Closed door policy

 He stood for a long time at the doorway, waiting.
 Should he go in?
 He shifted his weight, raised his hand deliberately to knock. His hand froze.
 Coward!
 He thought he heard someone inside, and instinctively put his hand back down and took a step back.
 He smiled, waiting for the door to open. He didn't want the "deer in the headlights" look if it did.
 He'd be ready, smiling and agreeable.
 But the door didn't open and his smile soon faded.
 There is was again. He was sure she was inside, listening on the other side of the door. He was glad there wasn't a peep hole. No evidence he was being watched, just a nagging suspicion he was being listened for.
 He cleared his throat, loudly, and tried to make noises to see if the insider would open the door on hearing.
 Nothing.
 He narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and knocked a few short raps before he could talk himself out of it.
 The door remained closed.

  She was hiding, waiting it out, he decided. She didn't want to give him the pleasure of finding her.
 Two could play this game. He leaned against the porch railing. Should he whistle? He wasn't going to fall for this one. In fact, he'd wait a few minutes, then knock again.
 He waited, but only a few seconds. Time ticked by painfully, no matter how nonchalant he wanted to be.
 His hand banged on the door impatiently. How he wanted to see her!
  "I know you're in there," his voice rose. Why did shout that? He was going to play it so cool. Now he was losing his cool, and quickly.
 "Open up, I know you're home!"
 Nothing.
 Only the sound of the telephone ringing inside. Hey, she'd answer it, and give away her position.
 Three rings. Four. Five.
Oh, no, the answering machine. Her voice greeting.
 A male voice coming on. He couldn't distinguish the words.
 Hmm.
 He felt foolish. What if the voice belonged to her new boyfriend? What if he was on his way here and she wanted nothing more than to run out the back door and into his waiting arms?
 He turned to leave.
 No, he would not leave. He had every right to be here.
 She was his wife. This was his house. He had every right to be here.

AWOL: Part 3 (Read Parts 1 and 2 first, in order)

Author's note: I interviewed the subject of this aricle last summer in Arkansas.

The “old man” was the full bird colonel, in charge of the entire fort. As we neared his door, Sgt. Kernan came to an abrupt halt. “You’re going in,” he said. “I’m just along for the ride.”

 He stood post while I entered the lion’s den alone. The colonel was sitting at his desk. His face looked like it was made of stone when he saw me. I walked in and saluted.

 The colonel cursed me. “Get out of here until you can come in and salute me properly!” he barked.

 I did an about face and went outside. Kernan avoided my eyes as one avoids the condemned.

 I whirled about and marched back in, snapping to a salute again, then standing at attention, eyeballing the old man. His steely gaze met mine with utter contempt. He stared at me but I wasn’t going to break my gaze first.

 There I was, a 19-year-old who’d been in the army 90 days and hadn’t done a lick of basic training, staring down the colonel.

 “You don’t like this man’s army, do you?” he growled.

 “No, sir!” I said, with confidence.

 “And this man’s army doesn’t like you. I’m going to see how quickly I can get you out of here!” the colonel boomed.

 “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” I said.

 “Get outta here, I don’t want to see you again!”

 Kernan shook his head in disbelief when I stepped out. “Man, you must walk on water,” he said. “I can’t believe they’re not coming after you.”

 Eleven days from that day I had my discharge papers in hand. That was unheard of. I was given a general 212 under honorable conditions discharge.

 I was told if you aren’t in the army 180 days you can be discharged without benefits.

But I wasn’t out yet. I was switched to the discharge barracks where the other guys were who’d come back from Vietnam. I was never handcuffed, charged with anything, or tried for any crimes.

In the STC, you get assigned to various duties. My duty assignment was in the payroll office.

 All the records with everyone’s pay and information were in manila envelopes in hanging files. My duty was to put paperwork in the files. I quickly found mine. I saw hospital charges and fines from my write-up from the hospital and an AWOL charge. All the fines for my infractions would have eaten up my entire paycheck.

  Glancing about, I discarded the write ups and negative paperwork when no one was looking.

  I had been gone long enough to miss a pay period. Everyone was paid in cash according to what was indicated in the payroll. I rigged my payroll to where I was owed more money instead of less. The payroll officer was Lieutenant Rice who was required to hand out the cash as we lined up on payday.

