A Walk-On Part in the War: A '70S Odyssey

By Steven A. Babiuch

College dropout Scott Sanderson sits in a rural Florida holding cell in the middle of the night, awaiting a hearing the following morning. He has ventured from Los Angeles on his motorcycle to see the country before the responsibilities of post-college adulthood ensnare him. Ignoring his draft status, the journey takes him first to Mardi Gras, then to Florida, where his arrest abruptly curtails the adventure.

Faced with jail time, he reluctantly follows the judge's orders and joins the navy. This solidifies his notion that life is stacked against him and that the generation in charge has rigged the world in its favor. In his new situation, Scott deals with many of the issues he left behind: his relationship with his father and his family, his commitment to the service, his relationships with women, and his future.

Interwoven with historic events of the era and the lives of his peers both at home and in the navy, A Walk-on Part in the War follows Scott on his quest to find direction in a fractured and confused America. A modern-day odyssey, this novel captures the waning optimism and the rapid pace of individual and social change that overtook mid-1970s America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595600267

Steven A. Babiuch

Steven Babiuch grew up in Santa Ana, California, and attended college during the 1970s. He has worked as an engineer for thirty years. Babiuch and his wife have three children and live in Loveland, Colorado.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

MARCH 1973

Almost three a.m., the drizzle on the corrugated roof had let up, but the air was still clammy. I’d been sitting on the edge of my rusty bunk, staring at the concrete floor of the cell for the last half-hour. Suddenly down the hall a heavy steel door slammed and angry voices from the booking room shattered the stillness. Someone slurred, I’ll kick yer fuckin’ asses, all a yas, dammit! Firm voices intervened, Take it easy, there Virgil, you know the drill, calm down now … Then several loud thumps, metal furniture skidding on the linoleum, heavy labored breathing, finally quiet again. God, I hope they don’t put him in here with me. I’ve got to think tonight … Possession of pot. Up to a year in the county lock-up. That’s what the detectives said when they brought me in here, along with Ron, a couple of hours ago. Hell, I didn’t belong in jail. A few months earlier I had been sitting in a college class, cruising through American Lit, waiting for something to come along. In high school I was in the top five percent of my class—maybe the top two percent—college prep material. But I found myself that night in a desolate cell block in the Deep South. I couldn’t call my parents back home in L.A. They’d be confused, like I was, unable to grasp what had happened. I knew what they’d be thinking, and they wouldn’t say it, but I’d hear it, in the pauses between the words, in the long distance static. My brain was pounding so hard inside my skull that it almost drowned out the white noise of the Florida insects outside. In the morning I would face a judge … I could end up some sweating fool, working on the side of the road in orange coveralls, chained together with, hell—killers and robbers—and with some fat s.o.b. marshall beatin’ me with a fuckin’ baton … Dad’d say I deserved it, Mom wouldn’t say anything at all, and I know they’d both be right, something about them, the way they’d think about it, would be right, something deep inside me said I screwed it up, another in a long list of screw-ups, but this time I got caught… Maybe I should have been caught before. I wanted to see our country, that’s all. But I’d been seeing too many cops since I left. The first one was back in Louisiana. Until then, my motorcycle journey had been a dream: smooth and dry.

Highway I-10 vanished that Saturday afternoon. My faded map had shown some dashed lines that I’d ignored until four wide-open interstate lanes funneled abruptly into two-lane country roads. Broad trees and thick bushes along the shoulders made it tough to see the next detour sign, the next arrow, the next hand-printed roadside placard. The delta had become a maze of perpendicular parish roadways. I’d ride for a few miles at a good rate of speed, then come to local traffic, bank the bike hard for another ninety-degree turn, then straight again, then slow down again. One small bayou town after another. Each had a red brick building—a courthouse or city hall—with broad steps, and grand homes that stood back from the road under broad canopies of poplars and oaks, with rolling green lawns, white pillars and large porches. Manicured hedgerows and thickset bushes, full of sweet smelling pink and yellow flowers, approached the pavement. Spanish moss hung everywhere, gray netting and dense bundles spanning trees high above the streets. A few days earlier, New Mexico and Texas had been a familiar landscape: dry, sparse, and brown. Louisiana was lush, deep green, with black sulfurous soil, and damp clay roads that disappeared quickly into the dense forest growth.

Shadows lengthened as late afternoon turned cool and weary, and I grew concerned about a dark ride into the Big Easy. Along with dusk, a gray drizzle cloaked the countryside; my headlamp barely pierced the misty darkness ahead. An hour later, a flashing red light suddenly appeared in my mirror. I pulled over cautiously onto the wet shoulder. Behind me a Louisiana State Patrol cruiser stopped, his bright lights flooding the area. I shut off the bike and pushed down the kick-stand slowly. The rain picked up, just off the road loomed the dark, dripping forest. For the first time since I left home a week ago, I felt uneasy—this was a land that could swallow me up without a trace. My long hair, bushy beard, and hippie clothing were unusual for this area, different. Large drops of rain beat on my helmet as I stretched to relieve the tension in my cold, aching muscles, but I couldn’t release the knot growing in my stomach. A heavy metal door slammed and gravel footsteps, crisp and distinct, began to close the distance. Backlit by the bright headlights of the police car, a tall silhouette walked slowly toward me. Smoky exhaust from the idling cruiser billowed around the fenders, crept along the road, and veiled the headlights. I took a deep breath, I wasn’t doing anything wrong, what the hell is this all about? Start the damn bike and get the hell out of here. Why’d you shut it off in the first place? But where would I go? Into this soppy Louisiana night? Down one of these dirt side roads to nowhere? Hell no. He’d get me for sure then. No witnesses. Stay here where at least cars will pass occasionally. He wore a trench coat with a Louisiana State Patrol insignia on the lapel, and a large trooper hat. His face was young, clean-shaven pink, high cheekbones and a long chin, the Louisiana version of a Canadian Mountie. As he leaned over, a stream spilled from his hat brim onto his leather gloves.

