My senior year, at Seacrest—Seagrunt, Mike Long called it—
I got thrown out of class so many times I wouldn’t graduate.
I’d have to take the 12th grade over for excessive absences.
I could pass the courses. That didn’t matter. It was attendance
that counted. Jesus H. Statistical Christ. So I dropped out
and enlisted in the Air Force, with my parents permission.
They were happy to be rid of me. The service would be
a maturing influence. Plus, there was a draft. Military service
was compulsive. I might as well get it out of the way.
Do my bit. It was like a prison sentence.
You just have to make the best of it.
It was after
I was a Cold War soldier.
We were at war with
Godless Communism. They were against
our way of life.
Freedom.
They were intent on world conquest. World domination.
They had to be resisted. They had to be opposed.
I was expected to do my part.
As a citizen. I should be glad to do it.
Proud to have the chance. I should embrace my fate.
Who knows—I might get something out of it. I might
learn a trade. Aircraft dispatcher. Form 5 clerk.
I would be serving my country. My country would
respect that. I would be mentioned in the dispatches.
I would get an Honorable Discharge. After four years.
Athlete, GI, cop, or fireman, working stiff.
Grunt for Western Electric. Pole jockey.
Well-driller’s helper. Roads and grounds.
Postal worker. Deidre Hall’s dad
was a postal worker. Her mom was
a high school secretary. She became an actress.
My dad was a bookkeeper. My mom was a housewife.
I became an underground writer. I was on my way.
My career was launched. I would ever after think of myself
as an enlisted man in the service. A high school drop-out.
I would have some overcompensating to do. I could not relax.
I had time emergencies. So much pressure, so much pressure.
I’d be so grand at the game. I wouldn’t be grand. I wasn’t at the game.
I was in the stockade. I had a P on my back, for Prisoner.
An R on my back, for Recalcitrant.
I was Maggio, not Prewitt.