Lapses of Memory = Literary License

Wonder of wonders, I heard from "Hoffman" about my previous post, "Brief Visit to Zaire". His memory was much better than mine. Here's the 'truer' story of our trip to Zaire. It doesn't make my earlier post any the less fun, however. I'll just change the label from non-fiction to fiction and all will be well.
We actually flew from Libreville, Gabon to Pt. Noire in the Congo first, and then our adventures started in trying to get from Pt. Noire to Cabinda, Angola. (The stay in Pt. Noire warrants a post of its own, I should tell you.)

Hoffman remembered that our flight from Libreville to Pt. Noire was an adventure in itself.

"...the plane we flew on was supposed to be Air Gabon flight but was a Lina Congo plane (not recommended by Corp Aviation) and had major mechanical problems at the gate. ... The mechanic who was working on it was in the cabin by the pilots' door when we took off. We weren't sure if he was there to fix anything in flight or if he was going to be personally accountable for any problem he didn't fix on the ground."

Hoffman also had a better recollection about our trip from Pt. Noire to Cabinda via Zaire:

"The flight from Pt. Noire was on Aero Servis, which was a commercial carrier that only did the local flights. It had regular flights to Cabinda was well as Muanda, Zaire.

"While we were in transit (I think we were still in Nigeria) the Cabinda airport was closed due to bomb incident. It was [Nigeria Finance Manager's] idea that we fly to Muanda [aka "Banana Base"]. He told us that he would have a [Company] helicopter waiting to pick us up and bring us to Malongo [aka Cabinda]. Well we landed in Muanda and no [Company] helicopter. So we started going through Customs which wasn't going well. I did have a Zaire visa but it was a single entry that had already been used. The local [Company] guy who came to get us was perplexed since we didn't have visas. He radioed to [the Country Manager] looking for direction. I remember this - hearing [his] voice on radio saying '...tell those guys that if they don't want to spend the night in a Zaire jail, they will get back on the plane and leave the country.' So we got back on plane not knowing what we were going to do since our Congo visas were no longer valid either.

"When we got back on the plane, we found out from the pilot that they were going to Cabinda, as the airport had reopened."

 He also remembered:

"It was definitely one of the more challenging trips. One thing I remember - you were sitting in front of me on the flight into Muanda and when you didn't see any helicopter on the ground waiting for us, you turned and gave me the dirtiest look."

And I did too!

So THAT'S the real story ... and, thank you, T.H.

A Brief Visit to Zaire

Deer in the headlights: that’s what I was.

It was an arduous trip, aided only by the fact that Hoffman had been a great traveling companion … up to that point. We’d flown San Francisco-Paris-Lagos, Nigeria, spent three days in Lagos that felt like a week, then flew to Libreville in Gabon. All was well: we were out of Nigeria.

We had spent the weekend in Libreville at an acceptable hotel near the airport and next to the ocean. We’d walked a couple miles into town and back. Along the way we had gotten more than a little drunk on sneaky-strong local beer. We ate crocodile for dinner at the hotel. We got a reasonable night’s sleep. The next day both of us battled dysentery, thanks to some scrambled eggs from the hotel’s (not very steamy) steam table breakfast. Even that nasty problem resolved itself by mid-afternoon, but we were in bed early that night anyway. We had more traveling to do.

We were to leave the next morning via a chartered, twin-engine turbo-prop plane toward our company’s oilfield in Cabinda, Angola. It was a short flight on a regular route for the charter crew. Weather seemed cooperative -- never a certainty in the tropics.

In the morning we took a taxi to the airport. I did my usual pat-down before leaving: Is the passport in my buttoned pocket where it belongs? Is my Angolan visa application paperwork in my other pocket? Is my billfold in my hip pocket? Yes, yes, and yes. In a few minutes: pat-pat-pat, check again.

Not knowing how long the exit process would take, we arrived at the airport three hours early. Naturally we passed through immigration, customs and security without a major problem despite our not speaking French. That meant we hung out in the airport for two hours before we finally got on the plane with a dozen or so other people heading to Cabinda.

We take off and head south. I watch the ocean below us for a while then jungle as we cross back over the coast. In the air for 30 minutes, a buzz begins in the plane. Someone in front says, “Trouble.” – never a word you want to hear in West Africa. Word filters back to us that the Cabinda airstrip is under mortar attack by the Angolan rebels. We circle. We run low on fuel. We need to land. Nearest strip: “Banana Base” in Zaire … now called Democratic Republic of the Congo.

We’re told we have no problem: land at Banana Base, get some fuel, head back to Libreville or maybe down to Luanda, Angola.

The deer’s ears twitch. It shuffles its feet. Is that the sound of a car in the distance? Are those lights?

We circle a dirt airstrip near the coast then land. It’s hot, it’s humid. There’s no air conditioning on board. I start to sweat. We taxi out and stop near a tin-roofed wooden shack at one end of the landing strip. It’s the only building in sight. Four scowling, heavily armed men in fatigues swagger slowly out towards the aircraft.

The pilot says, “Everyone out. Show your passports and visas to the officials as you exit”.

I look at Hoffman and ask, “We need a visa?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have one for Zaire?”

“Yes.”

I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me to get one before we left the US?”

“I didn’t know we were stopping here.”

“Then why’d you get one?”

Hoffman: “Just to be safe.”

I say, “Thanks a lot.” Well, actually what I said was much more colorful. Hoffman’s rating as my traveling companion dropped to zero, or slightly lower.