He shined his long, metal flashlight in my face. I’ll need your driver’s license. His voice was calm, slow, and his blue eyes fixed mine. Do you know why I stopped you?

No. I gave him my license. I figured that a motorcycle with out of state plates was reason enough. I waited for a trumped-up excuse, and I expected to have to follow him to a desolate police station. That was the upside of this whole thing: get out of this cold rain and spend a night in a damp, dingy Louisiana jail. I didn’t want to think of the downside. I wasn’t from these parts, and that knot in my stomach tightened.

See that rope hanging off your pack there? he said, pointing to the pack on my bike.

I twisted around. It was my camping rope. Much longer than I needed to tie on my pack and sleeping bag, I had coiled and lashed the excess to the bike. It trailed behind on the wet shoulder all the way to the front of his car. Oh Jeez, it must have come unraveled somewhere along the way.

If that had gotten caught on something, or if someone had run over it, you’d’ve been pulled down in an instant. Real dangerous. Very tall, he gazed down at me with a friendly smile.

He was right. I felt a little dizzy, a little stupid, so I nodded my head. Thanks, was all I could say. The rain came in windy sheets.

Why don’t you come and sit in the car while I call this in. You can warm up a bit.

Stiff and wet, I un-straddled the motorcycle and ambled over to the patrol car. A long rifle, holstered with the stock upright, divided the front seats. The heater was blasting nicely. He got in his side, picked up the radio mike, and studied my license.

Where are you goin’? Only a few years older than me, probably late-twenties, he spoke slowly, with a drawl that lengthened each vowel.

Bone-chilled and edgy, and a little embarrassed, I replied, New Orleans.

He called my name, license number, and state into his radio. That’s another seventy-five miles, and on a night like this you won’t get there until after midnight.

I took a deep breath, I noticed the progress was getting slow. Content to be in that heated, dry car, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to jail. But with this delay, and this cold rain, New Orleans and the first night of Mardi Gras seemed a long, long distance away. Every evening up to this point I had simply pulled off the road at a rest area and rolled out my sleeping bag. On those wet, narrow parish roads I hadn’t seen a rest area all day, and the damp, black bayou was no place for a sleeping bag.

You came all the way from California on that bike? he nodded toward the dripping motorcycle.

Yeah. Tonight’s the first time it’s rained. I thought I could make it to New Orleans today. I started out from Port Arthur, Texas, this morning. But I-10 stopped. The map didn’t show that. Slow going since then.

Some talking came in over the radio. Yeah, OK, he said into the mouthpiece.

Well, you’re not a criminal. He smiled again and pointed over the steering wheel. There’s a hotel up ahead a few miles. It might be a good idea if you tied up that rope securely and pulled in for the night up there.

He tilted his head slightly as he talked, as though he was concerned—and maybe curious—about me. It wasn’t just friendly advice. He didn’t want to worry about a kid on a motorcycle out here in the bayou any more that night, especially one who couldn’t tie a rope securely to the back of his bike. I bristled a bit inside. Who was this cop, acting like my older brother or something? Was this stretch of countryside, this highway and these beaten paths his life? How many of those narrow roads had he driven far off the pavement, back into the dense country, and what had he found there? This countryside was so damn dark and mysterious, and he was part of it.

The heater blew from under the dashboard, and I wanted to sink into the warm leather seat, stay a bit longer, let the dampness in my clothes, my socks, evaporate. But I had to leave, to drive away from this incident, get it behind me and let this guy get back to catching bad guys, or whatever they do out here in this swampy excuse for a state. Thanks, I just might do that. I took my license and went out into the rain.

After tying up the rope securely, I drove away wet, tired, and annoyed at my carelessness, and at Mother Nature and Father Time who were both conspiring against me tonight. I reconciled to do something I had said I wouldn’t do. I drove to the next neon-lit motor-inn, a row of rooms facing the highway, and checked in. In this land, this night, I was overmatched.

After a shower, I ate in the little coffee shop while the rain poured outside. I was the only one in the place. The waitress, a wiry old woman with gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, disappeared into the kitchen with her cigarette for long stretches of time. I sensed it was an evening when, if I hadn’t showed up, they’d have closed the place and gone home already. Back in my room there was no TV, I made some notes and stretched out on the bed. With the time difference it was still early evening back home. I dialed the operator and called my parents collect.

Hi Dad. I sat on the edge of the springy bed.

Honey, it’s Scott, he yelled away from the mouthpiece. A pause. I knew he wanted to hand the phone to Mom, but she wasn’t in the room.

The lamp on the bedstand threw a skirt of light on the green shag carpet. Dark brown wood paneling started at the floor; no molding. Distant flashes of lightning made static on the phone, the light just visible through the curtains. They were a red checkerboard pattern, as if last year they had been on the tables in the coffee shop and someone had backed them with clear plastic, so they hung stiff and heavy.

Finally, Uh, are you in New Orleans? he asked cautiously.

Nope, not yet. I’m in a hotel in Louisiana.

What happened? When you called from Grandma’s in Phoenix, you said you’d get to New Orleans by tonight.

Again, shy of expectations, I was making excuses. I would’ve made it, except the highway is under construction, and they detoured me onto all these back roads. It’s been slow going, and it’s raining pretty good. There was a long pause. Close by, lightning crackled on the phone line, as if on cue.

