Life at 20
One of our few diversions that I could always muster company for in Turkey was some type of workout, be it weights, running, racquetball or my favorite pastime basketball. I had been too uncoordinated to ever play this sport in school, but as I had grown into my body and worked through the aftermath of the car wreck, I upped my game considerably and could at least hold my own in the endless full-court games at the gym. I emulated the moves and rhythms of my black cohorts, and by the time my stay was through there I had become at least a competent player. I started hanging with a newcomer Doug who was 6:3 and a very accomplished baller, and we became good friends. One night around my birthday, he blurted out "do you get high?" When I answered in the affirmative, he rolled out to me that people had been wary of me since I hadn't made those kind of overtures. It turned out that a large percentage of guys at the dorm did in fact partake of the sticky green, and once I broke the ice with my first opportunity to party with some of them, the floodgates were opened and my Turkish hashish era began.
That concentrated resin of the Cannabis plant was the only illicit substance available there; paradoxically, the highs were far more intense and enjoyable than those of marijuana buds. I took every chance I could to maneuver going for walks at night either by myself or with a group, sitting in the sand dunes overlooking the buildings hundreds of yards away. On base, it was safe just as the OSI had emphasized - the penalties for getting caught outside the gates was so high, they turned (mostly) a blind eye to anyone using it within those confines. Doug and I, and later Tim, an even taller guy whose game was so refined he had played college ball in the states and even played part-time weekends on a Turkish professional team, stayed in a cruise control state. We kept the party going even when having to be accountable for our duties by making "sneakers" - what today would be called blunts - putting little chunks of hash into cigarettes we had surgically opened up a bit then resealed, and as long as we inhaled deeply the smell went unnoticed. We could go on smoke breaks during the work day, standing beside majors and captains shooting the shit, with them none the wiser.
I had often wondered where some of the guys got their hash from, but was appreciative that they shared so I didn't ask questions. A chance encounter a few weeks later made me an integral part of that informal distribution network. Doug and I had gone to a disco with Dave, a charismatic guy from Wisconsin whose confidence I sorely lacked and tried to emulate. A Turkish guy came over, knew we were Americans, and began chatting us up. This wasn't unusual - we were seen by most younger Turks as exotic catches to have friendships with. The guy seemed straight, so when he offered for us to come back to his place to smoke, Dave and I agreed, Doug having to get back to base early.
The Turk lived in the basement of an apartment building which he said his parents owned. After a few bowls of his high-quality product, he pulled out a large grocery sized sack lined with layers of plastic - it was all hashish powder! He showed our wide-eyed selves the process of turning the powder into a cake- like form that would stay together by compressing it in foil then heating it with a flame and finally cooling it to reveal the finished product.
There was a call over the intercom system, and he bickered for a bit in Turkish before telling us that his parents needed him for awhile, and to feel free to smoke the cooled-down hash. As he walked to the elevator, mine and Dave's eyes met and I swear there was no verbalization, only telepathy.
"Grab it!"
We sprung into action, nabbing some small plastic baggies from the kitchen counter which we filled with the green gold. Though we took what seemed an enormous quantity, there was so much it hardly made a dent in his giant sack.
"Let's get out of here," Dave hissed. We sprung through the door and up the stairs, our pockets, socks and underwear stuffed with the powder-filled baggies. We came out to the street exit but none of the usually ubiquitous cabs were around. I checked my watch - it was after midnight. Turkey was under martial law then and non-essential movement was banned between midnight and 5 am. Dave panicked. "Split up" he spat out in his stoned stupor, and he took off quickly while I stood frozen, bewildered. I finally started moving toward his direction. In those moments, the sense of paranoia I was carrying felt enough to sink the Titanic. I began mentally preparing for beatings and forced sodomy in a Turkish prison. The fear created enough urgency and my speed-walking allowed me to catch up to him a few blocks away.
He admitted freaking out, he knew that splitting up was stupid in the first place. An angel named Ahmet or Muhammed or some such then appeared out of nowhere to rescue us, his cab pulling over to pick us up. In the back seat, we finally began to breathe and within minutes we could see the lights of Balgat. Suddenly, flashing lights appeared behind us - it was Turkish military police! We then had our second instance of telepathy, as without preparation we both aggressively left the cab moving toward the soldiers flashing our ID, yelling "NATO! NATO!" Everyone there was issued a NATO card, but there were numerous dignitaries constantly visiting and though I couldn't even grown a beard yet on my baby face, somehow the young Turk soldiers with their rifles pointed at us bought the gambit saying "Tammum, tammum!" - Turkish for OK.
Our second near-death experience naviagted, we safely passed through the gate at Balgat. The following morning we met in his room and tallied up our score with a scale I had "borrowed" from the lab. It was astonishing. We had nearly two pounds of hashish! Almost nine hundred grams of a product that was typically obtained by a few single digits of that number. Needless to say, the party was on us the remainder of my time there. The mini-celebrity status was nice but I had to be careful because of loose lips so I never sold any, instead I freely turned people on to it, and kept it secreted inside the inner compartment of my stereo, which thankfully no one asked why I didn't ever play it, since the heat would have caused a combustion odor. When my tour was almost finished I still had over 150 grams remaining, and I thought long and hard about leaving it taped up in the stereo box for shipping. But my wiser self prevailed and I made some friends still with time left there very happy with the gift.
