Gone Lke a Knock on the Door

Having a Holly Jolly Christmas, not so in the period between Christmas and New Year’s was this '68 season. I confronted Lois with the letters in the drawer and she admitted to her affair with Dave. It wasn’t exactly the “Seven-Year Itch”, but 1969 would be the seventh anniversary of our marriage. It was still 1968, though, when the affair took place. The upshot of the confrontation was a decision to separate and consider divorce. She would remain at her father’s and I would move back to Bucktown.

On New Year’s Day I was at my parents along with Joe Rubio. Joe had become my closest friend, both at work and socially. We went everyplace together, we bowled together on a team called the Raiders and we did some co-writing. The photo at the top is Joe arriving to work on an article together. Lois is standing in the background. Now Joe was helping with my move back home.

I moved back into my old bedroom lock , stock and books. And boy, I mean books and books and books. Most of my personal possessions were books. Joe and I carried carton after carton of them from Drexel Hill to Bucktown taking most of the month of January 1969 to manage it. I had a good many record,s too. I didn't own much  but everything I did own was heavy. Besides the records and books I only possessed a few other things. I took the record player. I mean, most of the vinyl was mine and you needed something to play it on. I remember sitting with Lois, barely speaking to each other, sorting out whose album was whose. Other than the tons of books and records, I had little. I had my typewriter, my manuscripts and a few articles of clothing. Frankly, things haven’t changed much. Those are the things I have today that I consider mine, only now the records are all recorded on iTunes, a technology not even through of back then.

My marriage problems were not the only thing occupying me as the new year began. Another was the constantly growing war in Vietnam. There was a draft going on. I had escaped because of my psoriasis, but the government still needed more and more cannon fodder and was beginning to suck up every guy I knew. Joe and John Rubio were included in the harvest of that fodder. John was less upset by his Greetings from Uncle Sam, taking it is stride, but Joe really didn’t want to go into the service. I joined with him in trying to find a loophole. His family, too, they had appealed to their Congressman. They argued it wasn’t right to draft both sons at the same time, since they were the only boys in the family. This plea fell on deat ears.

Joe was trying to find a legal way out, not dodge the draft. He had no plans to skip to Canada, as others were doing. Nor did he burn his draft card. Many were publicly doing just that as a popular chant went up at protests, “Hell no, we won’t go!” Joe wasn’t interested in such extremes. He and I tried to find a legal way out.

We even made a trip to what were called the Marine Docks (pictured right) in a futile attempt to enlist in the Marine Reserves. I know it sounds convoluted, joining the Military to escape the Draft into the military,  but being in the Marine Reserves was a way to avoid going to Vietnam. He was refused entry, however, and unlike certain well-off people with influence, such as Dick Cheney, Bill Clinton and Joe Biden, he couldn’t get a deferral. Joe was just the son of a working stiff, and a Cuban immigrant at that. People like Joe, John and myself were just blue-color losers in the view of the government, expendable ne’er do wells. He had no money, we had no escape. We weren't no fortunate sons, no.

Sometime in early February a farewell party was thrown by the Accounts Receivable group to wish Joe and John luck. The gathering was held at Palumbo’s, at the time a well-known nightclub near the Italian Market in South Philadelphia. Sometimes accused of Mafia connections, it was a hangout for Frank Sinatra when he was in town. Sinatra was a regular performer as were Louis Prima and Louis Armstrong, Jimmy Durante, and Betty and Rosemary Clooney. (George Clooney is the nephew of both sisters, his father being their brother Nick.)
An arsonist burned the place down in 1994.

Girard Neville opened the proceedings with a prayer he wrote (Besides being one of our writers, Jerry had once studied at a seminary for the Priesthood):

“In the name of the Father and of The Son and of the Holy Spirit…amen.

“Bless each one of us at this table tonight, dear God, and most especially Joe and John Rubio.
“There is no one at this table who is so rich in knowledge that they have not leaned on these two young men at one time or another. There is no one at this table so continuously poor in retaining procedures to whom Joe and John have not extended warmth, manners and a solution to their problems. Each one here this evening, dear God, is sincerely and genuinely indebted to these two fine young men.”

“For these reasons, we ask You tonight, to increase in their personalities some virtues that they already adequately possess. Grant them a great deal of patience during the discipline and regimentation of basic training.  Guide their superior officers in selecting the advanced training befitting their attitudes and their attributes. Inspire John and Joe with a spirit or prudence in choosing their companions, many of whom will come from a lower cultural level than their former environment.

“No one at this table fully understands why these young men are being taken from our presence at the beginning of their promising careers. We therefore ask in closing that you return them to us both safely and as richly experienced young adults.