 Drill Sergeant Jackson stood watch over the payroll proceedings. I went in, wondering what would happen. Lt. Rice’s eyes bugged out when he saw my pay. “What the hell?” He said. “This can’t be right! This can’t be right! You got two pay checks?”

 But he had no choice. The lieutenant peeled off a fresh roll of crisp new bills and counted out the money for me, glaring. Finally, his frustration had reached a peak. He didn’t know how I’d done it, but he knew he couldn’t do a thing about my bonus. He flung the money at me, cursing me and shoving me back as the bills scattered all over the floor. Enraged, I went to lunge for the lieutenant when a big hand clamped down on my shoulder. “He ain’t worth it,” Jackson announced, loud enough for the ruffled lieutenant to hear.

 I scrambled around, picking up my money, every bit of it, and went out.

 The company shrink had told me I was getting a 212. “You’re lucky,” he said. “A 212 is an honorable wartime discharge subsequent to disertion. You won’t have any negative ongoing repercussions.”

 The final step in the exit process was to pick up your final pay at the payroll window.

 I was a bit apprehensive after my last encounter with payroll, but this time it was at a window and not before the lieutenant. I was shocked. I got even more money and back pay for time I’d been off.  I went in Nov. 13 and got out March 13, a 120-day wonder. I was gone or on official leave and got paid for the sum total of the 68 days I was absent being on sick leave, Christmas break, or AWOL.

 I couldn’t believe it. I had imagined MPs waiting to take me to the brig, and yet I’d been compensated for every bit of my time!
 A fire occurred in the late ‘70s in St. Louis where my military records were kept. As a result, there are no records of my military service whatsoever. Furthermore, a woman working at the base hospital later destroyed my records of having been there as a favor to me, since she and I were together romantically during the time.

AWOL: Part 2 (Read Part 1 first)

Author's note: I interviewed the subject of this story last summer in Arkansas.

My hand was discolored and swollen as I walked in the nurses’ station. I walked out with bandages, pain medication…and another 30 day sick profile.

 Back to life as I knew it. Falling into formation in the morning and evening, sneaking out into town for good times. One of my buddies in profile with me was named Baker. He had a car in town. Baker had gotten injured during basic. He was going into the National Guard. He shared similar sentiments of mine. He told me he didn’t like this man’s army either, and he was going to do something about it. He was going AWOL. Another guy from Indiana overheard us and decided to join us.

 Baker was from Tennessee. We sneaked off to his car and drove toward  Tennessee, dropping off the guy from Indiana along the way. Once in Tennessee, Baker and I picked up his girlfriend and then on to Washington, D.C., where her sister lived.

 The road trip was exhilarating. The radio was blaring, and we were cruising on the open road. Baker and I bought wigs to mask our military look, and in civilian clothes, we blended in. The wind was again blowing through my hair, albeit synthetic this time. But we were free.

 That is, until we reached our nation’s capital. Baker’s arrogance got in the way of our good times as he sped erratically through city traffic.

 Police lights danced in the rearview mirror. Swearing, Baker pulled to the side of the busy street as traffic chugged around us. The policeman looked like a bulldog. He eyed us with disgust, noticing the Tennessee plates.

 “How long are you boys going to be in Washington, D.C.?” he demanded.

 “Why?” Baker wanted to know.

 “Because if you’re going to be here long, you aren’t going to make it driving like that.”

 His police radio went off before Baker could answer. He whirled and responded to it from his car.  Baker looked in the rearview mirror, watching the policeman talk on the radio.

 “Fuck him, he’s a dead man,” he said, reaching under his seat. I noticed a gun in his hand and grabbed Baker’s arm, shoving the gun back under the seat before the policeman came back. He gave us a quick, “You better straighten up your driving,” and sped off to another emergency. I was relieved not to be sent to death row for being an accomplice to the fatal shooting of a D.C. police officer.

 Baker was no good for me. A few days later, I ditched him and the wig and took a bus back to Louisiana. I didn’t want to be what the army calls “Dropped From Records” (DFR) for being gone 30 days, so I returned on the 29^th day of my absence. I had learned if you get dropped from the company you are automatically thrown in the brigade. I figured I’d be thrown in the brig as it was, but I knew it wouldn’t be as bad if I came back within 30 days.