The deer clearly sees the car now. The headlights are bright, coming fast. The deer’s eyes are the size of pie plates as it stands statue-like, frozen in the road.

Hoffman got out first, passport (and visa) checked, waved on toward shack.

I’m out next -- passport handed to a gaunt soldier with an AK47 slung over his shoulder. He has tribal scars on both cheeks. He smells like smoke and sweat. First there’s a squinty-eyed glare at the passport then at my face. Hard, calloused fingers flip one-by-one through my passport pages. Then a similar flip from back to front. Dark, angry eyes in a jet black face turn to me. The soldier growls something – French?

I give him a blank, doe-eyed stare.

The soldier steps closer, barks more words – louder. He's missing a couple teeth.

Another silent stare from me. Sweat soaks through my shirt. Sweat soaks through my khaki Dockers and makes an I-wet-my-pants crotch stain.

Still louder words. He waves my passport in my face then slaps the passport into his palm. One of the other soldiers takes his gun off his shoulder and joins the first.

A Representative from my company who has been watching the proceedings from a safe distance sidles over, holding his walkie-talkie. He tells me, “He wants your visa.”

“I don’t have a Zaire visa.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t expect to get diverted to Zaire.”

“Hmm. That’s not good. You’re in Zaire, you know.”

The deer shifts from foot to foot. Its flanks quiver. It looks for an escape route. There is none. It lowers its head submissively.

I ask, “So, now what?”

Representative: “I don’t know. That’s really not good. You’re sure you don’t have a visa.”

I say, “Believe me, if I did, do you think I’d be hiding it?”

The deer thinks: Will someone PLEASE stop this? I’m just a helpless deer. Don’t let that car hit me.

The Rep turns away from me and begins talking in French with the soldiers. The Rep doesn’t look directly at them – no eye contact. No one is smiling. The Rep makes a slight bow to the soldiers and wanders some distance off, his radio pressed to his ear. His free arm waves in my direction. Head shakes … no. More arm waving. He walks back toward me.

The deer thinks: Please, let the car stop.

As the Rep gets within a step or two of me I hear over his walkie-talkie: “He’s going to get his ass thrown in jail, and I’m not going to bail him out.”

Rep says: “That’s the Company Country Manager. He’s not happy.”

Rep re-opens negotiation with the soldiers. Other passengers pass through the document check and head to the potentially air conditioned, certainly shady, shack. I’m left cooling, no, frying my heels in the sun.

Rep asks me, “How much money you got?”

I answer, “Not much: couple of hundred US maybe.”

“They’re saying the fine for entering illegally is $1000.”

“Now what?” I ask.

“I don’t know. This is really not good.”

The headlights are blinding. The deer’s eyes begin to close, anticipating the impact, imagining becoming airborne and crashing through the windshield. Not even the scant comfort of squealing tires as someone tries to stop.

 “… And I’m not going to bail him out.” keeps playing through my mind like a bad song.

And then I see people filing out of the shack and heading toward the plane. The mortar attack on Cabinda has stopped and the airfield is mostly undamaged. We’re going to take off.

My passport is back in my hand then stuffed back in its pocket. I force my way into line to be the next person onto the plane. I flop into my seat near the window.

Hoffman, sits next to me and says, “Looked a little tense there for a second. Want a bottle of water?” His companion rating clawed itself back into the positive range. The door closes and the cabin becomes quite an efficient aluminum oven. The water is warm; I drain it in a gulp. I hear the engines start on one side and then the other.

In five minutes we’re airborne. In another ten were at 8000’ and the air is cool coming in the vents. I slowly return to a semblance of normal body temperature. My hands stop shaking. My clothes even start to dry. In 20 minutes we start our descent toward Cabinda.

The deer peers out at the road from the safety of the bushes – glad to be alive. Wait, is that another car?

I overhear someone say, “I wonder if they’ve cleared the minefield yet.”

End Of His Obsession

Mitchell dumps the last of the potato chip crumbs straight out of the bag and into his mouth, just as the game’s computer voice says, “It’s your turn.”

Mitchell sighs, “Fold … again” as he moves the mouse to click the appropriate button. Glancing at the bottom right corner of the screen he sees “3:32 AM”. He hesitates then clicks the “Sit Out” button as well.

He thinks: Bathroom break then one more hand. Work day tomorrow, well, today actually.

He tosses the potato chip bag onto the floor and kicks an empty Fiji water bottle out of the way as he walks out of the den. He turns left to the bathroom and pushes open the door. He stands using the toilet and looks in the bowl. He wrinkles his nose.

I’ll clean up tomorrow. Take the trash out too. Tomorrow for sure.

Flipping light switches along the way he walks stocking-footed into the kitchen. He steps around a dead cockroach lying legs up on the tile floor and pulls the last bottle of fruit juice from the refrigerator.

I’ll shop tomorrow too. Credit card should stand up to a few groceries.

Throwing the plastic bottle cap into the sink, he heads back to the den. The computer screen’s glow lights his way the last few feet.

Bad night. I can’t play my last hand with that little bit of cash.

Sitting in front of the computer again, he clicks the “More Chips” button on the screen and begins to step through the process of pulling money from his credit card. An “Awaiting Authorization” pop-up window with an ad for a Canadian pharmacy appears on his screen. Then the “Awaiting” window turns into a red flashing “Authorization Denied.”

