picture someone courageous, someone brave, someone with guts, who comes to mind?”
“Batman.”
“Marshall Dillon from Gunsmoke.”
“Johnny Unitis.”
“Ramrod!” a boy in the corner yelled, which prompted a chant.
Mr. Donahue smiled, but held up his hands, “Those are all great examples. Now, who can name a courageous person in politics?”
Silence.
“Come on, this is Government Two, after all! How about . . . you?”
He pointed to Jamie, beside me.
“Um, George Washington?”
“Very good!” Mr. Donahue nodded. “And why was he courageous?”
“Um, because he was, uh, a general?”
“Yes, but what political courage did he show?”
“I don’t know,” she blushed.
“That’s OK,” he smiled encouragingly. “You will.”
He grabbed a book from his desk and held it before us, moving it from right to left like it was a prize on a game show. The book was Profiles in Courage by John F. Kennedy.
“Profiles in Courage was written by our late President Kennedy. It is filled with short biographies of senators he believed exemplified courage in politics. Some you will have heard of, others maybe not. But soon, you will know them all well, because this is your final grade.”
Huffy hands rose. Blackhead-splattered brows creased.
Mr. Donahue ignored them all.
“There will be no final exam in my class. What there will be are profiles in courage. You’ll read President Kennedy’s book, and then seek out your own politician to write a profile in courage about. This short, ten-page biography can be on any politician, living or dead. I know research papers take time, which is why I’m giving you the assignment now. It will be a lot of work, but this will also be a truly inspiring experience, and I think that—”
Benji raised his hand.
Mr. Donahue sighed, and pointed at him.
“Can I write my paper on the courage it took Kennedy to juggle Jackie and Marilyn Monroe?”
The classroom erupted in a giggle explosion.
Benji’s mouth dropped open in genuine shock when Mr. Donahue said no.
―
Second period was my free period, so I figured I’d go ahead and grab a copy of Profiles in Courage from the library. As I headed in that direction, I saw Milo at his locker, which was covered in magazine cutouts from Film Review and Picturegoer.
“Hey,” I called as I approached.
He didn’t turn around.
“Hey.”
He still didn’t hear me. He shut his locker.
I put a hand on the back of his shoulder.
He jumped, startled, and spun around.
“Oh, Ronnie! You scared me.”
“I was yelling for ya.”
“You were?”
“Yeah, as much as I can.”
“Damn,” he said, “it’s my ears. They’ve been ringin’ since last night.”
“How come?”
“That MC5 single Hana lent me. I was listenin’ to it with headphones, so I wouldn’t wake up my mom. I guess I had the volume up too loud.”
The bell rang. He didn’t notice. Students hustled in both directions.
“Class is starting,” I said loudly.
“Oh man, thanks! See ya!”
He started off in the opposite direction.
“How many times did you listen to that song?!” I hollered at him.
But he didn’t hear me, which was answer enough.
I continued down the hall, which was deserted by the time the next bell rang. When I reached the library, I found it nearly empty, too.
I took a deep, gratifying whiff of books, that earthy musk of wisdom. I loved libraries, in general—they were the one place so many conflicting ideas could stand being next to each other. I, too, was a mixed bag of interests, not married to any single theme or style. But I was also a senior in high school, which meant I was expected to have my entire future laid out in an orderly, easy-to-read fashion. To lack a plan was to lack definition, lack ambition, and lack a sense of self.
At least when Bruce was alive I’d had a plan. It was his plan, but it had been good enough for me. Now, I had no outline to work off of. Now, I was just drifting.
But as long as I was in the library, drifting was OK. Drifting was allowed.
So I strolled the aisles leisurely, browsing acclaimed classics and paperback pulps until I happened to stumble upon JFK’s book. There was only one copy.
Tough titty for the rest of the class, I thought.
I took the book to the reading area at the other end of the library. When I walked in, I was surprised to see Lewis sitting alone at a table in the back. He was hunched over a textbook that looked comically small between his shoulders.
I sat down across from him.
“Lewis,” I whispered, “hey.”
“Oh, hey,” he said, looking up. “What ya workin’ on?”
I held up the book. “How about you?”
“Biology. Tryin’ to get through it.”
“What a drag. Biology’s the worst.”
“The worst of the worst,” he said, dropping his pencil in frustration.
“Hey,” I said
awkwardly, “sorry you had to see that last night.”
He shrugged. “No big thing.”