 It was late when the bus pulled into Leesburg. I took a cab back to the army post and sneaked through the darkness into the STC company and lay down on an empty bunk amid the snores and heavy breathing of my comrades. I eventually slept a little, wondering what would become of me.

 The next morning, I fell out with the rest of my company --- in my civilian clothing. My uniform had been locked away. I wondered what the others were thinking, or how they could stifle their desire to snicker at me.

  Sergeant Jackson was a big, burly black man. Even his stare seemed to have a weight of its own as it fell upon me. I felt his presence before I saw him.

 “Well, well, well,” he said in his high pitched sarcasm. “Look who’s fell out in this man’s army formation wearing civilian clothes!”

 His eyes bulged and his scowl turned ugly. “Get out of my sight!” he hissed, pointing to the company headquarters where the first sergeant was.

 Waiting in the office for First Sergeant Johnson, I thought for sure I was going to be sent to the brig. I kept looking for the MP’s to escort me away. I pictured Johnson’s stern face looking at me like a traitor.

 He came in and asked about Baker. The guy from Indiana who’d gone AWOL with us had returned prior to me.  He had no knowledge of Baker either, but I told them I hadn’t seen him in days, which was true.

 To my surprise, I was ordered back to supply and received my military clothing and other gear. No brig. No MP’s.

 I couldn’t believe it! I was hanging out in the barracks for awhile when a drill sergeant came by. He stopped dead in his tracks.

 “You’re still here?” he asked incredulously.

 “The first sergeant told me to come back here,” I said.

 He couldn’t believe it. He told me for sure someone would be by to take me to brig soon, but something told me if that was going to happen, it would have by now.

 The psychiatrist came by. He too, was amazed to see me. “Aren’t you going to the brig?” he asked.

 “No,” I replied. “You can stick a fork in me. I’m done. I’m done with this man’s army.”

 He sat on the bunk across from me. “Smith, why didn’t you tell me, man? Why didn’t you just come to me earlier if you felt that way? Maybe I could have done something to help you, but now…” his voice trailed off helplessly.

He must have thought I was crazy, but I knew what I wanted.

 That evening, we had formation to make sure everyone was in place. I fell out in my military uniform this time. Everyone was blown away that I was still around. I could feel the stares.

 A new drill sergeant came on the night shift. His eyes popped out. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in the brig?”

 Next day, same thing. I fell out in formation. Nothing more. I waited. What was going to happen? Drill Sergeant Kernan came up that afternoon. “Come on,” he said, “The old man wants to see you.”

 My blood chilled.

AWOL: Part 1

Author's note: I interviewed the subject of this story last summer in Arkansas.

The sky became increasingly unfriendly. The hum of the twin engine plane reverberated through my body and those of a dozen comrades heading to Fort Polk Army base in Louisiana.

 The pilot of the 15 place airplane tried not to show his concern. But with every unplanned drop, lurch and wind buck, the small aircraft had all of us white knuckled and green gilled.

 One of the boys lurched forward, retching projectile vomit. Others, equally full of alcohol from airport bars in Little Rock, where we’d started, and Shreveport, where we’d just left, began hurling the contents of their insides.

 The smell was outweighed only by the panic of a group aware of its mortality. I stayed as resolute as my 19-year-old self could. I’d never succumbed to fear, and I wasn’t going to start here. If I were going to die this November 13, 1972 in the choppy skies over Louisiana in a Royale Air Lines tin can, so be it. At least I wouldn’t have to endure basic training.

 As it was, I didn’t. Die or endure basic, that is.

 My new haircut exposed me to the intensity of the cold air. It was rainy and miserable as we stood in line after line for the first few days, getting our paperwork, physical testing, and regulation wardrobe. Green was the color of choice from our government, hmmm, no surprise there. (I’ve always liked purple myself, but they didn’t ask me.) We all began to look and act the same as we were herded hither and yon, barked at and ridiculed. All the confusion of being shuffled about was becoming a ringing in my ears. And here, I’d joined the army to escape the drudgery of life back in northwest Arkansas. Maybe I should have stayed driving a Pepsi delivery truck there. My head throbbed. My chest was tight. I coughed, but not from smoking. It was raspier than that. My face was flushed.