Frowning, he clicks “Retry” and walks through the process again, this time selecting half the original amount he asked for. The computer again responds, “Authorization Denied.”

“What the fuck?” he asks the screen. He tries again -- just $50 this time.

“Authorization Denied.”

He stands up, sits back down, and stands up again, rubbing his eyes with the palms of both hands. He walks into the bedroom, snatches his billfold off the dresser, and heads back toward the den. Sitting again in front of the computer he pulls a credit card from his wallet. Holding the card at arms length under the desk lamp, he squints at it.

Expired.

He tosses it toward the waste basket. He pulls a handful of cards from the wallet and starts to shuffle through them.

Driver’s License. Insurance card. Business cards. Credit card … for gasoline - no help. ATM card … no help - no money in the account until payday. Citibank! There it is.

He holds the card with two fingers as though it’s hot.

I get my paycheck in a couple days. I’ll only take that much out tonight and I can put it back before she notices. She left it with me after all. She said to use it if I needed it for emergencies. I can cover it. She’ll never notice.

Besides, Elaine owes it to me. Always blaming me for her mistakes and then having the nerve to say SHE’S moving out. She’s probably got another man on the side anyway. So what if I relax playing poker. What’s it to her? I work hard. She did nothing around here. I take care of this place and I work too.

He clicks the “Retry” button, clears the automatically entered credit card information, and types in the new number and expiration date. He hits “Continue.”

 “Authorization Failed: Invalid Account Holder Name.”

He thinks: Of course, Elaine’s name, not mine anymore.

He corrects the information, cursing under his breath when the system forces him to enter the card number again. He clicks “Continue”.

Authorizing … Authorized … Enter Bankroll Amount … Yes!

His fingers pause above the keys.

Maybe I need a bigger bankroll to get back even for the night, even if my luck does change. She must have a big limit on this. I wonder how big. I wonder if the penny-pincher knocked the limit down just to keep me from using it.

$10,000. That’s the limit we had before she moved out. I can always cash it out if I don’t use it tonight. I’ll put it back. My check comes in a couple days. And besides, she owes me.

He types quickly and then clicks “Next”. The machine immediately responds: “Confirm $10,000 from account … .” Grinning, he slaps the mouse with his whole hand to trigger the “Confirm” button. The computer prompts: “Return to game?”

“Yes,” he says aloud as he clicks the button on the screen.

The computer responds with its manicured voice, “Blinds, please. Good luck.”

He leans forward in his chair. Two cards appear at the bottom of his screen.

A pair of jacks! Now that’s what I’m talking about. It’s about time I got some cards.

The game says, “It’s your bet.” His avatar on the screen lights up. He rubs his hands together.

Let’s bully a few folks. $1000.

That’s a bigger bet than anyone’s made all night. Everyone folds around to the player on his right.

Call! You think you got me, chump? Not tonight, not tonight. I can wait you out tonight. I got the skill and tonight I got the bankroll.

The player to his right calls.

All right!

With the first round of betting complete, the computer now deals three community cards face up on the screen – the Flop. All three are small cards – 2, 6, 9 -- three different suits.

Here I come. $1000 more.

The player on his right calls again.

Yum, yum. Come to papa.

The computer deals another card – the Turn: a queen.

Darn. Well you don’t know whether that helped me or not. Let’s see how confident you are. $4000, that’s almost the size of the pot. Oh, dude. I’m sorry did that put you ‘all in’. Well, OK, give me that $3120 you got in front of you.

The player to his right hesitates.

I hate slow players. Come on, bet, you jerk. I got you.

The computer voice says, “All In.”

Yes. That’s what we want.

The computer shows the players his two jacks, and shows his opponent’s cards: queen – two.

No! How did you bet $1000 with a queen-two then $1000 more with a freakin’ pair of deuces? You idiot. And now you sit there with your two pair on the Turn. I need a jack. Gimme a jack, damnit.

The computer shows the last card – the River: a jack.

“Three of a kind!” he yells.

Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, sorry. Is all your money gone, you stupid jerk. You shouldn’t have bet in the first place. You got what you deserved, you worthless piece of … whatever. Oh, yeah.

The money flows his way on the screen with a well-simulated sound of Vegas casino chips on felt.

Five thousand dollars on one hand. Tonight is my night.

He takes a sip from the bottle of juice and peers at the screen. His new hand is showing already: an ace and king.

          Oh, yeah!

He bets strongly and wins again, forcing out another player by taking all his money. He smiles and slaps the desk.

Oh, baby. I’m on a roll, sweetheart. Come on.

He wins hand after hand for nearly an hour before finally losing a pot. From then on he wins several big pots and loses some smaller ones. People come and go from the table. His bankroll grows. He’s playing on adrenaline. The sun has been up for hours. It cuts though the gathering clouds and pierces the openings of the plantation shutters on the window. He’s heard the garbage truck come and go and heard the kids yelling as they walked to school. He never bothered to call in sick for work. He’d only gotten up twice to go to the bathroom down the hall. He hated to do it, fearing it could change his luck. But, no, his luck stayed and his winnings kept growing.

He settles in to play again. On the next hand he gets king and queen of hearts.

OK. OK. Not bad. Let’s see what a big bet makes people do.

The betting rolls around to him and he raises to $5000. Several people call his bet, then a player with the screen name URMine raises to $10,000.

