By What is Sure to Follow Page 3

  He remembered last night–or at least parts of it–and how he had gone out drinking with a couple of buddies and really tied one on. Normally he didn’t wake up until at least noon after such an ordeal.

  As the mental fog lifted further, he realized it was his cat’s continuing clawing on the nearby clothes-hamper wanting out that had dragged him out of his slumber. On his second try, Luke managed to stand, although he wobbled slightly. Slowly he moved to the door and stood silently staring down at the cat through bleary eyes. With concentrated effort, he opened the door. The cat quickly scampered out through the narrow opening. Looking blankly at the still open door, it all came back to Luke with smashing clarity; he was drafted–the notice had come yesterday!

  “Me, Luke Sims, drafted?! How on earth can that be?” he said to no one. As he spoke the pounding in his head increased, reducing him to what he really was: a person suffering a tremendous hangover. He winced with the pain and moved as a zombie back to the bed.

  “Big deeaaaal. So I dropped a dumb class. I had my reasons– good reasons.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, he hesitated while he pressed on his temples with both hands. The effort began to ease the throbbing; finally the pain subsided. Then he raised his head slowly away from his hands and continued. “There weren’t enough women in the damn class, only four,” he mumbled, sounding almost confident of his logic the way drunk people do.

  “And then the friggin’ college notified the draft board–and I am drafted,” he said in a mocking, falsetto voice, still heavily under the effects of the heavy mixture of alcohol he had consumed only hours earlier.

  “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” came his slurred declaration. He leaned backward slowly, finally falling the last few inches to the bed as he faced the dark ceiling. A nearby streetlight illuminated part of his bedroom wall, hurting his eyes with its stark contrast to the rest of the room. His mind went blank, only the pain of the light remained. As he quickly looked away, he was slowly able to focus on his predicament again.

  “I don’t even know how to fight. And I can’t remember the last time I was in a fight. I’m not a soldier,” he offered the empty room, self pity showed in his tone. He swallowed hard. “I never thought this would happen to me.” Through the intense alcohol shroud his body was still battling, he remembered last night and how the drinking had gotten real serious.

  One bar stood out in particular, not because of its grandness but because of what had happened there. It was a dark and old bar. Except for the dance floor, where a faceted, mirrored ball hung high above, reflecting spots of light across the small dance floor as it turned, the rest of the room was sheathed in near darkness. Tiny tables crowded near the small dance floor. Cigarette smoke floated to the ceiling and hung there in swirling patterns as darkened figures moved around the room, adding an eeriness to the adult play occurring there. Luke and his two college friends missed the scene around them as they focused solely on Luke’s predicament–being drafted–and on drinking.

  A small candle placed in a pink brandy snifter in the middle of their table offered a faint glow of light. Only one in four tables had a candle; the others shrank into darkness. Just enough light existed for Luke to see the other men at the table but not enough to read their expressions. “Hey Luke, how about another round?” Luke’s friend John suggested as he leaned across the small table, awaiting Luke’s response.

  “I am too drunk to sing and you can’t stand...so why not,” Luke replied as he nodded his head. His friends, John and Carl, were both still students in good standing at San Diego State College. A quick comment by John to a passing barmaid brought another round. It was the tenth or twelfth bar of the evening, and nobody knew how many rounds had been consumed.

  Once the drinks arrived, the trio again began to talk of Luke’s problem–the same as they had at each bar that evening. At each bar Luke got more boisterous in rejecting the idea of serving in the Armed Services. Their talk was loud, now competing with the booming Country & Western music of the bar band.

  “It could be worse, Luke,” Carl offered after downing most of his beer.

  “What do you mean? Wars kill people,” bellowed Luke so loud that people around the bar turned their heads. “Screw that idea,” continued Luke. “Let some dumb stiff go fight over there. Not me! Only idiots belong over there!” he said loudly. Then he chugged on his beer.