“Dear God, we hope you will not object that these will be the last serious words this evening, that everyone will erase their momentary solemn expression and put on a happy face. Thank you, Lord, merely for listening; amen.”

The whole department turned out to attend Joe and John’s dinner. Both of them were well respected.
Let me say a word about the group in the photo. John is behind the table in a gray suit, but he still kind of sticks out. Sitting next to his right is my good friend Jane Waiters. She is the only Black person at our table, so she is easy to spot and John is next to her. Joe is seated near the front closest to the camera. He is between his girlfriend at that time and my old flame, Pat Gormley. Across from Joe, and acting badly actually, is John Golden holding one of the young ladies on his lap. This was bad behavior because he was the boss, having replaced Donald Jones as manager. I understand that the girl went home with him after this event.

I admit I was no fan of Golden. He had a chip on his shoulder and I considered him a poor manager. I had him as a boss twice. The first time was when I worked in Addressograph. John Murphy, who was a great guy, moved on up the line and Golden replaced him as mailroom manager. Golden got on me about leaving ten minutes early in order to catch my train, something that Murphy had given me permission to do. I explained that I had permission and I also pointed out that I was starting work a half hour early every morning and pointed to my record of excellence. He told me there was nothing he could do about it, I had to conform to the time period stated. If he made an exception for me he would have to do it for everyone.  Balderdash, just tell anyone who requests it to come in ten minutes earlier. As long as the job gets done what does it matter? Besides, if doing so should improve everyone’s productivity up to my level, then it is a win-win. Nope, he insisted, a rule is a rule. This is the type of stupid management thinking I hate. Frankly, he was just slinging his power around.

I am seated near the back of the forward row. The light-haired man next to me is Girard “Jerry” Neville, but perhaps more of interest is the girl seated to my left. Her name was Mary Ann DiPipi and I was dating her at the time.

Of course, Lois and I had agreed we could see others during this separation. She could continue whatever with Dave if she wished and I was free to look around. I looked around and decided I wanted to go with Mary Ann. I even wrote a poem about this dalliance called “Secret Girl”.

Shallow gal, deep-down girl,

MAD eyes so tricky light.

Doors shut, windows up,

Secret day, open night.

Secret girl with morning

Frown; twilight laugh. Cute. Chic.

Be with me a secret;

Be indiscreet.

Secret girl whispering,

Philadelphia Street.

Dance, prance the barroom floor.

Yell and shout when we’re fleet.

Secret girl, deep-down girl,

Mystique. What other name?

Who are you? Blue? Purple?

Or are you both the same?

Stay cloaked; hid away.

Come out into my world.

Hide and seek. Be insane,

Sane girl, M A D girl.

Published: Poetry Vortex

Wilmington, Delaware

Dallas Kirk Gantt, Editor

2007

The M A D were her initial.

Two days later Joe was heading for book camp. Despite Girard’s prayer Joe did not get what suited his attitude and attributes. His brother John, who had never protested his drafting was sent to Clerical Training and ended up in a camp in Kansas. Joe was assigned to infantry and sent to Vietnam.

I had moved in with my parents, but I was generally absent from their home. I would have supper some nights, sleep over on others, but more often disappear and be gone until sometime the next day. Some days I didn’t even come home at all.

On February 6, I awoke and packed a suitcase that I carried to work that morning. I left, straight from work, along with Mary Ann and a couple others, on a bus to the Catskills. We were off for a weekend ski trip at Big Vanilla Resort.

To be honest I don’t remember the other couples name.

I was not a skier and had never

had a pair on my feet. I didn’t this trip either. I wasn’t going to risk my legs in those things nor was I going to ride sitting up high in an open ski lift. I would watch Mary Ann and I would cozy up with her in the lodge, but beyond throwing some snowballs, I was more content by the fire drinking cocoa that risking the drifts outside.

We were supposed to leave around noon on Sunday, but that morning a Nor’easter roared in and buried everything in sight, including the roads home. It looked as if we would be stranded there for another night, but at 6:00 PM our buses rolled in and it was decided to risk the trip south. This was probably not the wised idea.

We headed down the mountain, but then it started snowing again. There would be a total of 14 inches and a lot of roads were closed, including the main interstate through New York. What should have taken 2 hours was going to become a 13-hour nightmare through the dark of a winter’s night.