 We were carted off in a cattle truck, crammed in tight. I tried not to cough on anyone. The cattle truck stopped in front of the barracks, our home for the next 13 weeks. Uncle Sam would make men out of us here. Then we would most likely be sent off to Vietnam where we would most likely die gloriously for our country in a war nobody cared about.

 But I couldn’t think about any of that. I was busy trying to keep my pulse from stabbing through my fuzzy scalp.

 I tossed and turned in my bunk. The sweating and shaking continued. I couldn’t breathe.

 The yelling started early. The drill sergeant was reminding us to “fall in” for formation. I would more easily have “fallen down” than “fallen in” at that point, but I made an effort.

 “What’s wrong with you?” the sergeant demanded.

 “I’m sick,” I managed. “I need to go to the infirmary.”

  “You mean the first day in basic and you’re falling out for sick call?”

 Another recruit vouched for me.

 The nurses’ station was a long walk in the rain. I was staggering by the time I got there.

 I was checked out and told I needed to go to the hospital, as I was very sick.

 Another long walk in the cold November rain. I trudged along, wondering where this adventure was leading, or if I was cut out for the army at all. I finally made it to the fort bus station and taken to Walter Reed Army Hospital.

 I don’t remember my temperature on base, but at the hospital it was 105 degrees. I also was diagnosed with double pneumonia. That time of year, there were so many pneumonia patients I was shuffled into a crowded area in the pneumonia ward and pretty much left alone the first night. Despite my misery, a sharp tongued female staff member ordered me to latrine duty. “Go clean the head,” she said.

 I looked at her, bleary eyed.

 “Excuse me? I’m sick, that’s why I’m here,” I said.

 “I don’t care, you’ve got latrine duty.”

 I glared at her. “I’m not going,” I said, defiantly.

 She looked surprised, then angry, then spun around and walked away. Presently a man came by. “Did you refuse to do what you were told to do?”

 “Yeah,” I shrugged, indifferent.

 “You’re going to be written up for that, you know,” he said smugly.

 “I don’t give a damn what you do, I’m delirious I’m so sick,” I replied.

 I don’t remember much at the hospital after that, but I do remember being released. Since I had double pneumonia, I was released to a Special Training Company (STC). The STC barracks were divided into four sections: one for those with medical issues preventing them from completing basic training with their company (sick barracks), another for those who needed help to pass the written tests (dummy barracks), a third for those overweight or unable to pass the physical tests (fat barracks), and the fourth for soldiers waiting to be discharged. Many of those were returning from combat in Vietnam and had to be debriefed, or had mental issues, or were waiting on other issues to take place before they could be released.

 I spent the next 30 days hanging around with them, listening to the horror stories of Vietnam. “We’d take a hill. I remember the 305,” a thin corporal with distant eyes said. He lit a cigarette without breaking his trance. “We lost fourteen on the way up. Nineteen injured, including me. I was hit in the shoulder. I was one of the first to the top. All I could see was another hill on the other side. It was getting dark, and it wouldn’t stop raining. We slid back down in the mud that night. Orders, ya know?” He looked at me as if for the first time. “We had orders to retreat. All the way back down. Every damn step reminded me we’d lost 14 good men for nothin’. Do you hear what I’m sayin’? I could have been one of them comin’ home in a box for nothin’ because we had orders to retreat.”

 I decided that I’d do anything to avoid this war. Perhaps they would let me out if I acted crazy. The base shrink was a pleasant, helpful sort of man who seemed genuinely interested in our welfare. I latched on to him like an old friend. He could sense my desperation, but I don’t think he realized how badly I wanted out, or how far I’d go to get out.

 I was in the infirmary, but the real sickness was that I was just prolonging my fate. I would get well and go back to train to participate in a meaningless, god forsaken death ritual on the other side of the world. I didn’t want to die in some far off jungle. I could see the discouragement in the eyes of those war vets. They wanted to win, but their eyes carried doubt, defeat, and delusion. They described a war they weren’t allowed to win. A war that butchered their buddies in bloody piles, but didn’t create a victory to heroize the fallen the way they should be. There was no glory in this politically driven conflict.