In August, I took a brief leave and the first of what would turn out to be three trips to Germany during my Asiatic assignment. This was an easy get because as military members, we were allowed to fly space available for free on the daily medical evacuation flights that made stops at all the Mediterranean region bases before depositing passengers in Frankfurt. I purchased train and bus tickets to take in an overview of the country visually. During this three day journey I fell in love with the scenic beauty of the forests and the rugged terrain of the German Alps. When I made the return to Frankfurt, I took a two-day trip to a small base a few hours west where a friend of mine from Travis named Darlene was stationed; we had kept correspondence going since I had left there. We were platonic friends not from lack of desire, but because I assumed she was a lesbian, due to her fashion and hair styles and lack of any vibes being sent my way. But the Darlene I discovered several months later in Bitburg at her apartment a few miles off-base had let her hair grow out, wore makeup, and her greeting was decidedly non-platonic. I looked forward to late-night developments.
I had rented a room at the billets on base, but we had agreed that I would stay the night on her couch since it would be so late, and after her roommates - 2 guys - filtered in from work we began to seriously party with liquor and hashish. The buzz was amazing; the company excellent. As the intoxication increased, the inhibitions went out the window for Darlene as she began rubbing all over her roomies. She beckoned me to come join the fun, but I had a strange, previously unknown to me reaction - I became very jealous. After all, I must have thought, I knew her first and if anyone was going to get laid that night, it should be me - alone. I knew my feelings were childish, so to hide them I made an excuse about feeling sick and wanting to go back. I rushed out without asking for return directions, and had no clue where I was since she had driven me there earlier. I could see lights a few miles off, so I chose those as my course and began walking through the blackness of night, light almost completely obscured by a fog that had set in at ground level. I encountered fence after fence bounding hay fields and I climbed over these barriers and trudged through the wet grasses for an interminable time, still high out of my mind, until after what had to be almost two hours I straggled through the gate and made a beeline for my room, collapsing in bed.
I was too embarrassed to say goodbye to her after my impulsive flight the night before, so that would be the last time I ever saw her. That was a regret of mine as she had been my first female friend who I felt comfortable enough with to be myself instead of having to be "on." It was a lesson in maturity though and a reminder not to be so uptight about possibilities.
There was a call over the intercom system, and he bickered for a bit in Turkish before telling us that his parents needed him for awhile, and to feel free to smoke the cooled-down hash. As he walked to the elevator, mine and Dave's eyes met and I swear there was no verbalization, only telepathy.
"Grab it!"
We sprung into action, nabbing some small plastic baggies from the kitchen counter which we filled with the green gold. Though we took what seemed an enormous quantity, there was so much it hardly made a dent in his giant sack.
"Let's get out of here," Dave hissed. We sprung through the door and up the stairs, our pockets, socks and underwear stuffed with the powder-filled baggies. We came out to the street exit but none of the usually ubiquitous cabs were around. I checked my watch - it was after midnight. Turkey was under martial law then and non-essential movement was banned between midnight and 5 am. Dave panicked. "Split up" he spat out in his stoned stupor, and he took off quickly while I stood frozen, bewildered. I finally started moving toward his direction. In those moments, the sense of paranoia I was carrying felt enough to sink the Titanic. I began mentally preparing for beatings and forced sodomy in a Turkish prison. The fear created enough urgency and my speed-walking allowed me to catch up to him a few blocks away.
He admitted freaking out, he knew that splitting up was stupid in the first place. An angel named Ahmet or Muhammed or some such then appeared out of nowhere to rescue us, his cab pulling over to pick us up. In the back seat, we finally began to breathe and within minutes we could see the lights of Balgat. Suddenly, flashing lights appeared behind us - it was Turkish military police! We then had our second instance of telepathy, as without preparation we both aggressively left the cab moving toward the soldiers flashing our ID, yelling "NATO! NATO!" Everyone there was issued a NATO card, but there were numerous dignitaries constantly visiting and though I couldn't even grown a beard yet on my baby face, somehow the young Turk soldiers with their rifles pointed at us bought the gambit saying "Tammum, tammum!" - Turkish for OK.
Our second near-death experience naviagted, we safely passed through the gate at Balgat. The following morning we met in his room and tallied up our score with a scale I had "borrowed" from the lab. It was astonishing. We had nearly two pounds of hashish! Almost nine hundred grams of a product that was typically obtained by a few single digits of that number. Needless to say, the party was on us the remainder of my time there. The mini-celebrity status was nice but I had to be careful because of loose lips so I never sold any, instead I freely turned people on to it, and kept it secreted inside the inner compartment of my stereo, which thankfully no one asked why I didn't ever play it, since the heat would have caused a combustion odor. When my tour was almost finished I still had over 150 grams remaining, and I thought long and hard about leaving it taped up in the stereo box for shipping. But my wiser self prevailed and I made some friends still with time left there very happy with the gift.