Across from me was a truly frightened woman. She was even crying and sometimes she would begin to scream. I can’t blame her. This was one harrowing journey. We were strangely forced off the main route because of accidents or avalanches or some sort of blockage ahead. Thus we had to plow our way through several miles of drifted, curving, narrow back road until we could get back on the heavier traveled highways; except there wasn’t much in the way of traffic this night. Our bus kept moving, and you got to give a lot of credit to the driver, while all along the shoulders sat stranded and abandoned cars. I moved over across the aisle and put an arm around the now screaming lady, calming her, talking to her softly until she quieted and lay back against me. I held her the rest of the way.

Thirteen hours after we left Big Vanilla we pulled into a terminal in Philadelphia. The sun was rising in the sky. The air was cold, but the snow had stopped. It was 7:00 AM on Monday morning, just in time for me to go to work. I grabbed my suitcase and walked several blocks to the ARCo Building. I washed as best I could and changed clothes in a men’s room and then did my usual work for the day.

I was dating another girl during this separation period besides Mary Ann. I had met Mary Ann at work and we had shared several common interests, and we had talked at lunch even before the split. I met Janice Griffin (left) at a party.

I remember the party well, how could I not. It was a farewell party held at the Rubio’s before the boys left for the service. Joe was very somber. He didn’t mingle much during the evening, preferring to sit off to the side and drink whatever he was having that night. John was more into partying, but I had never been as close with John as with Joe, so I found myself wandering about from room to room.

There were three floors in the house and there were people crowding every level. Mr. and Mrs. Rubio held court in the living room while the rest of the family fanned out through the house. I was up on the second floor and asked someone where Dawn was. Dawn was one of Joe’s seven sisters. Someone pointed to a stairway and said she was up in the attic bedroom with some others. I went up the steps, but the attic door was shut and apparently locked. I could hear voices inside. Someone touched my arm.

“You can’t go in yet,” he said. “They’re playing a game. They’ll open the door in a minute.”

The door opened and I walked in with a couple others. There were several people already in the room, all smiling and several giggling like they knew a secret. I quickly learned the secret. The attic door was shut and bolted and the game began. Evidently this game has been around quite a while, but I had never heard of it before. It was called “Under the Sheet.” It seemed innocent enough.

They bid you lay down upon the floor. (There was a bed, which would have been a lot more comfortable.) A sheet was thrown completely over you, head and all. This would not be a sport for the claustrophobic. Someone said, “You are wearing something we want. Take it off, hand it out and if this is what we want we’ll let you out.”

Even though you kind of know shoes are too mundane for the game, you remove a shoe and pass it out beneath the sheet’s edge.

“No, this is not what we want.’ Of course it isn’t. “Try again.”

So out goes another shoe, then the socks and none of these are the key. Come on, let’s cut to the chase. The pants come off and get passed out.

“This isn’t it. try again.”

Really. Are they joking. Do they really want your underwear? Do you really want to give them your underwear? Oh, what the heck, so the briefs are pulled off and out go the tighty-whitys.

“This is not the item. Try again.”

You gotta be kidding. Off comes the shirt and out it goes and it isn’t the item either.

“Hey, that has to be it. I’m not wearing anything else.”

“Yes you are. You’re wearing our sheet and we want it back,” and with that the sheet is yanked away leaving you naked on the floor, trying to roll into a ball that will hide as much as possible.

They didn’t extend the agony of exposure, but quickly threw back one’s clothes and let you scramble to dress. Those around all had this silly grin on their faces as someone opened the attic door and allowed the next victim to enter. I was quite surprised the girls would play such a game in their home with their parents right downstairs.

I alternated dates between Mary Ann and Janice. Mary Ann was the more reserved of the two. Janice was always out for a good time. We went clubbing a lot. There were some bars in Delaware County that had dance floors. These were usually crowded and noisy. One of the better known ones was Mr. T's along Rt. 202 south of West Chester. After it closed a restaurant occupied the spot and was called Barnaby's. This moved and took over Timothy's and an Italian Eatery named Pescatoras now is open there.

Thus things went on through March. I touched base at my parents, but most nights I disappeared into the city and didn’t come home. In between work and my two girlfriends I was bowling in a league on a team called, The Raiders. We bowled in South Philadelphia, I swear on Oregon Avenue, but I can’t find out what the lanes were at the time. Whatever, I’m sure they followed so many bowling alleys and closed their doors years ago. We were a pretty good team. Of course, we lost both Joe and John and they were two of our best. The team began to fall apart after they left.

It was like everything was gone, gone gone. Well, not everything. There was still my job at ARCo and that’s when I decided to quit.

Do You feel a Draft in Here

One fine day in the middle of the '60s The Kid received an officious looking letter.

It began, "Greetings..."

The photo to the left was basically The Kid's reaction.

The era of the "Kennedy Husbands" was over. President Johnson had rescinded Kennedy's directive against drafting married men for Vietnam. the Kid's number had come up.