Raining? Oh brother, I still don’t get it. If you had any sense you’d turn that bike around and come home! You don’t know what it’s like down there, New Orleans, Louisiana, and the South .

I didn’t say anything. Compared to two hours ago, when I was standing in the rain feeling stupid, this small room was cozy, comfortable. I thought calling them had been a good idea. I just needed to touch base. Dad, everything’s OK. The bike’s running great. I just had some time and I wanted to call and let you know. I heard him let out a long sigh.

Your aunt called from Phoenix. They’re worried about you, taking off on a trip like this, a nineteen-year-old kid like you, riding your motorcycle across the country like this. His tone was dour.

He was asking again for a justification, a reason that made sense to him. If we couldn’t talk about it face-to-face, why did he think this would work, long distance? But it was like he was in the room with me, pointing his finger, demanding, not listening. I wish they didn’t worry. All you people talking and worrying about me. I assured them that I was OK when I passed through Phoenix. I know what I’m doing. I glanced through the curtains, across the deserted road, the wet forest loomed gray, a far-away bolt struck. I just called to say ‘Hi’ and let you guys know that I’m doing fine. Again silence. I groped for something to say. I didn’t dare tell him about the rope on the bike, and that a state trooper had stopped me. He’d jump to conclusions, he’d be disappointed, he’d overreact. The episode was done, past, buried.

I don’t think you know what you’re doing, but that’s beside the point, now. You be careful down there, Scott. I still don’t understand it, traveling like this, but for heaven’s sake, be careful. New Orleans is full of shady characters.

I will, Dad.

Here’s your mother, he said impatiently.

Where is he? I heard her ask, as she took the receiver.

Someplace in Louisiana, I don’t know, damn crazy kid.

Scott? How are you? Are you getting enough sleep? And eating well? Her voice rose at the end of each question.

Yes, Mom. Sleep’s fine. Food’s fine. I’m in Louisiana, like Dad said. I’ll get to New Orleans tomorrow.

Do you have enough money? Is that hotel room expensive? Her voice trailed off, cautious, concerned.

I called collect, Mom. I’ve got some money, and this place was pretty cheap. It’s OK, it’s warm and dry. I stayed upbeat.

Scott, when Grandma called, from Phoenix … we’re still a little confused, your father and I … about why you think you have to do this, this trip of yours . you never really told us .

She paused, her turn to wait for me to say something that made all this make sense. I could hear Dad in the background pacing, talking to himself. I spoke slowly, Mom, we’ve been over this .I can’t explain it to you over the phone, it’s just something I’ve got to do … But, I’ll send a letter. I’ll write you and explain. From New Orleans.

This call must be costing a fortune. Long distance. We’ve got to hang up or we’ll run up a huge bill. Scott, call us when you get to New Orleans.

I’ll call next weekend. Don’t worry about me, Mom, you and Dad, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

OK, bye, bye. She quickly hung up the phone.

CHAPTER 2

NEW ORLEANS

I whispered to the next cell, Hey Ron, got any ideas about what we can do? We’ll see this morning. My dad’ll be here with bail and a lawyer. Don’t spend money on me. I didn’t want to owe anybody anything. No bail.

I probably won’t have to, they consider you a flight risk, he said sarcastically. I was surprised, How do you know that?

I heard them talking. They know you’re a long way from home, they know you’re just bummin’ around, what’s to keep you around here? Nothing.

They were right. So in the eyes of the justice system I am a risk, rootless. They’re going to root me, right here in Tampa.

We’re not in Tampa. I think this is a county lock-up. What? I thought you lived in Tampa.

It’s an unincorporated area, Hillsborough County. Ron turned his head, looked through the bars. Look Scott, you’re going to have to make some decisions, to figure out what your options are … You could end up in jail over this. I’m sorry, man.

My head was buzzing and my mind was snapping out thoughts. You’re sorry? You don’t have to be sorry. I rolled the joints, they were in my room. I never suspected the place was under surveillance, he said bitterly. "It’s not like we’re dangerous criminals. The cops wanted those other guys and they got us. You saw how they looked at each other. They took us, when they

didn’t want to, they had to follow their stupid rules. They found some joints, so they couldn’t just turn around and leave, like they should have."

Ron shook his head slowly. I might never smoke a joint again. Not after this.

Don’t say that. You smoked when you were in Nam, just like everybody else. It’s just something you did. Maybe you won’t smoke a joint again, but you can’t forget the feeling you had when you got high over there . that’ll be with you forever. My muffled words bounced off the concrete walls. I had no right to tell Ron what he knew and felt about that war. That war was the furthest thing from my mind. Ron to me was mature, like an older brother, a smart guy who let me hang around. I shouldn’t be giving him advice. He didn’t need it from me. He was smarter than that. In the weeks we’d spent together, I’d caught pieces from his past. Three years ago he was an adult, mid-twenties, a normal easygoing guy. He’d had a plan for his life, it was structured, moving toward something. It included a war he went to fight, but this social upheaval he’d come back to, this young guy from California he’d befriended—this stuff was a diversion, part of a changed landscape. His transition between the soldier in Viet Nam and his world back in Tampa hadn’t been easy. He thought he knew what he’d get back to, what he was before he left. But it was much different, his journey took an ugly turn. He would pay for his dalliance. He would taste the other side of life, the side battered by circumstances, the underside of society that most people never experience. He didn’t deserve it. He was just a guy playing guitar in a park in New Orleans.