In August, I took a brief leave and the first of what would turn out to be three trips to Germany during my Asiatic assignment. This was an easy get because as military members, we were allowed to fly space available for free on the daily medical evacuation flights that made stops at all the Mediterranean region bases before depositing passengers in Frankfurt. I purchased train and bus tickets to take in an overview of the country visually. During this three day journey I fell in love with the scenic beauty of the forests and the rugged terrain of the German Alps. When I made the return to Frankfurt, I took a two-day trip to a small base a few hours west where a friend of mine from Travis named Darlene was stationed; we had kept correspondence going since I had left there. We were platonic friends not from lack of desire, but because I assumed she was a lesbian, due to her fashion and hair styles and lack of any vibes being sent my way. But the Darlene I discovered several months later in Bitburg at her apartment a few miles off-base had let her hair grow out, wore makeup, and her greeting was decidedly non-platonic. I looked forward to late-night developments.
I had rented a room at the billets on base, but we had agreed that I would stay the night on her couch since it would be so late, and after her roommates - 2 guys - filtered in from work we began to seriously party with liquor and hashish. The buzz was amazing; the company excellent. As the intoxication increased, the inhibitions went out the window for Darlene as she began rubbing all over her roomies. She beckoned me to come join the fun, but I had a strange, previously unknown to me reaction - I became very jealous. After all, I must have thought, I knew her first and if anyone was going to get laid that night, it should be me - alone. I knew my feelings were childish, so to hide them I made an excuse about feeling sick and wanting to go back. I rushed out without asking for return directions, and had no clue where I was since she had driven me there earlier. I could see lights a few miles off, so I chose those as my course and began walking through the blackness of night, light almost completely obscured by a fog that had set in at ground level. I encountered fence after fence bounding hay fields and I climbed over these barriers and trudged through the wet grasses for an interminable time, still high out of my mind, until after what had to be almost two hours I straggled through the gate and made a beeline for my room, collapsing in bed.
I was too embarrassed to say goodbye to her after my impulsive flight the night before, so that would be the last time I ever saw her. That was a regret of mine as she had been my first female friend who I felt comfortable enough with to be myself instead of having to be "on." It was a lesson in maturity though and a reminder not to be so uptight about possibilities.
I was a bit looser the following month when the American embassy threw a casino night fundraiser that I was invited to. The open bar probably added an assist in that regard as I partook liberally of the fine rum that was offered. I was playing roulette, with no clue as to what I was doing but still was winning. I noticed a woman standing next to me who looked to be in her mid-30's in a black cocktail dress, giving me the eye. The next hour was the typical cascade of flirtation well-know to men and women since time began - the smiles, bits of convo, brushing against one another at first gently then more forcefully, then an invitation to have a smoke and get some fresh air (this was my brief period that I tried hard to be a nicotine addict, ultimately and thankfully without success).
I don't remember who made the first move, but after a few minutes we were providing reciprocal tonsil exams with our built-in biologic probes. An empty room was found, and bases were reached, but runs did not cross the plate. She broke things off by saying she had to leave, and didn't offer a method of future contact. Which was just as well, as I some time later got the intel that she was married and her husband was CIA. Urrps! Just my (almost) luck, my first older woman could have prompted me being offed by a Jason Bourne-type spook if I had crossed home plate with her (Meat Loaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" was a huge hit at that very time, so the metaphor is apropos). After this, I tried when tempted to be a better boy and first find out whether an objection of attraction was taken before I pursued. Mostly.
The fact was, there were slim pickings to begin with from the distaff side. The base had exactly two single female airmen, one of whom was a pass-around pack of the highly-melanated members of the dorm and who routinely had one or more venereal diseases (not just rumor, as I did the testing). The other was a prim, pious type who was never caught out in any social situation. This left as possibilities for us 70-80 testosterone-fueled young men in the teens and 20's a choice of obsessing on the few wives who had accompanied their husbands on their tours, or the local girls. The latter were mythical unicorns; often model quality beautiful with clear agendas to leverage their looks into marriages allowing them to come to the States. The former were at the least a nice sort of cock tease, as they were often up for dancing. One, Linda, was a marvel of the modern world as she had a petite frame with 42 DD's perched upon it, seemingly defying gravity. She wasn't shy about showing them off in a tight bikini at the base pool.
One night there in September we had a party for a friend's birthday. There were about 12 of us playing a game that involved some sort of pool rugby using a greased watermelon as the ball, which made it nearly impossible to keep a grip on. After several rounds of raki, a Turkish liquor that was reputed to be extracted from poppy plants enhancing it with opiate qualities, and several hits of hash, the game became handsy. Everyone there, including the two other females, made Linda a target whenever she had the melon and were liberally having a go at her magnificent mammaries. I was too stoned to be in the water, so I enjoyed the action as a spectator and caught the eyes of Jim, her husband - he was loving it too. A bit of a cuck perhaps, but to each their own. In the shallow end, things basically became a mini-orgy with fingers and tongues being the primary weapons, but as all things with consenting adults it did no one any harm. I wondered later why I didn't join in, but already knew - the ratio was inverted. Now in the reverse situation ...
In late October, a group of people invited me along on a fishing trip. We went to a small village in the mountains that had a lake renowned for its northern pike. I didn't catch any but others made up for it, and I gobbled down the rewards of their work. To this day, I have never tasted anything as delicious as that pike from unspoiled waters. There was nothing to contaminate the lake because there were only villages nearby, and those inhabitants lived as though it was the stone age, with small natural rock buildings caulked with mud, and trenches extending out of each abode to one central deeper one in the middle of the rocky, dirt road, where gravity took the sewage down the hill to a cesspool. It was shocking even in 1978 to see such primitive living conditions, and I wonder how the ensuing four decades have changed their lives there, if at all.