The Kid had never tried to dodge the draft, and at one point very seriously considered enlisting. Things were a bit different at the time he thought about that, so let's jump in our Special DeLorean and do a little time travel.

In was the end of the '50s. The Kid had graduated high school and after a stint in a technical school and a couple of short-lived odd jobs was looking for permanent work. It wasn't easy going. Eisenhower's Presidential Term was winding down with a bit of a recession. Actually, it was to prove to be the most major recession between 1945 and 1970. Employers weren't exactly combing the alleyways and back fields for new hires, especially know-not-much-of-anything high school punks.

The Kid's friend, Ron (of the "Retired in Delaware Blog") was experiencing the same desert of desperation. Nowadays, Ron is an old goat too, so I don't know exactly what his memories of that time are, but here is the way this Old Goat recalls it. (I'm paraphrasing the conversation, I can't remember the exact words, but these are pretty close.)

The Kid's friend said to him one day, "I'm going to join the Navy. I've been talking with the recruiter and tomorrow I'm going to Coatesville and sign up."

"Why the Navy?"

"I want to get outta here, Kid. I want to see the world, travel to different places."

[To the right is Young Ron peering out to distant worlds...or something.]

A couple days later they got together again and Ron says, "I did it. I joined the Army."

"I thought you were joining the Navy?"

"I was, but when I went to meet the recruiter he was tied up. While I'm waiting this Army guy goes, 'Come here, kid', so I joined the Army."

"Why didn't you wait for the Navy guy? Why the Army?"

"Better looking uniforms."

"Better looking uniforms? Why didn't you join the Marines!!!"

[On the left is Ron in his "better looking uniform".]

"You know, Lar, why don't you join with me. They got this thing called "the Buddy System". You join with a friend and you go through everything together."

"I don't know...'

"Come on. You join, you get a private physical, you go to Boot camp together, everything."

The kid started thinking maybe it was a good idea. The job search thing was getting old and leading nowhere. There wasn't any war going on. The Kid had dutifully went into the local YMCA on his eighteenth birthday and registered for Selective Service, so why take the chance on the draft. Get it out of the way now and do it with someone he knew. The only thing about it that worried The Kid was his fear of heights. He had seen little clips at the movies of boot camp and all these recruits climbing this tower of logs, all the way to the tipsy-top, then over and down. That scared him some.

But he was a shy guy then and that "private physical" had a certain appeal. He'd talk to his parents. The Kid's parents said "No" to signing their approval (and parental permission was required for anyone under age 21 back then).

In the meantime, Ron ran into some medical problems along the way that delayed his actual getting into that "better looking uniform" and The Kid found a job.

Okay, back to the future. The Kid got married. He wanted Ron as best man, but his friend was in Training and couldn't get a pass home. The young married couple bought a house and lost a child and they had to sell the home, but then their income was improving and they were kind of settled in and comfortable when the "Greetings" and panic arrived.

The Kid didn't want to go in the Armed Forces now. There was a bloody war now! It was called Vietnam and it was becoming a mess. The Kid knew exactly where he was going to be headed once he was drafted and there was a good chance he could be killed.

And then he found himself on a dark Coatesville street with a bunch of strangers being handed a small Bible...

Coming Next: Walk Like a Duck

Walk Like a Duck

And then he found himself on a dark Coatesville street with a bunch of strangers being handed a small Bible...


In the mid-1960s The Kid got this letter that said, "Greetings". Somewhere within it he was told to be on this street corner in Coatesville at a very early hour of the morning.


So there he was and it was still dark out. He was milling nervously about, shaking a bit because it was chilly and he was a little nervous. Other young men kept arriving on the street corner and some paced along with him, others huddled along a building smoking and not a few cursed the hour and the cold.


Eventually a bus pulled to the curb and men shuffled toward its door. These two women appeared from somewhere, standing on each side of the line and as each man boarded they handed him a little book with a burgundy cover. It was a New Testament (King James Version). The Kid's stomach tightened. What were they going to do at the other end of this bus route? Ship him right from the bus door to the battlefield?


He stuck the little Bible in his back pocket.

The door hissed closed and the bus rumbled off to Philadelphia. It was pretty quiet inside. Everyone looked a bit glum. Some tried to sleep, some flipped through the New Testament, but no one said much of anything. By the time the bus pulled up at 401 North Broad Street in the city the sun had come up.


We were herded into a long room with benches down each side and told to sit. A uniformed man entered. He had sergeant stripes on his sleeve and a lot of hash marks below. His tone said he meant business and he told us to count off by twos. Then he gave instructions in that clipped, acronym-filled style of the military and the police. The Kid didn't understand half what he said, but caught enough to know his next step.