“Nah, I was bein’ stupid. I was—”
“Stupid to say it to your dad, yeah. But you were right. Fuck the draft.”
I gawked, surprised at his reaction. His hazel eyes gave nothing away.
“So if you weren’t held back last year, you wouldn’t have enlisted?”
“Hell no,” he scoffed. “I don’t wanna die somewhere I can’t pronounce or kill people for reasons even the newsmen can’t explain.”
“I don’t either,” I sighed, “but I take the draft exam in six weeks. The closer it gets, the more it seems like a death sentence.”
“I know the feeling,” he nodded. “Every time I think of goin’ over there, I think about your brother. He was the best of us, smartest dude I ever met, the fastest man in the land. So if he didn’t know how to outrun a bullet, what chance do we have?”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
Lewis sighed and picked up his pencil. He looked down at his textbook.
“Hey, Lewis,” I mumbled a moment later.
“Yeah?”
“Do you dig music?”
SIDE B
“Did any one of them ever come back and say by God I’m glad I’m dead because death is always better than dishonor . . . I’m happy, see how I sing even though my mouth is choked with worms?”
– Dalton Trumbo
six
The Circle Tightens
Thursday Night. Record Club.
Be there, or be squarer than square.
When the four of us sat on the floor together, we took the shape of a circle. Milo sat beside Hana, who sipped a beer that Lewis snuck over, then passed it around like communion wine. At first, she wasn’t eager to let another jock join our ranks; but I vouched that Lewis was nothing like Stink Wilson. Now I sat between him and the turntable, reading one of Bruce’s letters out loud while its companion piece “Turn! Turn! Turn!” turned and turned and turned.
Three weeks in this country, and I’m still not used to the smells. They’re harder to deal with than the heat. The rice water and rot and powder and sweat. BLOOD has a smell, too. I never want you to learn it. I swear, some days I wish Momma never humored those rock-n-roll dreams of mine. Maybe I’d cope with this shit better.
But hell, of course she let me dream. That’s what mommas are supposed to do.
I don’t know why I’m bitching instead of telling you I miss you. The world keeps turning out there and that’s the way it should be. Don’t you forget that, Ronnie.
One last thing: I dunno how you got your hands on those Playboys, but I appreciate the amount of effort it must have taken you to part with them! The Corps can keep Vietnam, man! Give me Miss June, or give me death! Ha ha!
-Bruce
The Byrds’ cryptic harmonics ended in time with my recitation. I folded the letter, and switched the vinyl to the B side, “She Don’t Care About Time.”
“When’d he send you that?” Milo asked.
“Late September.”
“I hate that he started regretting his dreams,” Hana sighed.
“He didn’t,” Lewis said. “He wasn’t thinkin’ straight when he wrote that shit.”
I nodded and took a drink.
“What do you guys wanna be when you quote-unquote grow up?” Hana asked.
“A movie director,” Milo said.
“Like Sergio Leone?” she asked.
“More like Kubrick, hopefully. I’ve been savin’ for a Super 8 since Christmas.”
“Does Mr. Dori know you’re finally getting one?” I asked. Mr. Dori relied on Milo to keep the Royal Atlantis running. I always assumed he wanted him to take it over one day.
“Yeah, man. He lets me practice splicing reels at work.”
“How about you, Ramrod?”
“I dunno,” he said bashfully.
“Come on,” she goaded him, “how do you do it? Ramrod! Ramrod! Ramrod!”
We laughed. Lewis blushed.
“I figured I’d play college ball for someone,” he said, “or get a wrestling scholarship, but no dice so far. I knew flunking last year would screw my GPA, but I never imagined it’d be this bad. So I really dunno what I’m gonna do.”
“Offers will come in,” I said. “You’re Ramrod, man. You’re a legend.”
“Some church in St. Augustine just started a scholarship fund for, uh, underprivileged kids,” Milo said. “I don’t think it’s a full ride, but it might be worth lookin’ into.”
Milo was noticeably uncomfortable bringing up Lewis’s financial situation. His dad split before Lewis ever met him, and it was common knowledge that his mom had a harder time making ends meet than most.
“For real?” Lewis asked. He didn’t seem flustered at all.
“Yeah. I think it was Fifth Ave. Baptist, or—”
“Bethill Baptist,” Hana interrupted, “in Jacksonville, not St. Augustine.”
“How do you know?” Milo asked.
“Because I read the paper, man. It’s my job to know, or, it will be.”