Thanksgiving came along, and I had a brief romance that popped out of the blue. Jacqueline was a French diplomat's daughter whom my friend Todd had met in some capacity out in Ankara, and he had promised to get her and a friend signed on to base as I suppose we were kind of an oasis of Western life in the midst of the otherwise predominantly Islamic culture. But we could only bring one guest at a time in, so he badgered me to go with him to the gate to sign both of them in. I was unimpressed with her friend whose name has been lost in my memory's dustbin, but Jacqui - my, my there was something strong there between us. We sat for drinks at the NCO club, all four with cocktails and as time went on it became obvious that the parings should be switched. Leaving Todd and my brief ex behind, Jacqui and I went for a walk past the American school, and one of those electric lean-ins leading to kissing happened.
More than a little tipsy, she requested "Take me to your room" and I knew what that meant. Problem was, my roommate TJ was already asleep and he would get a little psycho when wakened abruptly, so I confined our activities that night to making out. She wrote down the number of our community phone in the hallway, and every day for the next several weeks someone would knock on my door saying I had a call. We talked endlessly; she had a strong accent but a good command of English. We met a few times in town, as she would come to the clinic and we would walk to nearby restaurants. I must have impressed her because she started professing feelings of love to me during our make out sessions in the lab. But we had never consummated the deal, and she kept putting up roadblocks. Finally, her reason for putting it off came to light. She was only 16!
Now, I'm not sure how many readers have experience with French women, but based on my experience then, if you're not sure you'd better ask for ID, because they look FAR more mature than their years. I had assumed that the bartender had carded her for her drinks that first night, and I thought she was at least 18. In fairness, she did turn 17 a few months later. This gave me cold feet, the calls became infrequent, and finally a last one came when she "broke up" with me, though I didn't consider it a relationship since nothing ever happened.
Perhaps the most hilarious event occurred at our clinic's Christmas party. Work was basically suspended for the afternoon as preps were being made. All of the spouses were invited so the large conference room was packed, and there were copious amounts of food and drink. We had each been tasked to bring a specific item and most guys brought chips and sodas. But AJ, a small clerk who was a three-stripe sergeant, decided to up his game by bringing fudge brownies, and they were delicious to ma and obviously others as I saw many people going back for seconds.
About an hour later, the strangeness began. We were doing a gift exchange, and some genius had the idea of each person coming up to the front to receive theirs while making a little speech about what Christmas meant to them. As the 35-40 people there went through the process, each one progressively seemed to find the occasion more hilarious, breaking out in impromptu giggles for no specific reason. I felt that familiar flush course through my veins and started getting an inkling of what was going on. Doug was the next recipient, and he couldn't string together more than 3 coherent words, and came off as doing a Scooby-Doo impression, ended his speech in a fit of giggles. I had to know for sure, so I left the room and found AJ. His eyes were like glowing coals in the dark room. He could read what I was about to ask.
"That's right, theyz HASH brownies, motherfucker!" he said with almost parental pride.
The next few hours until the party ended were some of the most interesting of my life. In my stoned fugue (I had eaten 2) I wandered from room to room, playing passive observer to the borderline-madness that was consuming the group. In the lab, an impromptu dice game had broken out, with my boss and the second-in-command Captain throwing down money and talking smack to each other. In front of the pharmacy, the major's wife had decided that her clothing was too restrictive, and the buttons she had released allowed a major pair of ta-ta's to be on public display. Down in the storage room, the hidden bottles that were always accessed furtively were being openly passed around by a group of five. In x-ray, the flirtation between the tech there and the secretary, who was married to a guy in another unit had amped up to "yeah, they're about to do it." Many of the crowd never left the party room since that's where the grub was and when neophytes first get the munchies, it can be a wildfire. In short, my fantasies of "wouldn't it be great for straight people to get high" had come true both in a good and bad way. The good part was watching uptight people actually be human for once, but the bad was once it was over, people retreated to their old typical selves and the event was never spoken of again, as if it never happened.
Post-Christmas was my lowest time there. I was tired of the sameness, and was certainly homesick. One morning just past the holiday on the bus, another person who had some angst was taking it out verbally on the Turkish bus driver who transported us from Balgat each morning. The dude was probably the last person I would have chosen to get into it with since he was a power lifter and looked like a Neanderthal, but I was tired of his bullying and so I yelled at him to quit. He challenged me to make him do this, and I proceeded to add to my blunder by standing up to throw down with him. The fight didn't last long: one punch on my right temple put me into la-la land. When I came to, I was equal parts embarrassed and hurt. I didn't want to make it an official problem so I wasn't planning to talk about it, but I passed out in the lab from post-concussion trauma. After I was found lying on the floor (an ironic preview of a month hence) we all had to fess up, and to compound matters my boss who I thought always had it in for me found my stash of Valium in the lab refrigerator. Now, diazepam was sold legally over the counter in Turkey, quite cheaply as well, so I was merely one of dozens of people who used it. I was just the only dumb ass who had bought some at a nearby pharmacy the day before and had forgotten to take it back with me to my room.