This guy’s been a pain in my ass ever since he sat down. He plays pretty loose. I bet he’s got nothing.

When the bet comes to him, Mitchell calls URMine’s bet. Two other people call as well.

The Flop comes: jack of hearts, king of spades, ace of spades.

Holy Cow, what a Flop. I’ve got middle pair with the kings. I also see a possible straight and a flush. I’ve got the cash, you suckers. You’re not pushing me out of this pot tonight.

A few small bets come in until the bet passes around to URMine, who raises to $20,000.

Oh, heck. What’s this guy got? Has he got two pair, say king-ace? Or maybe he’s hoping for a straight or flush just like me. Does he have two spades? But how does he know I don’t have spades too? I’m cash up and I WANT this guy. I want to send him home. No, wait: I bet all he’s got is an ace. I bet he’s just raising on the ace. The high pair: a pair of aces between him and the board. Not good enough, buddy.

He moves the cursor over the “Call” button. His finger shakes as he taps the mouse. Now he has $30,000 in the pot. It’s easily the biggest pot of the night. Everyone else folds. He’s playing heads-up against URMine.

The Turn card is ace of hearts.

Oh, yeah! Now I’ve got a nice two pair and still a chance at my straight or flush. I just need one more heart. Just one heart, baby, come on.

As though to heighten the tension, lightning flashes outside followed immediately by a crash of thunder. Rain starts pounding against the window. His gray cat jumps onto the desk and head-butts his arm, alarmed by the storm. “Not now.” Mitchell hisses and forearms the cat onto the floor.

URMine is still thinking about his next bet.

Come on, you jerk. You’ve been playing slow all night. Make up your mind, make up your mind.

URMine bets $65,000. Mitchell’s chin sinks to his chest. He squeezes his eyes closed and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Aw, hell, fuck. He’s got a queen-ten and is betting his straight. Oh, no, worse: he’s got king-ace and just made his full house. Or, shit, he could have two aces in the hole and just hit four of a kind. I have to fold. I have to fold.

Of course, he could just have an ace for three of a kind. Or maybe just a couple spades and is hoping for a spade on the River. Then our chances are the same. I need a heart; he needs a spade. What’s he on?

He rubs his face with both hands and looks up at the screen to see a clock counting down from 30 seconds appear next to his avatar. A chat text from URMine arrives on the right side of his screen: “I’ve got the nuts, there sweetie. Give it up.”

No way, you arrogant jerk. You’re telling me you have two aces in your hand plus the two on the board. That’s the highest hand with these cards. You just tipped your bluff, you idiot. You got nothin’.

He slides the cursor over the “Call” button and slaps the mouse hard enough to make it jump on the desk. He’s bet $95,000 on two pair. He has less than $1000 left in front of him. He looks again at what he’s just done, runs his hand through his hair and licks his lips.

I need a heart. Oh, dear god, give me a heart. I’ll never gamble again. I’ll give half my winnings to charity. Please, god, let me win this. Please let me beat this moron. Please.

He picks up the long forgotten juice bottle and tips his head straight back to suck out the last stale drops. The cat again sits on the desk beside him, looking at his face. He scratches the cat between the ears. The computer says, “Last Card”.

“A Fucking HEART,” he screams at the screen shaking his fist.

The virtual card on the screen flips. The River card is the ten of hearts.

“My flush!” he yells standing up. Then his eyes become wide.

Ten – jack of hearts on the board, queen – king of hearts in my hand, and ace of hearts on the board. Ten-jack-queen-king-ace. All hearts.

He sits down again. His finger leaves filmy prints on the computer screen as he points to each card in turn.

Ten-jack-queen-king-ace. All hearts. That’s a Royal Flush: the highest hand in poker. I can’t lose. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. I’ve got him. I’ve got him. And my money worries are over. I’ll make $100,000 on this one hand.

He stands up yet again and takes a step back as another chat message comes in from URMine: “I told you to fold, Mitchell. I know that’s my money you’re playing with. Did you think I’d let you have that credit card without keeping tabs on it? I’ve got the cards, Mitchell. You’re done playing poker. I know you’re bluffing.”

He puts his hands on the edge of the desk and leans forward toward the screen in disbelief.

Elaine? Are you URMine? Is that you that has been playing this whole time?  Impossible. When did you start playing poker? And how did you get to be so good?

Another chat message arrives from URMine: “I had the credit card account configured to send text alerts to my phone when someone uses the card. I knew you couldn’t resist. And now I’ve got you. You’re going to be broke and no way out. I’m going to prosecute you for fraud, Mitchell. You are mine."

And with that he sees URMine go “All In” with $5000. It’s more than Mitchell has. If he bets and loses, he’ll lose it all. And then it hits him:

So what if it is Elaine? So what if it is my wife? So what? I CAN’T LOSE!

“Oh, no, Elaine. You are MINE,” he yells at the screen.

He sits down again, the cat next to him on the desk. He grabs the mouse and runs the cursor towards the “Call” button. Just as he moves the mouse, a blinding flash of lightning and a ripping crack of thunder rattle the house. The startled cat jumps forward and lands on his hand holding the mouse. The cursor skids an inch to the left and, as it does, the cat’s claws sink into his hand. His fingers clench and click the mouse key. The cursor sits over the “Fold” button.