After my motel stay, I rode two hours through the damp morning countryside, past green fields and tidy farms, onto a rejuvenated I-10, through the suburbs, into the heart of New Orleans. The Sunday morning sun was warm and soft, the city alive but not busy, and this was far more comfortable than finding my way into the Big Easy at midnight in the rain. Hungry, I turned off the main artery, Canal Street, into the American side, where the offices and buildings stood tall and straight, concrete and glass, clean and familiar.

I ate a late breakfast, then traversed anxiously across broad Canal Street into the French Quarter. The street narrowed to one bumpy cobblestone lane in each direction, with wrought-iron balconies overhead, pillars rising from the stone curbs, red and blue and green shutters and doorways, small shops, restaurants, night clubs, wooden clapboard and red brick buildings joined together in block-long structures. As I cruised the streets slowly, shop keepers un-furled striped awnings, opened creaky shutters, cleaned window panes, swept up Saturday night’s debris from steps and sidewalks. Eventually, I parked the bike and set out on foot.

Around mid-afternoon, worn a bit from walking, I sat on a grassy mound, with a half-dozen people, listening to this guy playing a guitar. Jackson Square, in the middle of the Quarter, was a little cluster of crossing walkways amid brown winter grass and several thin, newly planted trees.

Is that an Ovation? I asked.

He looked straight at me and smiled, Yeah, I’ve had it about two months now, I like it.

They’ve got a nice sound, with that curved fiberglass back, I’ve got a friend who plays pretty good, I said.

He tuned the strings for several seconds. Where’s that? Where are you from?

L.A. How about you? I stretched my legs.

Tampa. When did you get here?

This morning. And you? I asked him.

Friday. As he picked soft notes, he watched his finger action, looking up occasionally.

Just in time for the weekend parties. So where’ve you been sleeping?

In my car. It isn’t too bad. At least it’s dry … You drove here from L.A.? A few years older, he had straight dark hair, just to his ear-tops, a stubby beard, thick shoulders and a broad, easy smile. His dark green khaki coat said Harris over the left breast pocket.

Yeah, I rode here, on my bike, my motorcycle. I parked it over on Esplanade. I think it’s safe there.

A small fellow with long red hair and a pimpled face, had been sitting nearby. You’re from L.A., man, far out. I knew a guy from L.A. He was cool, he said eagerly. His black nylon jacket rustled as he sat up. He pulled up a sprig of grass, put it between his teeth. I’m headin’ there, just as soon as I get some cash. There’s this guy that owes me some bread and I’m supposed to meet him here this week, he’s comin’ to the Mardi Gras and he’s gonna pay me, and then I’m going to L.A. Maybe we can go together, I can go with you.

I shrugged. I’m not heading back that way, not for a while.

He hung his head, thrust his hands in the pockets of his tattered jacket. Tangles of long, dirty hair fell on his neck. Oh, well, yeah, but I’m going out there.

So how’s Tampa? I asked the guitar player, who had been listening to us while he fingered some notes.

Don’t know. I’ve been in Mexico the last month, traveling with a couple of friends. He paused. I’m Ron, Ron Harris. He reached out his hand.

Scott. Scott Sanderson I said as we shook. What were you doing in Mexico?

After I got home from Nam, got out of the Army last fall, I had some money, bought a VW and this guitar, and went to Mexico with some friends, these guys I live with, to unwind a bit, he said, plucking lightly.

Sounds nice. Why’d you come back?

His black boots caught the late afternoon sun. The guys grabbed a ride back to Florida, and I didn’t have enough money to stay down there by myself much longer. So I figured I’d stop here on the way back. So why did you come to New Orleans?

I needed to get out of Southern Cal, I was tired of school. I figured I’d skip a semester, maybe more, and see the country, and Mardi Gras seemed a good place to start. It’s too cold up north.

Easy Rider, Ron smiled.

I shook my head. You know, I’ve never seen the movie. Maybe one of these days.

Red-haired guy intoned, I saw it man, it was far-out.

Ron turned to me, You were in college?

I went about a year and a half. I guess I was majoring in English, writing. Maybe this is like a field trip. And you?

I finished three years before I went the Army, he said hesitantly. I guess I needed a change, too.

A junior, what’d you major in?

Math, he said, plucking again.

I was surprised. The guitar players that I knew had little to do with education after high school, much less, math. Wow, that’s a heavy major.

Red-haired guy declared, But you guys came to party. Scott-dude, and Ron. The Mardi Gras is the greatest party in the fuckin’ world, and the people are great, really far-out!

Ron strummed a few more chords. If you need a place to sleep tonight, there’s enough room in my car, we can fold both the seats back.

Thanks. I appreciate that. I took a deep breath. The sun threw long shadows down the streets, and the air had cooled a few degrees in the last hour. Since this morning, the issue of a safe, economical place to sleep had been in the back of my mind, distant but distinct. I hadn’t addressed it consciously, saving it for the evening hours, when concern would become immediate. With this offer, I could focus more on the French Quarter, on the Mardi Gras, and on a new friendship, not so much on the basics of survival.

The red-haired guy piped up. You guys can sleep at Annie’s place. I been sleepin’ there, it’s really cool. It’s just a couple of blocks from here.

Who is Annie? Ron asked.

She’s a neat chick. Lots of people are staying at her place. She doesn’t care.

Are you sure she won’t mind? Ron followed up.

No man, her place is like a crash pad. It’s really cool.

Ron put his guitar in its case, I gathered myself up and the three of us walked down the narrow streets in the late afternoon sun, a few blocks up and over, to my motorcycle. I’d scouted the quarter pretty well before I went to Jackson Square so I knew the main streets, Bourbon, Royal, Dauphine, Toulouse, Burgundy, and the boundaries, Rampart, Canal and Esplanade.