Now I had a drug problem, or so the official narrative went. Actually, I was a mild infrequent user of it with others taking far larger doses and more often than me. But I was the sacrificial lamb who had to go to Germany for psychological testing and counseling. Poor me. As punishment, I spent the New Year partying with some of my old friends from tech school stationed at Wiesbaden instead of being stuck in Turkey, so it was a win for me. After I finally saw the psychologist after the holiday, he concluded after testing and interviewing me that it was only a situational stress reaction and that I didn't have an addictive personality (which is true). And as a bonus, I was able to score some amphetamines to bring back which were highly prized by some of my dorm mates, so it turned out to be a profitable adventure as well.
My return after the holidays was the bomb. As in, a literal bomb that was thrown into the vestibule of the clinic's front entrance. Normally, there was an armed Turkish soldier guarding there, but he had wandered off for a smoke. Some anarcho-Islamic type took the opportunity to toss a homemade explosive into the small entry space. I was seated on my perch at the microscope just on the other side of the wall when the percussion hit. My next cognizant moment, I was on my back - for the second time in as many months - staring at the ceiling wondering if the Big One had just been dropped. Thankfully for me and all others there, the bomb didn't carry enough power and the damage was limited to plaster walls and some singeing of the door.
The soldiers were quicker to strike at other times. In February about noon we were waiting on the bus for the daily trip back to base for lunch. There was a large student protest against the government whom they claimed was fascistic (funny how that same note gets pounded again and again by young progressives who seek to justify their "resistance" of a legitimately-elected head of state. Ala America today. But I digress :) ) at the foot of the hill a few blocks away from us. There must have been several hundred people chanting and pumping fists, and suddenly we heard the crack of automatic weapons fire: chaos and panic ensued. An Army truck sped up the road to us, and two soldiers pulled out a bleeding protestor as they yelled at us in Turkish. They knew we were a hospital, but didn't understand that we weren't equipped to intervene in trauma like this. In shock, we all watched the bright red geysers of life fluid pour out of that poor soul, until a few seconds later he had completely exsanguinated. He was the first person I had seen die in my witness, but was not to be the last.
The last few months went by like a blur. I received my orders to finish the rest of my enlistment at Keesler AFB in Biloxi Mississippi, which seemed like an alien destination and of which I knew nothing of. My replacement, a young black guy, tickled me by asking the first day "where's the ether?" That substance with the anesthetic effect was used in certain lab testing so we had a good supply of it. Turns out he was a huffer, and within days he was a stoned wreck. I secretly exulted at knowing my boss, who thought I was a problem, having a REAL one laid in his lap and my stay there eventually being re-evaluated in softer tones. I said my goodbyes to friends; we exchanged numbers and addresses which of course were never used (sad but true effect of the military lifestyle) and made the multiple-legged journey back to the USA. I was in the best shape of my life and it felt great to first see Dad and Joan, then the rest of my family a few days later.
I had bought a car for $650, at that time the most I had ever paid for one. It only made it halfway to Biloxi before blowing a rod, so I left the car on the side of the road and marked it up to experience. As I arrived to the Mississippi Gulf Coast on the bus, I was shocked to see a beach and what looked like waves in the water. I was disappointed to later find out that the sand was imported and the water was a stagnant cesspool, fed until the late 1950's by the excrement piped out of the large resort hotels across the highway. In short, a tease. I assimilated into my new living situation quickly and was first assigned to work nights at the hospital lab after doing a brief rotation among the various departments. I had been gone from the mainland less than two years, but in that time the technology in labs had dramatically increased, and with that came more pressure and expectations for speedy results by doctors. We worked unusual shifts - 15 hours on during the week, then 2 days off, but on the weekend we had to cover 18 hours. I found myself exhausted but certainly enjoyed the days off once my sleep was caught up.
Without wheels, I was walking in the area just outside the west gate when some teenagers pulled up. "Hey man, wanna score?" Did I ever, it had been over a month. They motioned me into the back seat and pulled out a four-finger bag filled with seeded buds. They indicated $35, which I gladly paid and after exiting I crossed the road to a head shop where I bought some papers. With nowhere to go, I headed back onto the base but there was a problem - I had been running and only had on shorts with no pockets. I decided to stuff it in my underwear and headed to the gate. Coming out of the guard shack there was an MP - with a dog! I trembled, knowing I was dead to rights caught. But just then a car whizzed past without stopping for ID checks, and the two guards there started chasing it, which allowed me to sidle in, get on the sidewalk and act nonchalant about it all. As I repeatedly say, somebody up there liked me.
I enjoyed this pot perhaps more than any before or since. The thing about Cannabis intoxication is it's not how strong it is, or what percentage THC is in it, there is instead a specific quality to each strain, at least this was true in my era. This Columbian was a perfect compromise: it made you fairly stoned, but no couch-lock; had some aphrodisiac qualities; and, allowed a symphony of information to cascade through your brain. I seeded the entire bag once back in my room that day and rolled 38 joints out of it, which lasted me months since I eventually met several other people who partied and they had weed to bring to the table as well. One guy I knew from basic training resided down the hall but was about to leave as he was getting married, so we staged an impromptu bachelor party. I chose Black Velvet to purchase and bring, as I had never tried it before. Oh my, a proper warning to neophytes would be to go gradually with it, and not do what I did that day.
