Filling In The Blanks: Draft Dodging

Life before the road was tumultuous to say the least. I remember, me and Skip got our draft letters on the same day. Both of our birthday's fell on September 14th. Mine in 1948 and Skip's in 1950. There was only one family on the block who had a TV at this time, The Sponbergs, and I remember we all nervously huddled around it to watch the lottery drawing. As luck would have it that asshole Congressman Pirnie drew the little blue capsule that sealed our fate. We had been selected in the first round, but it was nothing to get excited about.

I didn't know much about the war, but I damn well knew I wasn't gunna fight in it. I was only 22 years old and nowhere near ready to die. I didn’t care that my father had gone to war, or what the neighbors would think. Something or someone bigger than Congressman Pernie and Dickie Nixon was telling me that it wasn’t my time. I felt it in my core, and sure it seemed a bit selfish, but it didn't persuade me to fall in line. It was a few days after the drawing that the Order to Report For the Armed Forces Physical Examination came in the mail. This was the first step to being drafted and one of the only legitimate ways to get out free and clear. We had heard all the same rumors everyone else had. If you were flat footed you couldn't fight, if you couldn't see you couldn't fight, if you had scoliosis, or were gay or a communist or gay and a communist with scoliosis, then you couldn't fight.  So for the next few days around the shop I worked barefoot. I sliced my heel open twice on some loose mesh, but I figured it'd help me flatten out my arches. By the second day and tenth Band-Aid I'd realized how foolish it was. The clock was ticking and very few options remained. Every night I'd look at that damn order.

TO ALL REGISTRANTS:

When you report pursuant to this order you will be forwarded to an Armed Forces Examining Station where it will be determined whether you are qualified for military service under current standards.

If you fail to report for examination as directed you may be declared delinquent and order to report for induction into the Armed Forces. You will be subject to fine and imprisonment under the provisions of the Military Selective Service Act of 1967.

On the day I was supposed to show up, I decided not to. I knew what to expect. An order to report for induction would be mailed to me shortly, but I wouldn't be around for it. I had heard two excuses in the last few weeks that had gotten the poor kids excused from duty, drug use and suicide. I was never heavy into drugs, I was more of a drinker, but even that was more effort than enjoyment. I had tried all the standard stuff, but I really hated how I lost control of my body under the influence. I used to pride myself in being able to control my pain, physical and emotional, but it was under the influence that I lost this ability. It was ironic too, because people would see me, looking kinda down as usual, and they'd say just a puff, a snort, a drop, a few bites would make it better. The only time it made if better was November 2, 1970.

I had forged a suicide note and left it in my shirt pocket. The plan was for Jeff to find me, overdosed in the bathroom at home, and call for help. I took half a bottle full of Mom's experimental antidepressants, which turned out to be simple sedatives, and began foaming at the mouth. I remember my stomach hurting so badly that all I could do was groan continuously as if the wind had been knocked out of me. I began to have difficulty breathing and in an attempt to reverse the effects, started gagging myself. I propped my arm up on the corner of the sink adjacent to the toilet and began desperately trying to vomit. Mom wasn't supposed to know about any of this; she had enough to deal with. I wasn't exactly stealth about my antics though. Jeff got distracted with the neighbors wife and Mom ended up finding me first. Frantically she began trying to wake me. Instead of whispers though it was slaps and when I finally came to, my face hurt worst of all.

I was in the hospital for a week and had to match that with jail time. Even though I had covered the basics, I never felt protected from Selective Services. Numerous tests were run on me and I was convinced that this was my physical exam. After 14 nights of restricted movement they finally let me free. It took a while to convince Mom I wasn’t suicidal, her new husband Bob thought it was hilarious and wrote a screenplay about it and everyone else couldn't believe I had pulled it off. Skip's escape from Vietnam wasn't as forgettable. During his physical he came on to the doctor. As luck would have it, the doctor was a little sweet himself and accepted Skip’s advances graciously. Before he got himself too deep in the shit, a Selective Service staff member walked in and kicked Skip straight to the curb. We still give him hard time about that one.