  Even drunk Luke noticed the silence that followed. The band quit playing and people began to stare. Feeling a need to speak, Luke yelled to everyone “I didn’t start the gawddamn Vietnam War so screw the Army and their draft notice. Let the politicians go fight, not me!”

  Some of the older customers in the bar took immediate offense. “Hey look at the yellow color over there at that table,” yelled a middle-age man. Nods of approval came from several other patrons around the room.

  “If you don’t like America, leave it,” said a fat lady two tables away.

  “Cowards like you deserve to be shot,” barked an older man seated at the bar.

  Seemingly to break the mood, the band quickly began to play again. As the musical notes reached their ears, the trio realized the band was not siding with them. The song, “God Bless America,” seemed to add fuel to the flames as the glares from other patrons focused on Luke. The sound of scooting chairs filled the room as everyone in the bar stood–except Luke and his buddies–and sang it. The message was clear: only patriots were welcome. The trio sat and watched in silence.

  Drunkenly one of the older patrons stumbled over to Luke’s table and began telling him of his exploits in Korea and WWII. Luke tuned him out, turning his back towards the aging man.

  Luke wasn’t impressed. Those wars weren’t at all like what he had been hearing about Vietnam. It seemed like the whole nation was buzzing about the Vietnam War. The headlines today said something about U. S. troop build up, and that by May 1966, just three months from now, that the number of U. S. troops deployed there could reach 190,000. Luke adamantly did not want to be just be another number, a nameless body stuck somewhere in the process of war.

  “Leave us alone,” Luke rudely said to the veteran as he turned further to place his back fully toward the man. When he didn’t leave, Luke turned and shoved him away, knocking over a table in the process. The veteran came up swinging, hitting Luke in the stomach. He didn’t hit like he was an old man, Luke quickly realized as he doubled over in pain. Next, John got in the fight, protecting Luke from someone else behind him. Within moments the entire bar was fighting–with Luke and his friends getting the worst of it.

  Almost as quickly as it started, Luke and his friends found themselves sitting in the dirt outside the bar, having been tossed there by the angry regulars of the bar. After a few disoriented moments, the trio picked themselves up and shakily climbed into John’s car. “Let’s call it an evening, you guys,” said Luke sadly. “You can drop me off at home.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had enough too,” said Carl. John grunted his agreement as he pulled the car out of the parking lot on to the main street. Little talk occurred as the three drunks rode to Luke’s apartment. Within minutes Luke found himself standing in front of his apartment building waving goodbye to his friends as they pulled away from the curb. With much effort he managed to unlock the door to his apartment and stumbled inside. He left a trail of clothes from the front door to the bedroom, where he found his bed and collapsed on it.

  That had been just a few hours ago, he realized now as he awoke and stared hard through the darkness at the clock on his dresser.

  Trying to concentrate on the problem of being drafted, while nursing a full-blown hangover, was causing Luke’s body great pain; he felt oozy like he might faint or vomit–he wasn’t sure which.

  He got up to pee. Standing over the toilet and relieving himself, he opened the medicine cabinet, glad that his shadowy image swung out of the way, and fumbled with the child proof Bufferin bottle. Finally getting the lid off, he took two tablets, swallowing them with a drink of water from
an old cup sitting nearby. He grimaced at the awful taste of San Diego tap water as he set the cup down. “Should have used a beer instead,” he said to himself.

  Stumbling slightly, he carefully lowered himself back into bed. Laying very still to allow the sick feeling to pass, he faded back to sleep thinking that he might sleep all day; his slurred pledge to himself just before he fell into a deep sleep added conviction to his plight. “Tomorrow I will do something about being drafted.”

  It was after one o’clock pm when he rolled out of bed. This time it was his stomach that woke him. Last night while bar hopping he hadn’t eaten much, just a couple of pickled eggs in a bar and later some rolled tacos washed down with another six-pack his buddies and he had shared.

