… the pure products of America go crazy.
—William Carlos Williams
Back in 1981, I was a senior ready to leave my hometown and old friends and try for a new life somewhere else. My old friends, however, had greeted the precipice of 18 by becoming bizarre and erratic. The movie Apocalypse Now had inspired Tom, James and Larry to equip themselves as Vietnam-era grunts and patrol the woods around Thonotosassa as if protecting Central Florida from the Vietcong.I can't say I was any more sane at the time. In those pre-Columbine days, no one thought twice about high schoolers having easy access to guns. When Tom asked me to go "commandoing" with them, I picked up my dad's .45 and went.
Out in the woods, there was an intensity to them all I had never seen before. Tom had the "thousand-yard stare" as he waved and Larry and James moved forward, rifles at the ready, providing cover to each other in an intricately choreographed ballet. I tried to move along with them, but in a real combat situation I'm afraid my clumsiness would have gotten us all killed.
The long hours of marching, ducking behind trees and crouching left us tired, hot and sticky.
"Mr. Clean," Tom ordered Larry. "Get a hundred meters ahead, we need a point man."
Larry smiled, motioning for me to follow. When we got far enough ahead, he produced a six-pack. We ducked behind a tree. Beer never tasted as good, before or since, as it did then.
"I'm getting sick of Tom's Sergeant Slaughter bullshit. He orders us around like he owns us. How long have you known him?" Larry asked.
"Since 'Nam."
Larry laughed when I explained that when Tom and I first met, the war was still going on.
"I'm afraid Tom doesn't have much to look forward to, now," Larry continued. "He's not going to college like you and me. He's got no girlfriend. Big changes are comin' up in all our lives and he's kinda scared. It's like he's stuck back in second grade when we used to play army all day."
"Privates," Tom interjected suddenly, unseen. "Let's keep it down. Don't want Charlie to know where we are."
Larry let out a breath. Jeezus!
"Hey, Tom," I called out. "Are you familiar with the term: At Ease? Let's drop the drill instructor routine for a while."
Tom reacted as if he'd been struck in the face. I expected an explosion, a long denouement, but none of us was too articulate at the time. Our high school reunions wouldn't be for another 20 years; none of us had any life stories we could put into words.
"You think this shit is funny, don't ya? You think it ain't serious, or could be, don't ya?" Tom picked up my .45 and held onto it like a talisman, lowering his voice into a prayerful chant. "All I want," he finally said, looking down, "is to start living a life that's not bullshit, to be part of something that's bigger than me!"
I wished Larry hadn't laughed out loud at that because Tom pulled the slide of my pistol back and jammed the muzzle into his mouth.
"Yoooouuuu fuuuhhh-kkkers waannna sheee shumpthing?!?"
There was a simple, heartfelt plea I had for God, right then.
"I take it back," Larry pleaded. "I'm sorry; I really am. Just put the gun down, okay?"
Suddenly, we all heard the helicopter: WHAP, WHAP, WHAP! It must have been a chopper for a local radio station.
"Chef," Tom yelled to James. "Lay down some covering fire! It's a hot LZ!!!"
Everyone's copper-jacketed bullets flew, fired at anything that moved and many things that did not. They sprayed the high grass, chewed bark from the trees and kicked up dust. The barrels of our guns grew hot but we kept firing. Whatever it was out there had to be kept at bay and we blasted away as if our lives depended on it. We fired like young men afraid of the dark, of what might happen if we stopped shooting.
I ran out of ammo first, and then so did Larry, James and finally, Tom. The silence swept down, enveloped us, held us by our throats. All our high-powered weaponry was of no avail. In the gathering darkness, we couldn't help but miss our real targets.
This article appears in Nov 24-30, 2004.