The lights flicker and begin to fade out. The storm has knocked out the power. The last thing Mitchell sees on the screen is his mound of chips slowly flowing towards URMine’s four aces.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walter smiled as he read the news article online two days later. He and Elaine would be happy now with Mitchell truly out of the way. Walter's plan had worked so much better than he’d intended. He’d only meant to get Mitchell in trouble with the law. That’s why Walter had gone online and set up Elaine’s credit card to notify him when Mitchell used the card.

Mitchell was such an idiot. He’d totally believed that I was Elaine online. Why did Mitchell think Elaine knew how to play poker at all?

The whole thing could have gone so horribly wrong, and yet it all worked out so perfectly. What incredible luck: for Mitchell to pull the one hand that could beat my four aces and then to fold and let me win. Why did that fool fold the perfect hand?

And Elaine will never know that I had anything to do with it.

Walter leaned back in his chair in front of the computer and laced his fingers together behind his neck looking at the news article again. He never imagined Mitchell would commit suicide, though -- slitting his wrists with plastic shards from the smashed computer monitor. And, why had he first killed the cat by cramming a wireless mouse down its throat? Walter laughed inside.

Oh, well. Can’t worry about that, can we? So, I’ll just play a few more hands before Elaine gets home. I'll clean the house later.

Dodging the Bullet

In 1969:

·         The average US house price was $27,550. Gasoline sold for $0.55 per gallon.

·         Neil Armstrong and three others became the first men to walk on the moon.

·         400,000 attended Woodstock Music Festival in Bethel, NY.

·         Sugar Sugar (by the Archies) topped the Billboard 100 song list. Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In (5^TH Dimension), Honkey Tonk Women (Rolling Stones) and I’ll Never Fall in Love Again (Tom Jones) were in the top 10. The Beatles released Abbey Road.

·         X-rated “Midnight Cowboy” won best picture at the Academy Awards. John Wayne won an Oscar for “True Grit”.  Best screen play and best music went to “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”.

·         The first commercial 747 airplanes and the first ATMs went into service.

·         Richard M. Nixon became President, succeeding Lyndon Johnson. Dwight D. Eisenhower died.

·         Australian media baron Rupert Murdoch purchased the largest selling British Sunday newspaper, The News of the World.

·         Colonel Muammar al-Gaddafi came to power in Libya following a coup. 

·         James Earl Ray was sentenced to 99 years for killing Martin Luther King. Sirhan Sirhan was convicted of the assassination of Robert Kennedy. Charles Manson’s cult was charged with murder of Sharon Tate and three others.

·         The first US troops began withdrawing from Vietnam. News of the US massacre of Vietnamese civilians at My Lai was released.

And

I was a 19 year old college sophomore.

And

The US modified its Selective Service process to use a lottery system. The lottery randomly assigned each draft eligible male a number based on his birthdate.  Starting in 1970, the Selective Service would draft men born between 1944 and 1950 into the US Armed Forces based on their lottery number, starting with #1 and working up the sequence until the required number of recruits was inducted.

On December 1, 1969 the Selective Service placed 366 capsules in a drum. Each capsule contained a unique number between 1 and 366. The number one signified January 1; the number two was January 2 and so on -- one for each day of the year 1950. Capsules were mixed then drawn one by one from the drum. The first date drawn received lottery #1, the second date received #2, and so on.*

My group of friends gathered at our college fraternity house that day to watch the drawing on TV. The lottery process meant you couldn’t know at what point your birthday would be assigned its number. We manually kept a table of dates and their numbers so that late comers could find out where they stood.

One of our buddies walked in late and asked, “What’s September 14?”

Our answer: “Oh, Christ, man. That’s #1.”

He stood without moving for some seconds then took a deep breath and asked, “Really?”

We just nodded. He shook his head, turned, and walked out without another word.

Far too soon my birthday was pulled: #92. The Selective Service expected to draft numbers through at least #200.** With #92 I was most assuredly going to get drafted. I could keep my student deferment until graduation in 1972, but beyond that, I was going in the Armed Forces.

Males on campus were drunk well into the next morning -- those with high numbers drinking to celebrate; the rest of us, drinking to forget. The most common question the next day: “What’s your number?” After that, most of us put out of our minds, as best we could, the Selective Service sword over our heads. We focused on keeping our student deferments by progressing normally toward graduation.

I married my high school sweetheart in February 1970. We were blessed with a baby girl in June 1971. In June 1972 I was graduated with my BA degree in mathematics. My faculty advisor convinced me to work toward a master’s degree in statistics. I was lucky to receive a teaching assistantship in mathematics at a large university north of us. It had an excellent program in statistics. We packed our meager belongings and moved within a few miles of the university. We rented a newly built two-bedroom apartment. It was across the street from a concrete factory and, even with that, was serious upgrade from our cramped, dirty, two-room college digs. Our daughter finally got her own room: good for her and good for us.

In September I began attending classes in statistics and computer science. I also taught two units of freshman math as part of my assistantship. My wife worked as a waitress at a restaurant near our apartment. Our daughter was a healthy, happy baby. Things were going well, and then I received notification from the draft board that my student deferment had ended. I was declared 1A: eligible for the draft.

Soon after came a notification to report to Chicago for my pre-induction physical. A couple weeks later I got on a bus before dawn for the two-plus hour ride to the medical center along with 50 or more other potential recruits. It was a quiet group on that bus.