I retrieved my pack and sleeping bag and we locked our possessions in Ron’s car. Red-haired guy’s name was Matt, and a few blocks later he brought us to a ground floor corner apartment with a balcony that extended overhead to the street. Inside a heavy, ornate wooden door, Ron and I stood in a living room, with large double windows covered with aging velvet drapes and a ceiling that stretched upward beyond the second floor. A wall of tinted, hanging beads separated the kitchen nook, full of white wooden cabinets. The living room stretched to the left, and a stairway against the back wall led up to a couple of second-story doors along a walkway that overlooked the area. The walls were faded green, dirty around the baroque valences and casements. An ornate blue rug covered most of the wooden floor, old French-style chairs and tables had been pushed to the corners. Small groups of people talked, while a stereo played the Rolling Stones, You can’t always get what you want … No one paid attention to us.

Hi Annie, Matt shouted. A small woman with thick black ropes of hair waived a limp hand from the kitchen. She was sitting on a stool, chatting and smoking with a couple of guys.

These guys need a place to sleep tonight. I said they could crash here, Matt announced.

Oh yeah, OK, she said, not looking our way.

How long have you stayed here? Ron asked Matt.

Since Friday, but I’ve got other places to stay here in New Orleans. I’ll probably stay someplace else tonight. This place is really going to fill up.

And Annie doesn’t mind? Ron asked quietly.

She digs it. She digs people.

Where do you know her from? I asked.

I met her Friday night. I was at a party and her old man says, ‘Come on over to my chick’s place and we’ll smoke some reefer.’ So I did, and stayed here the weekend. Man, there was a lot of people here last night. A big party. That’s why everyone’s so wasted today.

Does he live here? Ron asked.

Her old man? No, I don’t think so, but he sleeps here a lot, Matt said. Hey Annie, does Roger live here?

Annie drifted through the bead curtain into the living room. Short and thin, she wore a loose, strapped purple blouse and a paisley pleated skirt that brushed the floor around her bare feet. She managed a hesitant smile, as though the question was unexpected. Holding a cigarette casually off to the side, she whimpered, Roger? You mean my old man? Pale, narrow cheeks pulled down the corners of her mouth, and her eyelids drooped, listless, as she looked us over. Her voice had the slow, saucy drawl of someone who released words carefully, savoring each syllable. No he doesn’t live here, but he comes by when he wants, she said, strolling up the stairway. You guys can stay here.

Thanks, Ron and I said simultaneously.

She pulled her skirt up so she wouldn’t trip on the stairs, her pale candlestick legs disappearing for a moment with each step. She moved slowly, almost gracefully, hunched forward just a bit, laboriously rising up the stairs.

After we put our sleeping bags and packs in a corner, Ron sat down and started strumming his guitar. People had been wandering in the door and soon a dozen people sat, lounged or stood in the living room, some drinking, some smoking, several more in the kitchen, cooking food. The floor of the living room looked like a crowded beach, each party staking out their territory with sleeping bags instead of towels. Someone put another album on the stereo, Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush.

The only two young women were talking softly in a nearby corner. A guy lit a joint and passed it. The smoke mixed with the cloud above our heads. After a few minutes, he got back a stub, put it in a clip, kept it for the last three hits, and shared it only with his friend. It never got to Ron and me.

An hour later, a tall, shirtless guy was ladling rice and beans from large pots on the stove. The people in the living room slowly formed a food line, Ron and I stayed put. Although very hungry—breakfast was my last meal—I was a new lodger, and I was unsure of the protocol of dinner at Annie’s. Matt wandered over toward us with a heaping plate, shoveling food into his mouth. Go get some, man. It’s good. I exchanged glances with Ron, we went to the end of the line, and eventually we scraped enough burned rice and beans from the bottom of the pots to eat a meal.

By ten o’clock, the kitchen was generally cleaned and organized, the light turned off, the stereo shut down. Everyone seemed to settle in to the place where they’d sleep for the night. Ron strummed a few chords on his guitar. I lay back on my sleeping bag. The dim walls stretched up into the darkness, past a set of high, large windows, to a distant ceiling with rectangular patterns. The elegant railing wound up the stairs, supported by cream-colored balustrades, dirty, needing fresh paint, or a good washing. Molding around the doors and windows seemed out of proportion, large and heavy, intricately carved pieces, dull and filmy from years of neglect, made by craftsmen long dead. Ignoring the cluster of people and sleeping bags spread out across the living room, and the faded condition of the paint and furniture, this apartment was a classic set from a southern-gothic movie. A century ago it probably housed a genteel family: a merchant, or a banker, a businessman who wore proper suits to work, and his wife, who flowed from room to room in full, long dresses. They probably held elegant parties, met with local gentry from the city, talked in the cordial, high-southern dialect of the educated class. Sometime in the recent past—maybe the last decade—the building was thrown into the rental pool for the area, a component of commerce and income for its owners. This week it was a crash pad for an anonymous group of transient revelers, nothing more. Except for Annie. Somehow she was a link to the past history of this building, a ghost left behind, caretaker of the sociable French Quarter ways, doing her best to survive in the culture of the ‘70s.

I crawled into my sleeping bag in my bell-bottom jeans and tee shirt, my navy peacoat rolled up for a pillow. As the rain beat softly on the street outside, a cool breeze rustled the heavy curtains and slowly stirred the thick atmosphere. I thought of the long, rainy drive I’d had last night, the uncertainty, the carelessness, and the lonely motel in the countryside. I’d made it to the Big Easy, met a friend, and I was bedding down—for free—in the heart of the French Quarter. After being on my feet for hours today, my sleeping bag felt soft and familiar. The room was warm with the sounds of sleeping, rustling covers and steady breathing filled the air. As she rose slowly up the stairs the last time, I remember Annie saying gently, to no one, Good night, ya’ll.