  Before he could consider eating, he had to wake up. He headed toward the bathroom and the life-giving shower. Then he decided he had to pee first and began to relieve himself. The thought occurred to him that he hoped he wasn’t peeing on the floor. Listening, he heard the familiar splash in the toilet and smiled to himself. Next, without looking, he reached behind the shower curtain and turned several knobs and heard the familiar sound of the showerhead come alive. Bracing himself, he stepped under its cold stream. As the water got hot, he began to feel his body painfully fighting to regain control. It was then he realized his body hurt–not just hurt, but really hurt. Checking himself, he found several very sore ribs, a bump on the left side of his forehead and a massive bruise, now already beginning to turn purple, on his right thigh.

  As the water revived him further, he remembered vaguely the details of the bar fight last night. He had gotten the shit beat out of him. It was as simple as that. A sour look etched itself on his waxen face.

  A further thought flashed hazily in his mind as he stood beneath the torrent of hot spray: he couldn’t remember ever being in a real fight before in his life. Now he was mad. Standing naked in the shower, Luke’s body tensed. He vowed that it would never happen again. His anger held him rigid; he let the intense force of the water pound on his chest for several minutes as he regained control, his pulse slackening. “By God, if I do have to serve in the Army at least I’ll learn how to fight! And then we’ll see who gets the shit beat out of them,” he sneered. The knuckles in his tightened fists whitened, his thoughts now jelled in a plan of action.

  To stave off hunger pains, he quickly finished the shower and proceeded to fix himself a sorry looking omelet and almost burnt toast. As he ate, and the hang-over subsided further, he began to think seriously of his draft status again.

  “This is a good time to review where I stand,” he said coaching himself out loud, not realizing the partial effects of the previous night still clung to his senses. “I’m twenty-one, healthy, moderately built, normal looking guy with blond hair. A guy whom the girls seem to like. I’m five feet eleven inches. I drink and party a lot, and live my life though my crotch. Perfectly normal,” he told himself, feeling as though his inventory was complete.

  It was true the girls on campus went out of their way to know him. It might have been his crystal blue, starburst eyes, his winning smile or the devilish look he often got when he first met a woman. Whatever the reason, girls found him very attractive in a very sexual way. He could have as many women as he cared to, and he cared to most nights. The pill had made it easier for women to consider his charm.

  As he thought about the lovely women he dated, he began to smile. There were so many he enjoyed. He didn’t really know most of the ones he bedded–many of them were one-nighters. Living in Southern California with these ladies was fun. He didn’t have any other major interests or hobbies; women were his hobby.

  As he gulped down the remainder of the meal, he focused on the draft notice again. If I don’t want to be a faceless number, he thought, he’d have to be something special to those who mattered. A long pause added emphasis to the thought. Those who matter, he speculated further were the people at the induction center or if he was lucky, the Marine recruiter. He decided to talk to them the next day–Monday.

  Slumping slightly in the chair as he thought further, he considered that maybe he could talk fast enough that he might be able to get into the Marines before the Army’s induction date. That way he thought he could sign up for what he wanted, rather than be assigned something in the Army he’d probably hate. That was of maximum importance to him–being in control! Having made up his mind, he abruptly rose from the table, leaving dirty dishes where they sat, and went into the living room for the phone book.

  Moving his finger slowly down the recruiting ad in the yellow pages, he found what he was looking for. Hours weekdays 9 a.m. to 4:30. He nodded to himself. He decided firmly to be waiting for them when they opened the door the next day. Feeling now as though he had a complete plan of action, he went to the refrigerator and grabbed an Oly. He popped the top and took a deep chug of the cold beer as he looked out the window at the pool area below. He then took a moment to add the pop-top to the chain of pop-tops he was building, which now dangled from the door of the old refrigerator almost to the floor. After a chain got so long, he gave it to one of the various ladies he knew. They always wanted them.

  It always amazed him how good a “cold one” tasted, especially if the temperature was really cold, and this one was. It took days of testing before he got the temperature set just right on the refrigerator–of course now he couldn’t keep lettuce and other stuff like that–they froze. His milk often was slightly frozen, but that was ok. He didn’t keep a whole lot in the fridge anyway, except beer. A six-pack or two could always be found cooling on the shelves. Luke ate out most of the time, very often as a guest of one of his women friends.