We pulled up in front of a large building somewhere in a not very nice part of Chicago. Dozens of other buses were queued up along the street as well, each disgorging its load of potential draftees. Our driver said, “Remember your bus number: 255. You take this bus back when you’re done. If you miss it, you are on your own to return to your home. Remember 255. It’ll be in this same area when you’re done.” We filed off the bus and entered the large, open, high-ceilinged, warehouse-like facility.

First the recruiters gave us an intelligence test. As I read through the test, I thought about trying to miss every question. I wondered whether by pretending to be that stupid I could get a deferment. However, the recruiters dangled the incentive in front of us that higher scores might qualify you for officer training, which I equated to higher pay. So, I gave the test an 80% effort, figuring they’d probably seen it all anyway, and the “intelligence” test was a mere formality. I thought they might even prefer a little stupid.

Then the physicals started. We had to strip to our underpants and put the rest of our clothes in baskets which we handed to an attendant behind a counter. We pinned the ID tag for our basket to our underwear. It was quite a sight with 100s of nearly naked young guys parading barefoot from examination station to examination station. The stations were not partitioned, just different tables, each with a large number overhead. The process went like this:

“Sit over there and fill out this medical history form. Take your papers to the next station when you’re done.”

“Papers please. You’ll feel a little stick. [Poke. Scribble scribble.] Take your papers to the next station.”

 “Papers please. Bend over, touch your toes. Turn around. Lift your arms. Raise your left leg to your chest. Now your right. [Scribble scribble.] Take your papers to the next station.”

 “Papers please. Open your mouth and say ‘ah’. Turn your head left. Turn your head right. [Scribble scribble.] Take your papers to the next station.”

 “Papers please. Drop your shorts. Turn your head and cough. Again. Pull them up. [Scribble scribble.] Take your papers to the next station.”

“Papers please. Put on these ear phones. Raise your hand on the side from which you hear the tone. [Scribble scribble.] Take your papers to the next station.

Eventually we had a vision check. This was my one glimmer of hope for a medical deferment. I had “pink eye” (conjunctivitis) in my left eye. I didn’t say anything to anyone about it. I assumed that they were the medical ‘experts’ and they’d figure out that a guy with a crud-matted, red, swollen, tearing eye was probably someone to whom they should give special consideration. I didn’t believe that pink eye would qualify me for a medical exemption because it would go away with treatment within the next several weeks – and I had to treat it because it could otherwise lead to serious eye complications. None of the people that examined me said a word. I kept my mouth shut. That was probably stupid, but I’ll never know. (Pink eye is very contagious. I wonder how many recruits I passed it along to during the course of the exams.)

At the last station an officer looked through my accumulated paperwork, put it on a stack with dozens of similar folders, and said, “Get dressed then sit under the Results sign over there until your name is called.”

We were happy to retrieve our baskets, get dressed and wait. I felt dirty all over. I sat with the mob under Results.

Three big football player types waiting with me were all planning to enlist together – in the Marines, I think. Two of the guys skated through their physicals without a problem. They exchanged high-fives as they received news that they had passed the medical exam. The third guy, however, received a medical exemption: something wrong with his feet. He was disconsolate to the point of sobbing and crying on his buddies’ shoulders. His two friends were going off to defend their country - an adventure in foreign lands. He was staying home with a defect he hadn’t even known he’d had.

I thought: Tell you what I’ll do: give me your flat feet and you can have my place in the jungle with your buddies. I’ll stay home. No problem.

My name was called and I sat in front of a desk with a uniformed officer behind it. He flipped through the pages of my exam results, and then said, “You have a bi-lateral calf muscle. That’s about it.”

I asked, “Will that keep me out?”

“No.”

I asked, “Will my pink eye?”

He looked at me, flipped through some of my papers, and said, “That’s not in here.”

“Well, I’ve got it.”

He peered more closely at my face and said, “And, no one caught it. Unbelievable.”

He sighed and got up. He walked over to a knot of uniformed examiners some distance away. He exchanged some words with them while showing them my papers. A couple of them glanced over at me when he waved an arm my way. He left that group and walked through a door and out of my sight.

In 20 minutes he was back. “You’re clear to go. Wait at Section A downstairs for your bus. It departs in thirty minutes. Be there or it leaves you.”

I asked, “What about my eye?”

“When you report for induction, if you still have the problem, they’ll deal with it then.”

The “When you report …” rang like a bell in my head.

We stood outside two hours waiting for our bus 255 to leave from Section A. It was a long ride back home. The exam had taken more than 12 hours door to door. For having done nothing but walk around naked, I was exhausted.

Six weeks later a letter arrived from The President, my orders to report for induction: “GREETINGS: You are here by ordered to report …” I drank a lot that night. In four weeks, I was going to be in the US Army.

The next day I called the local Selective Service office, asking, “How do I get out of this?”

The nice woman on the other end of the phone asked me several questions about my status: In college? Married? Children? Siblings in the Services? Change in physical capability since the medical exam? Finally she said, “You can’t get out of it. You can, however, postpone induction until you receive your degree if you will receive that degree within a year.”

I told an outright lie, “Yes, I’ll receive my degree within a year.”

She said, “You’ll need to complete Form XYZ and have your faculty advisor sign it verifying that you’ll receive your degree within a year. You can pick up the form at the post office.”

I drove straight to the post office and from there to my faculty advisor’s office on campus. I filled out the form while I waited for him in the hall outside his office. His door opened, a student came out, and I barged in. “Dr. [Name Withheld to Protect the Innocent], sign this please,” I said, handing him the form.