CHAPTER 3

ANNIE’S PLACE

The dim cell block, six small cages, was vacant, except for Ron and me, and old Virgil. They gave him his own cell, thank heavens. Thin mattresses were rolled up on the unused bunks and damp disinfectant mingled with a stale cigarette odor. An office with a dingy yellow window occupied one end of the block, the guard was reading a magazine. Aside from the constant droning of insects outside the wire mesh windows—and Virgil’s belabored snoring—our voices were the only sound.

I’ve got to hear what my options are tomorrow, I muttered to Ron.

I don’t think you have many. You either get out of here and get a lawyer and fight this thing, or you go to prison for a while. Sounds like six months min.

I know, I heard ‘em. But I can’t believe it. Reality hurt; my chest, my head.

So if we can talk the judge into giving you some bail, I can get us out, and maybe we can get a good deal with a lawyer. He sounded logical, matter-of-fact.

What about me as a flight risk? Look Ron, if it comes down to it, you get yourself out and don’t worry about me. You’ve got to get out of here, you’ve got a chance, you can get your record cleared with a good lawyer. Those joints were in my pack, in my possession … And look, you’ve got plans, things to do, I know you do. I mean you had three years of college done, before you went in the army. You’re gonna finish up, right?

He sighed. Yeah, you’re right, I guess maybe I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve got something to finish up.

What do you mean?

Remember those guys at Annie’s? He shuffled his feet.

I tried to think. Annie’s was a blur, a long time ago. It was crazy. It happened too fast. Yeah, I remember those guys, the vets.

I wonder how Annie’s doing, he stated slowly.

She’s probably doing better than we are tonight.

As Mardi Gras week moved on, each evening about a half-dozen of us would bed down at Annie’s, surrounded by a new cast of characters. Women showed up in pairs and never stayed more than one night. Ron and I kept to ourselves when we returned, usually after dark, after dinner. By then Annie was home, surrounded by a cluster of men, talking and smoking cigarettes and joints in the kitchen. A group of guys acted somewhat protective, and looked over any new drop-ins. Typically, a pot of food cooked on the stove, and the smells of beans, rice, cayenne and tomatoes wafted about the place. On Wednesday night I was passing through the kitchen when an argument erupted between two of the kitchen dwellers.

Why are you always telling everybody what to do, man? Adam demanded. Adam was tall, with dark, wavy hair to his shoulders, usually shirtless, and seemed to always have joints. He was the one Annie laughed with the most.

What do you mean? I don’t tell nobody nothin’, Marty chuckled. A short, chunky fellow from Atlanta with straight blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, he seemed to be a regular each evening, joking and laughing with Annie and Adam, and eating whatever was cooking. He took a couple of steps and stood in the living room, outside the beaded curtain of the kitchen.

Adam pursued, I mean you act like you live here or somethin’, and I think you’re taking some of my stuff.

I was on my way to my usual spot on the living room floor, but I paused, the two of them stood next to me. Adam was in Marty’s face. Inches away. This didn’t look like a bluff.

Yeah, there’s always something missing. Food, cigarettes, money …I think you’re a fucking thief!

No way. Hey man, I didn’t take nothin’. Come on. Marty looked around, worried. I took a step. If these guys started swinging, I didn’t want to be a part of it.

I think you did, so do other people. Get your stuff and get out of here! Adam’s voice was clear and forceful over the music. He stood there, hands on his hips, beads of sweat rolling down his bare chest, and stared down at Marty. All eyes in the room were focused on the two. Several guys stood up and were poised to immediately control any fight, and reluctantly, I was one of them, closest to the possible battle. Marty slowly shuffled a step and reached over to pick up his pack. If he suddenly tackled Adam, I’d have to do something, but what? Get between two guys who want to beat the hell out of each other? Why? Annie, still sitting in the smoke-filled kitchen, looking out at this drama through the bead curtain, seemed barely cognizant of what might happen. She didn’t deserve this. Tables, chairs, lamps, cups, glasses, plates, ashtrays and pictures could get broken, destroyed. The living room was too precious. But she hadn’t done or said anything over the past three days that showed she was concerned for the conduct of her drop-ins or the physical well-being of the apartment. On the other hand, we really didn’t know if some string in her would snap, and she’d declare, The party’s over, Annie’s flop house is closed, everybody out. Was there a woman inside her who would nip at our heels until all the hippies were scattered? At least Ron and I could sleep in his car, but for others it would probably mean a sudden night outside, on the move, with minimal sleep.

Marty picked up his pack and faced Adam. You fucker! he spat angrily, then turned and walked out the front door.

Everyone sighed, guys meandered slowly back to where they were before this all happened. I wiped my face with a handkerchief; my shirt was wet through the chest and armpits. Kitchen dwellers leaned against the counters and nodded to each other, popped opens beers and resumed their light chatting with Annie and Adam.

Do you know either of them? a stranger, lying nearby, asked Ron.

No, they’ve been here every night we’ve been here, but I don’t really know either of them, Ron answered.

How long’ve you been back from Nam? He had been looking at Ron’s khaki army jacket.

Got back in October. Been down in Mexico.

I’m Bill, how you doin’? Bill extended his hand and caught Ron’s thumb for the inside handshake.

Ron looked him in the face, Ron. Were you in?