After going through over half of the fifth by myself, plus random other shots that came my way, someone suggested going to the Airmen's Club. All righty then. I walked through the doors with drunk bravado, scanned the tables, found one with three girls seated and proceeded to make myself an uninvited fourth. I channeled Toby for once in my life, enthusiastically selling the young ladies on the excellent work I could do for their nether regions with my oral skills. One slapped me. The second told me to fuck off. The third was smilingly enthusiastic about said ministrations. All righty then. Unfortunately, the Black Velvet chose this very inauspicious moment to assert itself on my system, and I projectile vomited on the table.
This apparently puts a damper on prospective sexual partners, as #3 left in disgust. I sat collapsed in a corner for a few minutes, then I proceeded to stagger out to find my way back. After some indeterminate time walking through a dark wasteland, I saw what I thought was my dorm building. By this time, I was reduced to crawling up stairs and remained on my knees scooting to the door. I reached up and inserted the key but it didn't work. I was bewildered and still blindly drunk. The door to my room opened and a strange guy looked out, saying "What the fuck are you doing?" I was in the wrong building! My memory lapses at this point, so once again my guardian angel must have navigated me back to safety. Postscript: a drop of Black Velvet has never again passed my lips.
A guy in the lab was leaving in June to go overseas and wanted to sell his motorcycle, a Honda 360 that had been modified with a tall back fork with a moderate chop extension in front. I had only driven a mini bike before that, but within 30 minutes I got the hang of it, and because in those days no special classes were required, I drove it off, and it was to be featured as an integral part of several events in my life the next few years. The first was when I had to lay it down at 40 mph on the Coast Highway during a sandstorm. Thankfully I was wearing jeans or my leg would have been mangled, but as it was I had very little injury from it. I started going to New Orleans on my days off, and with typical bravado I would fire up a joint at a red light taking a quick hit before extinguishing it and speeding off. One day in NO I was in a gas line (the 1979 Arab oil crisis was in full form) and had to wait over a hour, so I was just straddling the Honda and walking it. I fired one up, and a girl in the next lane waved and asked me for a hit. Just as I passed it to her a cop who was doing traffic control came up. He knew exactly what we were doing, but because he was overwhelmed with his job at the moment he just shook his head and kept going. That was one close call of many I had during the next several years. Repeat after me: Somebody up there liked me.
In late October, a group of people invited me along on a fishing trip. We went to a small village in the mountains that had a lake renowned for its northern pike. I didn't catch any but others made up for it, and I gobbled down the rewards of their work. To this day, I have never tasted anything as delicious as that pike from unspoiled waters. There was nothing to contaminate the lake because there were only villages nearby, and those inhabitants lived as though it was the stone age, with small natural rock buildings caulked with mud, and trenches extending out of each abode to one central deeper one in the middle of the rocky, dirt road, where gravity took the sewage down the hill to a cesspool. It was shocking even in 1978 to see such primitive living conditions, and I wonder how the ensuing four decades have changed their lives there, if at all.
Thanksgiving came along, and I had a brief romance that popped out of the blue. Jacqueline was a French diplomat's daughter whom my friend Todd had met in some capacity out in Ankara, and he had promised to get her and a friend signed on to base as I suppose we were kind of an oasis of Western life in the midst of the otherwise predominantly Islamic culture. But we could only bring one guest at a time in, so he badgered me to go with him to the gate to sign both of them in. I was unimpressed with her friend whose name has been lost in my memory's dustbin, but Jacqui - my, my there was something strong there between us. We sat for drinks at the NCO club, all four with cocktails and as time went on it became obvious that the parings should be switched. Leaving Todd and my brief ex behind, Jacqui and I went for a walk past the American school, and one of those electric lean-ins leading to kissing happened.
More than a little tipsy, she requested "Take me to your room" and I knew what that meant. Problem was, my roommate TJ was already asleep and he would get a little psycho when wakened abruptly, so I confined our activities that night to making out. She wrote down the number of our community phone in the hallway, and every day for the next several weeks someone would knock on my door saying I had a call. We talked endlessly; she had a strong accent but a good command of English. We met a few times in town, as she would come to the clinic and we would walk to nearby restaurants. I must have impressed her because she started professing feelings of love to me during our make out sessions in the lab. But we had never consummated the deal, and she kept putting up roadblocks. Finally, her reason for putting it off came to light. She was only 16!
Now, I'm not sure how many readers have experience with French women, but based on my experience then, if you're not sure you'd better ask for ID, because they look FAR more mature than their years. I had assumed that the bartender had carded her for her drinks that first night, and I thought she was at least 18. In fairness, she did turn 17 a few months later. This gave me cold feet, the calls became infrequent, and finally a last one came when she "broke up" with me, though I didn't consider it a relationship since nothing ever happened.
Perhaps the most hilarious event occurred at our clinic's Christmas party. Work was basically suspended for the afternoon as preps were being made. All of the spouses were invited so the large conference room was packed, and there were copious amounts of food and drink. We had each been tasked to bring a specific item and most guys brought chips and sodas. But AJ, a small clerk who was a three-stripe sergeant, decided to up his game by bringing fudge brownies, and they were delicious to ma and obviously others as I saw many people going back for seconds.