 Listening to them, I bolstered my resolve that I wanted out of this man’s army. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live life, and to live it on my terms. I was determined to experience everything I’d been denied in my rigid upbringing. I felt like I’d left a small box for a big one. I wanted freedom and independence, but was getting more grief here than at home.

 My commander, Lieutenant Rice, reminded me of my uptight, legalistic dad. The lieutenant didn’t like me, but I knew it wasn’t personal. His job was to make basic training miserable. He’d try to get me to do push ups in the mess hall for talking in the chow line, but I would just look at him and say, “profile, profile.” I was on a 30 day sick “profile” which meant I didn’t have to exert physically until I was released.

 As I started to feel better physically, I began to plot how I could avoid basic training altogether. I sneaked out a few times from the base to the nearby town of Leesburg for a little wild fun at the bars. Technically, that was going AWOL, but I wasn’t ever caught, so what did it matter? I considered going AWOL permanently, but didn’t want a dishonorable discharge and all the headaches that would come later from that.

 It was mid December now. I huddled in the cold and smoked a cigarette, plotting my escape. It came sooner than I expected. Sergeant Jackson, a burly black man with a commanding presence, approached me. “You’re going home for Christmas, Smith,” he said.  One advantage of being on a 30 day sick profile was an extended Christmas break. At this point, even northwest Arkansas sounded good.

 The thrill of being off base soon wore off as I sat around the house. Dad eyed me suspiciously. A preacher and a World War II veteran, he took discipline and service seriously. When he found out I’d been doing next to nothing in an STC, his disappointment was evident. I may have had my shaggy hair cut off, but my rebel was still a thorn in his side. It was a rebel he’d never tamed and probably felt personally responsible for.

 I remembered the final standoff with him when I was 16 after drinking and being out all night. It was Sunday morning, and I’d scooted past him even though he was sitting in front of the door to block me. I told him matter-of-factly that I’d gotten drunk and had slept it off. He stormed up the stairs in anger, yanked open my bedroom door, and raised his belt to whip me. I caught his wrist in midair and we locked eyes. After a stare down, dad realized he couldn’t whip me and get away with it. He looked away, and never bothered to tell me to go to church or do anything after that. He’d raised his hand at me in anger, and didn’t have any justification for it.

 Now, back home in northwest Arkansas for Christmas 1972, I grew restless under his scrutiny. Mom was trying to make everything one big happy family for the holiday, and I played along, but when I went back to base, I began strategizing how to stay out of basic.

 So far, I’d spent 30 days in the STC, doing next to nothing. I figured I couldn’t fake being sick, but I could be injured. An iron bar was in the corner. It was heavy, and could do some damage. I didn’t want to hurt my right hand, but I could break the left and not be too bad off. I raised it up, and squeezed my eyes as the bar came down…hard.

Dog Blog Number 7: Salesman vs. Dog

This final dog blog isn't graphic and is only mildly offensive to certain people, like your grandma's 98-year-old pastor's wife.

Attack Dog

 In 1998, I was on a sales crew going door to door selling vacuums. Our vanload of salesmen liked to hit the back roads and find our own customers. We got bold and courageous at each door, facing new ways to ward off excuses and rejection.

 I felt pretty lion hearted when we drove past a yard sign stating, “Guard Dog on Duty.”

 “Who wants it?” Terry French, our lead man and driver, quipped.

 “I’ll take it,” I said, serious.

  Terry looked at me in astonishment. “I was only kidding.”

 “I’m not,” I said. “Let me out.”

 The other guys were amazed as I swung open the side door and walked toward the house past the sign.

 To my horror, a real guard dog, a large Rottweiler, came lunging around the corner, teeth bared and growling fiercely. I ignored my impulse to run. In fact, I shut down all senses toward the animal, knowing he’d sense fear. I blocked him out as if he didn’t exist. The dog rushed me, jumped in my face, but turned back inches away, dropping to the ground. His training told him not to attack if someone didn’t instinctively fling up their hands in defense. I kept walking, never breaking stride, as if I were Hellen Keller and couldn’t see or hear the animal. He charged again, equally as fierce, jumping up in my face but turning abruptly again, sensing no reaction from me.

 The third rush was feeble, and he whirled about again, scurrying away, head down, glancing back and still realizing he’d been ignored.