He glanced at the page and saw “Selective Service” at the top. He frowned, sat down behind his desk and read the document. He said, “I can’t sign this unless we determine you’ll graduate within a year.”

I said, “Oh, just sign it.”

He said, “Can’t really. It’s a federal offense to falsify information. I can’t risk jail, but don’t panic. Let’s work through this.”

He pulled my university paperwork from a file drawer (1972: pre-PC, pre-Internet). He flipped through pages in my folder. “So to graduate you need 38 hours of credit. You’re taking 9 hours this semester. If you take the maximum  allowable 18 hours next semester and the maximum 12 hours in summer session, that’ll give you enough credits to get your MS degree in a year.”

Now we both knew that wasn’t going to happen. My teaching assistantship was the only way I’d been able to afford to go to grad school. It specifically limited me to 9 hours per semester. To do what he was suggesting would mean I’d have to give up my assistantship -- financially impossible. And even if I did manage to swing it financially, it was probably impossible for me to sign up for 18 hours of classes in a single semester that would actually progress me toward my major. The university just didn’t offer the specific statistics classes in any one semester that I needed to graduate in that short of time. We both knew this.

He said, “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re going to sign up for that number of hours.”

I mostly looked him in the eye and said, “I’m going to sign up for that number of hours.”

He signed the form and handed it back to me with a wink and a grin. “Good luck.”

I mailed the form to the Selective Service on the way home.

A couple weeks later, I received a letter saying that my orders to report had been deferred until July next year -- 1973. I’d bought a reprieve. I still thought I’d have to go into the Army, and I would go when called, but at least we had several months to prepare for it.

Life settled into a tough but manageable routine. I’d drive to the university early in the morning then spend the day attending my classes, teaching freshman math, studying, going to computer lab, etc. I’d get home in the evening. Often I’d leave the car running while my wife came down, jumped in the car, and drove to her waitress job. I’d feed our daughter, give her a bath, and put her to bed. I’d study and then go to bed. I’d feel my wife crawl in with me when her shift was over early in the morning. And then the alarm would go off and we’d start the routine again. It was difficult, but not as difficult as my being in the Army was going to be.

Then a miracle happened. President Richard M. Nixon officially saved my ass on 27 January 1973 by instituting an all-volunteer army and canceling the Selective Service draft.  To this day I firmly believe that he single-handedly saved my life by not sending me to Vietnam. I have an awful premonition about what would have happened if I’d been shipped over there. I also know, from having seen my buddies returning, that at the very least I’d have developed a significant drug problem. For keeping me out of all that I’m eternally grateful and it really doesn’t bother me how many other stupid mistakes Nixon made in his Presidency.

Three weeks after the announcement that the draft had ended, I received a Selective Service letter canceling my orders to report for induction. I still have that letter. I was clearly more drunk celebrating this good news than I had been drowning my sorrows when I got my letter to report for induction.

My life suddenly was lighter – like the difference between a gloomy tropical jungle and a sunny Illinois cornfield. I had a future for which I was in as much control as anyone ever is. I received my MS degree in 1974. I took a job with a large corporation in New Orleans. I helped raise our daughter, and generally I have had a good life since then.

Thanks, Tricky Dick. No matter what they say about you, you’re number one with me. You helped me dodge the bullet -- probably a lot of them.

* Later it was shown that the lottery may not have been perfectly random, but the results stood.

** In reality #195 was the highest number drafted during 1970.

The Math Class

We six remaining advanced calculus survivors stared out the open second floor windows at the sun-dappled leaves on the oak trees just outside. The 110 year-old building was not air-conditioned, but the tall windows with their low sills allowed a fresh-smelling morning breeze to pulse its way into the classroom. The spring weather was perfect. We were concentrating on an afternoon of cutting our college classes while lying in the grass under those oak trees, letting the warmth soak into us after the long Illinois winter.

Our instructor stood at the front of the room, chalk in hand, going over our homework from the previous class. He wore his usual shapeless black suit and wrinkled white shirt without a tie. It made him look even taller and thinner than he already was. His worn, scuff-streaked shoes echoed his disheveled, gray-streaked hair.

He had taught math virtually forever at our liberal arts college. Everyone described him the same way: “Quirky, but brilliant.” He had PhDs in both mathematics and philosophy from University of Edinburgh in the UK. He was such a brilliant mathematician that we weren’t smart enough to really fathom how brilliant he was.

You could find him nearly every afternoon and well into the evening sitting at the bar in one of the college hangouts in town.He always smiled at us when he saw us come in. His wife had died some years before. People who knew him well said that without her, he’d become even more eccentric.

He stuffed his college office with mathematics books, journals, and papers – on shelves, side tables, chairs and nearly every other free surface. Over-full ashtrays were scattered about on top of the heaps. The blackboard on one wall was always crammed with densely packed rows of equations, none of which could we understand. His big wooden desk was stacked literally three feet high with papers -- stacked so high the pile seemed to defy physical laws of friction and gravity.

Amazingly, though, when we went in to ask about a test score, he’d mumble, with a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth,  “Oh, um, ah, yes, your test, um, ah, Mr…. , ah. Yes, your test. From last week … your, ah, test.” And his arm would disappear nearly to the elbow into the stack on his desk and seemingly blindly he’d pull out a paper or test booklet. Magically it would nearly always be the paper he was looking for. Squinting at the paper through the smoke, he’d say things like, “Um, ah, it, ah, appears you passed, sir. Only a C+, I’m afraid, but perhaps I, um, made the test a bit, ah, stout shall we say? Anyway, ah, here … … um.” We’d take the test, say thanks, and turn to go. He’d already have gone back to whatever math problem he was working on.