  Taking another deep chug of his beer, Luke said smugly “What I need to do is occupy my mind with something practical.” Another chug on his beer brought the answer. He could think of nothing better than to talk with Sheri Norten, one of his most steady girl friends. During the last few months, he had been seeing her a great deal, more than most of his women friends. Matter of fact, she was the only woman he was presently seeing. He felt more at ease with her than the other women he knew. If the truth was known, Sheri was the only real friend Luke had out of all the dozens of women he knew and bedded. However, Luke never thought that deeply about the situation–he just floated through the relationship like he had so many others. He liked things on the surface, especially his relationships. That way no one got hurt, he told himself at those times.

  When Luke did think about Sheri, he thought “We enjoy each other because we both know the score. Neither of us wants a deep relationship–we both have had enough of that. Now all we want is ‘light’ companionship.” Meaning fun and sex to Luke. Not necessarily in that order either.

  In reality, Luke found any deep emotional ties suffocating in a very real sense. He always had. The partying scene on campus lent itself well to Luke’s thinking; many of the women were willing to play along–even though Sheri liked him a great deal, she was no exception. She played along.

  Picking up the telephone, he dialed her number. After the phone rang once, Sheri answered. In her usual warm, soft voice, she said, “Hello. This is Sheri.”

  “Hi Sheri, this is Luke,” he said happily into the phone. “I was hoping we could see each other again real soon. If you’re available, I could provide the BBQ steaks and beer this evening.” A longing sound was in his voice; it also held excited vitality.

  “Well,” she said, excitement edging into her voice, “that sounds like fun, but only if I’m the one who does the barbecuing. Last time you burnt the steaks, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Ok, you’ve got a deal,” Luke said easily into the phone. “How about coming over whenever you’re ready?” Luke was already feeling his crotch getting hard. Sheri always did that to him. Whenever he thought of her, he immediately got horny. She was an exciting lay–no doubt about it. She had a slender, tan body with full, firm breasts. Just the way he liked them. When people saw her they tended to stare; her golden
blond hair and dark blue eyes with specks of gold in them fit together perfectly in her five-foot- five inch bombshell body. What turned Luke on most was she was fun to be around and she liked sex as much as he did.

  Several hours later, after a properly cooked BBQ handled entirely by Sheri, she and Luke retired to his bedroom. She enjoyed the time she spent with Luke. She felt relaxed around him. Even though they said less than a dozen words to each other during the nights they spent together, she knew he cared deeply for her, even if he didn’t voice it. She did miss having him say–I love you or other caring comments, but she figured they would come in time.

  The late afternoon sun was still shining through the window into Luke’s bedroom as Sheri casually dressed, often glancing at Luke who still lay in bed. He watched silently, a grin covering his face, as she fastened her bra around her waist and then raised it to cover her more than ample breasts. He was tempted to grab her and pull her down to the bed, but instead continued to watch as she finished dressing. A smile spread across his relaxed face as he watched her brush her hair.

  “I’ve got some things to attend to,” she said as she bent over and kissed him lightly on the lips. She was in a great mood. “I’ll meet you at my apartment later. Oh, say, 7:30 or so.”

  “That sounds fine with me.” She noticed a sparkle in his eyes. It made her feel warm. She smiled.

  After she left, Luke lay naked in bed, thinking of their earlier love- making sessions. He was pleased. Smugly he said, “We both lived up to our standards again. Great stuff.” He had completely forgotten that she provided an excellent diversion from his draft notice, his original intent.

  It had been a very free time in his life and it was coming to an end. Countless parties had seemed to flow from one to another. Ignoring the fact that weekends ended or that work weeks began, the parties, the fun and easy sex had continued day after day. It had been more than a year since “the pill” had become popular on campus and it had changed everything. It was a lifestyle that someone who lived life through his crotch, like Luke, had wanted to continue forever.