Bill glanced at me and shook my hand. Scott, I sat down.

Yeah, I got out in ‘70. Bill’s long brown hair was pulled back in a bushy ponytail, and his full beard partly covered a large tattoo of a serpent that started on his shoulder and crawled up his neck. Want a beer? he asked, reaching into his pack.

Sure, Ron said. I nodded.

Another guy who had been in the kitchen talking with Annie walked over and sat down on the floor with us. Hey man, don’t give away all our brews. This stuff cost eighty cents a six-pack, he grinned. The air was still and humid. Everyone was sweating a bit after the near confrontation. Pulling a cold beer out of a pack, in the middle of that living room, was bliss.

Where’d you get it? Ron asked. We’ll go get another sixer.

There’s a little market down the street here, over on Rampart, he said, waving his hand. I’m Mitch. I heard you were in, he turned to Ron. How was it? He took a gulp of his beer.

Ron answered slowly, When I got there, it was tough, but some of the old timers were still around and they knew what to do. At the end, you know, it was all about staying alive, and getting’ home … Just a confusing mess …

I hear you … I’m glad you’re back.

I had never heard anyone, other than parents, talk like Mitch before. He looked Ron’s age, but spoke almost fatherly. His short, black hair and glasses looked out of place. He tamped his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray and lit another one immediately. You know, ten years ago when I graduated high school it looked like we were gonna make something of this world. Then Kennedy’s shot, we get into this fucking war, King’s shot, then Bobby, then we get Nixon. I mean, the fucking establishment, these bastards who’ve been lying to us for years about everything, they’ve fucked up the world, now we’re supposed to clean up their mess in Nam? I mean, like the Paris Peace talks, they’ve been talking about peace for years, and guys are dying over there .

Were you in? Ron asked him.

No, after college I joined the Peace Corps. Then I went back to school after I got back. I just finished last year, so now I’m too old for the draft.

Looks like the draft is over this year, Ron said. He took a large gulp from his beer can.

You were smart, my friend, Bill said to Mitch, don’t get caught in that war shit. He downed his beer.

I heard they made anyone who could think and read a sergeant . So they made you a sergeant? Bill asked Ron.

Yeah, I did my job … Do we need some beer?

I got a couple more here, Mitch said, handing us cold cans. Hey, I don’t mean to rag on you, I was just always against the war, and I’m stilled pissed when I think it’s still goin’ on … But like I said, I’m glad you’re back.

Bill injected, I can’t say I was in favor of the war. No one’s in favor of war. But I didn’t know too much. My old man was in World War Two, so I when I got drafted, I went in. No questions.

Mitch lit a cigarette. I was wondering about it from the start. Then I read The Pentagon Papers.

Bill continued, To tell you the truth, I saw those films, when I was a kid, about the Red Menace, the commies takin’ over the world. And I bought it. I thought that it was going to come down to Viet Nam. The big showdown.

Ron asked, Do you still think that?

They don’t want to conquer us or anything like that, they just want their country. An’ the commies are backin’ ‘em. That place is so torn up, they can have it. You know, you just got back „.It won’t work anyway. It’s a hell of a country and now we’ve bombed the shit out of it for eight years. The commies can have it …

Mitch took a gulp of beer. You know, some guy back in the countryside there, in a little village, workin’ his farm, growing his crops, what the hell does he care if he takes his crops to a commie market or a capitalist market? He doesn’t care who he sells his goods to as long as he gets a fair price and doesn’t get shot doing it. They are the people, it’s their land. It’s their dirt under their feet. They’ve been living in those villages for how many years? Hundreds of years, generation after generation. Now we come in and tell ‘em you have to do it this way because those other guys are bad guys . those people are just pawns in our big chess game . and when its all over they’ll still have the land, those of them that are left. He turned to me, You look like you’re too young. You can avoid all this shit.

I thought a second. I could play dumb and let it all slide by, but I said, I was in the last draft.

Bill asked, What number?

Twenty-five.

You goin’ in or not?

I’m against the war, I said.

He puffed his cigarette, wiped his sweaty cheek on his dirty athletic shirt. Everybody’s against the war. The fuckin’ war has worn out the American people. You didn’t answer my question, and look, I don’t care what your answer is, I’m curious, that’s all. After all that’s gone on for the last eight years, if I was your age and I got drafted, I don’t know what I’d do. Go to Canada, go in, don’t report, go AWOL, I don’t know. It’s all behind me now, I just look back and get pissed. But it’s all in front of you. You’re gonna get fuckin’ drafted. What are you gonna do?

I won’t go in. Going in says that you support the war, and I don’t.

Bill pulled out a pack of rolling papers, took one out, grasped a package of tobacco in his other hand, and began rolling himself a cigarette. Back in the sixties, you’re right. You didn’t go in because you didn’t support the war. But now it’s different. Nobody supports the war. Even the officers, enlisted men, they’re just doin’ their jobs, that’s all. Doin’ what the generals and politicians tell ‘em to do. Everybody knows we’ve got to get out of there. So it doesn’t matter if you’re in the service or not, you’re probably against the war. So when you get drafted, you not goin’ in is pretty much the same statement as you goin’ in.

Mitch added, He said he wasn’t goin’ in, an’ I agree with him. Stay away from that shit. If he goes in they’ve just got another body to keep doin’ what they’ve been doin’.

I know what you’re sayin’, but somebody’s got to clean it up over there and get us out. And Scott here, that’s your name, right? he turned to me, he’s gonna get called.

So you’re saying I shouldn’t go in? I asked Bill.