Today, though, we were sitting at our desks in the classroom, working through the solutions to the homework. He wrote a particularly difficult problem on the blackboard, and turned to us, eyebrows raised in question. The brightest of us piped up, “Dr. H we couldn’t get this at all. We worked on it together last night. No matter where we started, we always came up with an obviously incorrect result. We finally decided the problem must be wrongly stated in the book.” The rest of us nodded in agreement.

He turned and looked with renewed interest at the problem on the board for a moment then he turned toward us again. His pale blue eyes darted around the room, looking over our heads. He said, “Yes, well. The problem is, ah, correct, you see, and it’s quite an, um, interesting one. Can anyone suggest where we might start?”

We threw out ideas that we had tried and that had failed us the previous night. He nodded and gave a crooked-toothed, but sympathetic smile to each suggestion.

 “Yes, er, ah, um, that’s a logical starting place, but it is quite difficult, um, complicated from there.”  

“Um, yes, I can see where you might start with that, but I’m not sure that will work.”

“Ah, no, you should see quite quickly that starting point will, um, immediately lead to a solution that converges to, ah, infinity.”

When we ran out of ideas, he said, “Well, yes, you followed many of the trails that most, um, undergraduate mathematicians might try, but perhaps, ah, let me show you how one of the more simple, uh, more simple solutions might be derived.”

He faced the board, circled part of the problem with the chalk and said, “Now if we convert this to a Fourier series …”, and he began writing rows of equations on the board. “And then if we differentiate this first in x …” and more rows of symbols appeared. “And then in y … “

He began writing this derivation, but then stopped. He stared at the board, chalk dangling in his right hand at his side, his left hand pointing to various lines of mathematics on the board. “Hmm, ah, no, ah, hmmm … hmm. No that isn’t quite it, is it? Do you see? Hmm.  Ah, that’s not right. Hmm. Ah! Sorry.”

He grabbed a large eraser and wiped several of the most recent lines from the board. “Ah, from here, no, ah, first, um, we need to use this … “and he circled a bit from higher up the sequence “… and, um, substituting …” and began furiously writing more on the board. I gave up trying to copy into my notes what he was writing.

He filled the entire first blackboard with equations and moved to the second board on his right nearer the window. “Now, if THAT is true,” he said, waving vaguely at something on the first board, “then, of course, then it must also be true that …” and he rapidly wrote across the top of the fresh board.  “Um, ah, so then … “, and he wrote yet more, but again stopped with his hand poised over the board.

 “Um … hmmm … ah … sorry … … sorry … … … sorry, uh, hmmm. This, er, can’t be correct either. Ah, oh, dear."

The bell rang in the hallway signaling end of class. None of us moved. The room was consumed by awed and complete silence. We felt ourselves quietly fade from existence.

He rapidly backed up a step then stood stock still except for his lips moving and his left arm conducting a pattern back and forth across what he’d just written. He ran his right hand through his hair adding a streak of chalky white with the gray.

“Ah, oh, of course. First, of course, it’s obvious that first I must …” With that he again erased several of the latest lines of work and slammed the chalk against the board writing a series of new equations. He mumbled as he worked, “So then, of course, this means …" more symbols … “so that THEN …” more and more symbols on the second board now. Chalk dust drifted around him in the sunbeams. As he attacked the board, broken pieces of chalk flew in the air and left trails down his suit as they fell.

“BUT, BUT … then, I see … I see now." More and more symbols. He stopped yet again. He stepped back, stared, and moved back another step. “Blast! What?” His eyes roamed the equations -- left arm pointing one way, right arm with the chalk pointing another. Sweat stood out on his forehead. “Where? Hmmm. Blast. Hmmm. Where?”

He charged the board, grabbing another piece of chalk from the tray with his left hand. “But if that’s true …” smashing the chalk in his left hand against the board, “… then THAT cannot be true …” slashing through that portion of work with the chalk in his right.

His head swiveled back and forth. “BUT! Oh, of course, but …” And chalk marks again flew across the board. He wrote first with his left hand then his right. He shouted, “And then …”

Clack, clack, CLACK went the chalk in staccato sequence.

“ … SO ! AH, SO! And THEN … SO, I have THIS AS THE SOLUTION!”

With his final flourish, he crushed the chalk in both hands against the last line he’d squeezed in at the very bottom of the board. Both pieces of chalk broke in two and flew in the air past his triumphant shoulders. With a delighted grin, he literally hopped back from the board and put is foot into the small waste basket near the wall. Losing his balance, he sat down hard on the low window sill, and, still grinning at the blackboard, began a slow motion fall out the open window.

Our trance of the last several minutes evaporated. I grabbed at his thighs and another guy caught him by his outstretched right hand. He regained his feet and didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Still smiling he said, “So THAT’S the correct solution, class. Simple, really, except for that one bit. And um, well, simple. Ah, … class dismissed.”

Not knowing what else to do, we grabbed books and papers and rushed for the door.

We bought our lunches and took them outside to eat in the shade. We talked about the meaning of ‘simple’ and whether being brilliant was all it was cracked up to be. We couldn’t help but glance at the open window above us. Another math class was in session.