About an hour later, the strangeness began. We were doing a gift exchange, and some genius had the idea of each person coming up to the front to receive theirs while making a little speech about what Christmas meant to them. As the 35-40 people there went through the process, each one progressively seemed to find the occasion more hilarious, breaking out in impromptu giggles for no specific reason. I felt that familiar flush course through my veins and started getting an inkling of what was going on. Doug was the next recipient, and he couldn't string together more than 3 coherent words, and came off as doing a Scooby-Doo impression, ended his speech in a fit of giggles. I had to know for sure, so I left the room and found AJ. His eyes were like glowing coals in the dark room. He could read what I was about to ask.
"That's right, theyz HASH brownies, motherfucker!" he said with almost parental pride.
The next few hours until the party ended were some of the most interesting of my life. In my stoned fugue (I had eaten 2) I wandered from room to room, playing passive observer to the borderline-madness that was consuming the group. In the lab, an impromptu dice game had broken out, with my boss and the second-in-command Captain throwing down money and talking smack to each other. In front of the pharmacy, the major's wife had decided that her clothing was too restrictive, and the buttons she had released allowed a major pair of ta-ta's to be on public display. Down in the storage room, the hidden bottles that were always accessed furtively were being openly passed around by a group of five. In x-ray, the flirtation between the tech there and the secretary, who was married to a guy in another unit had amped up to "yeah, they're about to do it." Many of the crowd never left the party room since that's where the grub was and when neophytes first get the munchies, it can be a wildfire. In short, my fantasies of "wouldn't it be great for straight people to get high" had come true both in a good and bad way. The good part was watching uptight people actually be human for once, but the bad was once it was over, people retreated to their old typical selves and the event was never spoken of again, as if it never happened.
Post-Christmas was my lowest time there. I was tired of the sameness, and was certainly homesick. One morning just past the holiday on the bus, another person who had some angst was taking it out verbally on the Turkish bus driver who transported us from Balgat each morning. The dude was probably the last person I would have chosen to get into it with since he was a power lifter and looked like a Neanderthal, but I was tired of his bullying and so I yelled at him to quit. He challenged me to make him do this, and I proceeded to add to my blunder by standing up to throw down with him. The fight didn't last long: one punch on my right temple put me into la-la land. When I came to, I was equal parts embarrassed and hurt. I didn't want to make it an official problem so I wasn't planning to talk about it, but I passed out in the lab from post-concussion trauma. After I was found lying on the floor (an ironic preview of a month hence) we all had to fess up, and to compound matters my boss who I thought always had it in for me found my stash of Valium in the lab refrigerator. Now, diazepam was sold legally over the counter in Turkey, quite cheaply as well, so I was merely one of dozens of people who used it. I was just the only dumb ass who had bought some at a nearby pharmacy the day before and had forgotten to take it back with me to my room.
Now I had a drug problem, or so the official narrative went. Actually, I was a mild infrequent user of it with others taking far larger doses and more often than me. But I was the sacrificial lamb who had to go to Germany for psychological testing and counseling. Poor me. As punishment, I spent the New Year partying with some of my old friends from tech school stationed at Wiesbaden instead of being stuck in Turkey, so it was a win for me. After I finally saw the psychologist after the holiday, he concluded after testing and interviewing me that it was only a situational stress reaction and that I didn't have an addictive personality (which is true). And as a bonus, I was able to score some amphetamines to bring back which were highly prized by some of my dorm mates, so it turned out to be a profitable adventure as well.
My return after the holidays was the bomb. As in, a literal bomb that was thrown into the vestibule of the clinic's front entrance. Normally, there was an armed Turkish soldier guarding there, but he had wandered off for a smoke. Some anarcho-Islamic type took the opportunity to toss a homemade explosive into the small entry space. I was seated on my perch at the microscope just on the other side of the wall when the percussion hit. My next cognizant moment, I was on my back - for the second time in as many months - staring at the ceiling wondering if the Big One had just been dropped. Thankfully for me and all others there, the bomb didn't carry enough power and the damage was limited to plaster walls and some singeing of the door.
The soldiers were quicker to strike at other times. In February about noon we were waiting on the bus for the daily trip back to base for lunch. There was a large student protest against the government whom they claimed was fascistic (funny how that same note gets pounded again and again by young progressives who seek to justify their "resistance" of a legitimately-elected head of state. Ala America today. But I digress :) ) at the foot of the hill a few blocks away from us. There must have been several hundred people chanting and pumping fists, and suddenly we heard the crack of automatic weapons fire: chaos and panic ensued. An Army truck sped up the road to us, and two soldiers pulled out a bleeding protestor as they yelled at us in Turkish. They knew we were a hospital, but didn't understand that we weren't equipped to intervene in trauma like this. In shock, we all watched the bright red geysers of life fluid pour out of that poor soul, until a few seconds later he had completely exsanguinated. He was the first person I had seen die in my witness, but was not to be the last.