He licked the glue on his cigarette paper, deftly rolled it tight, and placed it in his mouth. I don’t care what you do. But it’s like there’s another world out there, and it’s gonna suck you in, or chase you down.

I’d distanced myself from that other world since high school. In and out of college, I’d been working, saving, avoiding my parents and searching for something to direct my life. I hadn’t found it and I knew it wasn’t in that other world that Bill talked about. With my friends, every weekend was a forty-eight hour party, but nothing made sense. This trip was either to get my bearings, or to drift further, or maybe both.

My folks’ll get my draft notice. I’ll deal with it when I get back to L.A.

When I got back in ‘70, I landed in San Francisco. There had been an anti-war demonstration or something that day. I kept getting looked at by everyone. So many people were looking at me I went into the bathroom at the airport and changed into my civvies. I didn’t care what I wore, I was glad to get back but I didn’t want a lot of people staring at me. Nobody stared at you in Nam. After I changed I looked at myself in the mirror, with the uniform on a hangar behind me. I stared for a minute, like who was I, where was I? I was back, but I wasn’t like the people in the airport. I wanted to put the uniform back on, but I didn’t, I folded it up and put it in my duffle bag and walked out of that bathroom. I’d survived, and I was back.

I was curious, tentative. Did it change you? The war, do you think it did?

Bill leaned back, took a puff. You mean, for the better, or for the worse? That’s what you’re askin’, isn’t it? He didn’t wait for an answer. Everybody thinks it’s for the worse. Everybody thinks you come back and you’re all crazy or somethin’. I don’t know, maybe it’s like it’s still happening, to me, the whole scene, it’s still on TV, damn near every night .

Ron asked him, How’s it been since you’ve been back? What have you been doing the last three years?

My little town’s a drag, it’s all changed. It’s different now . I’ve worked a few jobs, construction mostly. I got an uncle who owns a roofing company in Des Moines, big city. There’s work all summer. Not much now. It’s like I’m in a dream some days, nothing seems to make sense. And then you hear on the news something else about the war and I think, shit, that thing’s still going on. Nobody’s winning. We sure won’t admit we’re losing. We call it the Vietnamiza-tion of the war. Like we’re handing it over to them or something. What a joke. We got to get that thing done over there, one way or another. We got plenty of problems here to work on.

A tall, blond guy had spread his sleeping bag out near our group. I heard you guys talking. I was listening, he paused, my cousin, he went to Canada to get out of the draft.

Bill smiled, I don’t know if that really takes guts or if it’s just dumb.

Guts to do what? Run away from the draft? Ron asked.

Guts to move to another country and start over, Bill replied.

Mitch added, A lot of people feel the country is doing the wrong thing, and they don’t trust the government. Hell, look at Nixon, this Watergate bullshit. It goes back to Johnson. The whole Viet Nam thing was trumped up, they lied about what happened in the Gulf of Tonkin to get us in the war. You can’t trust anybody in the government or the military. I can see why now somebody would want to leave, rather than go in the army. There’s no patriotism any more in going in the military. You’re just a pawn in their games. You’re not defending our country. You’re doing their killing half-way around the world, for what? For some military-political chess game.

I think moving to another country is too big a jump, no matter how you feel, Ron said.

Bill took a drink of his beer. I think it takes guts to go in now, or to move away to Canada. Either way it’s a heavy decision. There’s a lot of options now. That’s what Scott here has to deal with. The only thing that doesn’t take guts is to not get caught in the draft, to ignore the whole thing and party like it never happened. That’s what most people are doing now. The fuckin’ war has been going on for so long everybody just wants it to go away. Everybody, even the people who were so pro-war five years, ten years ago. It’s just sucked the life out of everyone.

I thought a second about what Bill said. So many guys got high numbers and just didn’t care about the war. It didn’t affect their lives. That was me. And I got number twenty-five.

Mitch shook his head, I hear that there is so much fragging going on, and that guys get so pissed off when they get in that they just raise hell and get into fights and get themselves kicked out. I knew a guy who did that, not so much the fights, but he just stayed in his bunk and didn’t go to training, and after two weeks of being screamed at, they gave him a dishonorable discharge and said good riddance.

I think we ought to go get another six pack, Ron said to me.

When we returned we gave out four beers and kept one each. The room was thick with pot smoke. By the time I finished the beer I was nearly asleep. Although these guys were only a handful of years older than me, they reminded me of my uncles, who’d sit around after dinner with my father, drinking hi-balls and smoking Pall Malls, and telling stories of their adventures World War Two. I wasn’t much taller than the dinner table then. By the late sixties, the conversations had moved to the present war, how it was dragging on, and how it would soon end. When I questioned them, my queries and opinions would be tossed aside, and one of my uncles would team up with my father to set me straight. It didn’t matter that I had a legitimate interest in the conflict, and that something inside told me I would be affected far more than any of these middle-aged goats. They proclaimed that the whole country, especially the younger generation, was thinking too much and asking too many questions. One of my aunts would chime in, Don’t listen to them, Scott, they all have two ears they haven’t used in decades, and she’d go about making up another round of Seven and Sevens.

I came to revile them, not my relatives, but the whole generation who thought they had all the answers, the generation that sold out to the corporations, that built the industrial-military complex, that raped the environment, and that recklessly passed on the baton of war. I saw my relatives as pawns, caught in a post-1940’s board game, moved from square to square; job, house, car, children—little plastic totems stacked in a line. It was a world too simple and straight-forward, and they seemed to enjoy every moment of it. And they expected us, the next generation, to enjoy it also.

CHAPTER 4

EXODUS

Ron whispered, Wasn’t it at Annie’s where you got the pot?

I didn’t want to think