"At 800 hours, Number Ones will fall out and proceed to the yellow line to your left." or something like that.


When the clock reached 8:00 AM someone else (not in a uniform) came in and said, "Would number ones follow me."


They didn't fall in at any yellow line yet. Number ones were told to go in a room and take off everything but undershorts and socks and only then to line up at the yellow line, which the person pointed to. Number Ones were told they would have a physical exam this morning. Afterward they'd  be allowed time for lunch and at 1:00 in the afternoon would receive a mental test in room such and such.


The Kid undressed and placed his belongings in a basket that was placed on a shelf and locked. Now The Kid was thinking of his friend Ron getting that private examination several years earlier. His friend was done with his Army time now. He had been smart, had joined when the world was at relative peace and been honorably discharged before Vietnam became hot.


As The Kid lined up in his tighty-whities amidst a motley crew of men in various briefs and boxers, his mind flashed back to a similar embarrassment.

He had been a Boy Scout and one summer went to Camp Horseshoe with his troop. Upon arrival they were sent to this open tent and told to strip bare. The Kid didn't like to undress in front of others. He was shy and self-conscious about his body. At the time he was in the Scouts, he was at his adolescent most geeky period. He was tall, gangly and rib-showing skinny. He felt freaky enough fully dressed and the last thing he wanted was people staring at his naked scarecrow body. He never liked the gang showers at Junior High for this reason and this was worse, far worse.


(The Old Goat hates this picture, by the way. The Kid has this stupid grin planted on a head that looks like a balloon about to pop. And those knobby knees between those high-waist shorts and silly stockings -- ugh! The photo should have been burned decades ago.)


All we Scouts were lined up at the front of this tent with open sides, The Kid and all the rest starkers, in Full-Monty Mode, naked as Jay Birds -- get the picture. And the line stretched out across a grass patch in the open air where more Scouts were arriving with their moms and sisters and all kind of strangers who had no business viewing a bunch of boys in the all-together. IT WAS HUMILIATING! And The Kid nor Old Goat have ever understood why we were made to strip naked. When The Kid arrived at the doctor, who was seated on a stool, all he said was, "Spread your toes apart." The Doc bend forward and visibly examined The Kid's toes, declared him free of Athlete's Foot and sent him off to dress. WHY DID WE HAVE TO BE NAKED FOR THAT?!!!!


At least the Government was letting The Kid keep his shorts on. 


Now The Kid was thinking he might fail this exam. He didn't want to end up in Vietnam so he was depending on his physical flaws to save him. He was nearsighted with an astigmatism. He had been born with a damaged ear drum that caused him problems with distinguishing some words. He had also been born with a heart murmur. 


The exam was like a comedy routine, a joke. Did they test The Kid's hearing at all, the Old Goat can't remember. He can remember the eye test and this is no kidding.


"Step up to that line," said a guy in a white coat, presumably a doctor of some kind.


The Kid toed the mark.


"See that chart on the wall, " the Doc asked.


"Yes," said The Kid.


"Passed." said the Doc, "Move on."


The line snaked through various stations in this gym like room until they wended their way to a door at the rear. Here a dozen at a time were taken into a bright, white room where three men in white coats waited. These men walked about them. "Take off your shorts," one of these White Coats said. 


Oh, they must be going to examine our feet!


"Now I want you to squat down and walk like a duck to that end of the room and back again," said the White Coat .


Do you understand what a ridiculous sight that was. The Old Goat is glad his friend Ron wasn't there in those days with his ever present digital camera. Or worse, his Flip Video. The Kid would be a comedy act on YouTube today. 

It’s a hut, hut, quack, quack, quack.

I hear ‘Nam Ain't much fun,

But this here stethoscope

Is protecting my bun

From being shot, I hope.

You guys should have become docs

But today you’re Uncle Sam’s sitting ducks.

So-o-o-o,

Don’t think twice, boys, about

Being embarrassed

Don’t think twice, boys, about

Being embarrassed

Waddling across this floor

Bent over bare-assed.

It’s a hut, hut, quack, quack, quack.

                                            
From the play, "Life Ate My Homework"

                                            by Stuart & Larry

                                            Copyright 2005

                                            Lyrics of  "Duck Walk Blues"

At the end of this disgusting display, The Kid and his fellow featherless ducks were ordered to stand at attention while the White Coats circled them again. They were ordered to do another awkward act, which we will not describe here. One of the White Coats stopped behind The Kid.


"What's that on your shoulder, " he asked.




Next: Lunchtime Lunatics, Mental Morons and Final Fate.