The last few months went by like a blur. I received my orders to finish the rest of my enlistment at Keesler AFB in Biloxi Mississippi, which seemed like an alien destination and of which I knew nothing of. My replacement, a young black guy, tickled me by asking the first day "where's the ether?" That substance with the anesthetic effect was used in certain lab testing so we had a good supply of it. Turns out he was a huffer, and within days he was a stoned wreck. I secretly exulted at knowing my boss, who thought I was a problem, having a REAL one laid in his lap and my stay there eventually being re-evaluated in softer tones. I said my goodbyes to friends; we exchanged numbers and addresses which of course were never used (sad but true effect of the military lifestyle) and made the multiple-legged journey back to the USA. I was in the best shape of my life and it felt great to first see Dad and Joan, then the rest of my family a few days later.
I had bought a car for $650, at that time the most I had ever paid for one. It only made it halfway to Biloxi before blowing a rod, so I left the car on the side of the road and marked it up to experience. As I arrived to the Mississippi Gulf Coast on the bus, I was shocked to see a beach and what looked like waves in the water. I was disappointed to later find out that the sand was imported and the water was a stagnant cesspool, fed until the late 1950's by the excrement piped out of the large resort hotels across the highway. In short, a tease. I assimilated into my new living situation quickly and was first assigned to work nights at the hospital lab after doing a brief rotation among the various departments. I had been gone from the mainland less than two years, but in that time the technology in labs had dramatically increased, and with that came more pressure and expectations for speedy results by doctors. We worked unusual shifts - 15 hours on during the week, then 2 days off, but on the weekend we had to cover 18 hours. I found myself exhausted but certainly enjoyed the days off once my sleep was caught up.
Without wheels, I was walking in the area just outside the west gate when some teenagers pulled up. "Hey man, wanna score?" Did I ever, it had been over a month. They motioned me into the back seat and pulled out a four-finger bag filled with seeded buds. They indicated $35, which I gladly paid and after exiting I crossed the road to a head shop where I bought some papers. With nowhere to go, I headed back onto the base but there was a problem - I had been running and only had on shorts with no pockets. I decided to stuff it in my underwear and headed to the gate. Coming out of the guard shack there was an MP - with a dog! I trembled, knowing I was dead to rights caught. But just then a car whizzed past without stopping for ID checks, and the two guards there started chasing it, which allowed me to sidle in, get on the sidewalk and act nonchalant about it all. As I repeatedly say, somebody up there liked me.
I enjoyed this pot perhaps more than any before or since. The thing about Cannabis intoxication is it's not how strong it is, or what percentage THC is in it, there is instead a specific quality to each strain, at least this was true in my era. This Columbian was a perfect compromise: it made you fairly stoned, but no couch-lock; had some aphrodisiac qualities; and, allowed a symphony of information to cascade through your brain. I seeded the entire bag once back in my room that day and rolled 38 joints out of it, which lasted me months since I eventually met several other people who partied and they had weed to bring to the table as well. One guy I knew from basic training resided down the hall but was about to leave as he was getting married, so we staged an impromptu bachelor party. I chose Black Velvet to purchase and bring, as I had never tried it before. Oh my, a proper warning to neophytes would be to go gradually with it, and not do what I did that day.
After going through over half of the fifth by myself, plus random other shots that came my way, someone suggested going to the Airmen's Club. All righty then. I walked through the doors with drunk bravado, scanned the tables, found one with three girls seated and proceeded to make myself an uninvited fourth. I channeled Toby for once in my life, enthusiastically selling the young ladies on the excellent work I could do for their nether regions with my oral skills. One slapped me. The second told me to fuck off. The third was smilingly enthusiastic about said ministrations. All righty then. Unfortunately, the Black Velvet chose this very inauspicious moment to assert itself on my system, and I projectile vomited on the table.
This apparently puts a damper on prospective sexual partners, as #3 left in disgust. I sat collapsed in a corner for a few minutes, then I proceeded to stagger out to find my way back. After some indeterminate time walking through a dark wasteland, I saw what I thought was my dorm building. By this time, I was reduced to crawling up stairs and remained on my knees scooting to the door. I reached up and inserted the key but it didn't work. I was bewildered and still blindly drunk. The door to my room opened and a strange guy looked out, saying "What the fuck are you doing?" I was in the wrong building! My memory lapses at this point, so once again my guardian angel must have navigated me back to safety. Postscript: a drop of Black Velvet has never again passed my lips.
A guy in the lab was leaving in June to go overseas and wanted to sell his motorcycle, a Honda 360 that had been modified with a tall back fork with a moderate chop extension in front. I had only driven a mini bike before that, but within 30 minutes I got the hang of it, and because in those days no special classes were required, I drove it off, and it was to be featured as an integral part of several events in my life the next few years. The first was when I had to lay it down at 40 mph on the Coast Highway during a sandstorm. Thankfully I was wearing jeans or my leg would have been mangled, but as it was I had very little injury from it. I started going to New Orleans on my days off, and with typical bravado I would fire up a joint at a red light taking a quick hit before extinguishing it and speeding off. One day in NO I was in a gas line (the 1979 Arab oil crisis was in full form) and had to wait over a hour, so I was just straddling the Honda and walking it. I fired one up, and a girl in the next lane waved and asked me for a hit. Just as I passed it to her a cop who was doing traffic control came up. He knew exactly what we were doing, but because he was overwhelmed with his job at the moment he just shook his head and kept going. That was one close call of many I had during the next several years. Repeat after me: Somebody up there liked me.
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