“I’m not sure know-it-all’s a job,” I grinned.
“Yeah asshole, but journalist is. I’m gonna have my own column one day, and I’m gonna write about street-level shit, the way Martha Gellhorn does.”
“I didn’t know you were a writer,” I said, passing her the nearly empty beer.
“I write every day.”
“You should write for the school paper,” Milo said.
“I’ve submitted fourteen articles,” she scoffed. “They told me my work is too controversial. They want stories about football games and the Salisbury steak in the cafeteria, not about civil rights and the war. I don’t know why I bother submitting. Sometimes, I forget high school’s a place for conditioning, not learning.”
“Could I read them?” I asked. “I love books.”
“No fuckin’ way. No civilians read my work until it’s published.”
She got up and slid Lewis’s Booker T. record from its dog-eared sleeve. She put it on the turntable. Lewis killed the last drop of beer.
“How about you, Ronnie?” she asked as she rejoined the circle.
“Well, I’d planned on going to California with my brother, doin’ the radio thing. But now . . . yeah. I dunno.”
“You could still go,” she said.
“Sure, but that’s a tough gig without his coattails to ride.”
“What about writing?” she went on. “You just said you love books.”
“Enough to be a reader,” I said, “but not a writer. I’m like that about a lot of stuff. I just . . . I feel like I’ve never quite figured out what my thing is.”
“Then go to college,” Hana said, “and take a bunch of different courses. Tons of electives and shit like that. You’ll figure it out, guaranteed.”
“Even if I apply for scholarships now, I won’t hear back before I turn eighteen. Half of me thinks enlisting’s the safest move . . . at least I’d have a say in what I do for Uncle Sam. If I get drafted, I’ll be put in the infantry. Sometimes I go, shit, maybe my dad’s right, maybe the D. E. P.’s my best bet.”
“What’s that?” Hana asked.
“It’s the Delayed Entry Program,” I said. “It’s a new way for recruiters to scam high schoolers into enlisting. They offer a cash bonus if ya join before you’re eighteen, then after graduation they stick ya with a contract the shape of a target.”
“What!” Hana yelled, stunned. “How is that legal?”
Lewis shrugged. “It’s legal ʼcause the Man says it’s legal.”
She took a deep breath and shuddered. Booker T. pounded the hell out of the keys. The M.G.’s backed him up with a stellar groove.
“Bring any more of Bruce’s let
ters?” Milo asked me.
Hana looked at me with her big, dark eyes.
I nodded and wobbled to my feet. I got the 45rpm from the bed and pulled out the letter. Then I took the M.G.’s record off the turntable and put my single in its place. I turned to the three of them before dropping the needle.
I cleared my throat.
“Bruce didn’t pair this with a song,” I said, unfolding the letter, “but it seems like he wrote it when things were pretty crazy, so he musta forgot. I paired it with this myself, ʼcause, well, it just sounded right.”
I set the needle onto the outer groove of the Stones’ “Paint It Black.”
Ronnie,
Sorry I haven’t written. I got the letters you and Momma sent, but I haven’t read them. It gets too hard, reading them. But I wanted to let y’all know Bad Bruce is still alive and kicking!
If you’ve been watching the news, I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s going down. The V. C. are as sneaky as they say, but worse. I mean way worse. We plow them down, and then these fuckers come back up for more. Some of the boys think they’re not even real, think that we’re out here in the jungle hunting ghosts.
Oh yeah, how’s the weather, Raspy Ronnie? It’s monsooned all week. These ain’t like the tropical storms in FL. This rain is heavy enough to crush a guy. The rain makes it impossible to see and easy to screw up—the best buddy I’ve made here caught a Bouncing Betty yesterday while walking point. We aren’t sure who tripped it, but it blew him right out of his poncho. His name was Jonathan Marconi. We called him Meatball. Kinda fitting now, right?
I went to talk to my sergeant about it earlier. He left me waiting in his quarters, which is where I’m writing to you from now. I’m taking advantage of having a desk and not scribbling on my muddy knee for a change. A second ago, I thought there was someone else in here, but it was just my reflection in the mirror. That’s a trip, ain’t it? I haven’t seen a mirror since I been over here. I didn’t even recognize myself—I have that fucking look in my eyes now, man.
But you’d still recognize me, Ronnie. Because I still have the same smile. I just double-checked to be sure. It’s the one that’s just like yours, Little Brother.
So shout it from the rooftops.