 I was at the front door by now.  A woman came rushing out, face pale.

 “Are you alright?” she said, nervously.

 “I’m fine,” I said, “Your dog’s a little embarrassed, but I’m just fine.”

 She looked at her dog, then at me. “You’re the first person to ever make it to the door,” she said, a look of shock and amazement on her face. “What do you want?”

 By this time my insides were liquefying and the adrenaline was wearing off. I wanted nothing to do with this woman or her dog.

 “Well, I’m just out selling vacuums today,” I said. “But I suppose you don’t need another one, do you?”

 She shook her head no. I had deliberately declined the opportunity to sell her, feeling nauseous.

 As I returned to the van, the looks of awe on the guys’ faces were worth it. I was a champion, a warrior, fearless.

 “Do you hear that clanking sound?” Rob, one of the veteran salesmen said. “That’s the sound of John’s balls clanking. They’re obviously made of steel.”

Another Dog Bite

 On another sales call, on my own this time, I knocked on a door at Linden lure. The dog of the house responded by rushing from the living room to the screen door, smacking it open with his snout and biting me on his way out to the yard. I felt the sting of pain as I realized he’d broken the skin and made a hole in my pant leg.

 I whirled to kick him viciously. As he and I squared off for battle, the owner appeared at the door and scolded the dog.

 I was furious, and left quickly, determined to keep knocking on doors and not give up.

Violated

On yet another sales call, a huge black Labrador Retriever lugged around the corner and nuzzled my crotch with abject familiarity. I thrust his slobbering nuzzle away, only to be re-nuzzled and snout bucked in my private area over and over. To make matters worse, the damn dog put his humungous muddy paws all over my good pants!

 Even more infuriating, the homeowner came out and talked to me, acting as if the dog wasn’t there as I fidgeted and tried not to punch the dog in front of him.

 He enjoyed my discomfort, to say the least. I guess being a door to door salesman, I deserved it. But as soon as his back was turned, I violently struck out at the big dog’s face, startling it but not enough to deter it. I retreated to the van, feeling dirty inside and out.

Every door-to-door salesman's fear...

Dog Blog Number 6: Defied by a dog

Warning: The following blog contains graphic material offensive to some readers.
My friend in college, Doug Anderson, and his family, had a black and white short legged dog named, “PeeWee.” Their beloved family pet was entrusted to us during the Anderson family vacation. 

 I fed and watered PeeWee for my friend, but had little tolerance for dogs. One day, PeeWee, a house dog, got loose from me and ran off into our woods. I called frantically after the dog, but it seemed to not care. I ran after it, but it kept its distance, enjoying the chase, and not intending to come back. I was outraged and humiliated at being defied by an animal. I ran inside, fetched my brother's 12 gauge shotgun, and raised the barrel. I took aim at the retreating family pet and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun barked and PeeWee halted his retreat, dead in his tracks. I went up to inspect my kill. “That’ll teach ya to run off and not obey,” I said, satisfied.

 Later, I told my friends how sorry I was that their dog ran off, but they understood.

 “PeeWee had a knack for wandering off,” they said. “It’s not your fault.”

Main thing was, that stupid dog would never disobey me again.

Dog Blog Number 5: Bear

Warning: The following blog contains graphic material which may offend some readers.

Our neighbors down the road had a black chow dog named “Bear”. It looked just like a bear. One day, bear got into our chickens and killed one. I knew the routine well. All dogs who kill chickens earn a death sentence.

I waited until our neighbors’ car went by, signifying their absence from their home. I took my trusty shotgun/rife over and under, loaded it with a 22 shell and a 410 bird shot, and walked down the dead end gravel road to the neighbors.

 They were gone, but Bear was home. He was tied by a rope to a post next to the separate concrete block garage. Bear was under a fiberglass corrugated roof overhang and was standing on concrete.

 He looked at me suspiciously, a low growl in his throat. I raised the gun barrel and took aim at Bear’s head. I pulled the trigger. BAM! Bear was on the ground instantly, blood draining from his head.

 I cut the rope, not caring how it looked, and dragged the Bear’s bloody body off into the nearby woods. I took some water and cleaned off the blood from the concrete and headed home now that the mission was accomplished.

 The neighbor’s never asked me who killed Bear and I never bothered to tell them.