Life at 21

Reaching the age of 21 has become a significant node of passage in America, mainly due to this now being the universal age of alcohol purchase emancipation. But in 1979, I had already lived in multiple states as well as Air Force bases where the legal age to purchase alcohol was 18, and had taken full advantage of that access for three years, so this held no huge meaning for me. My 21st birthday was only memorable because of my determination, which was realized, to stay up all night out on the town. At 12:01 am, I went into a bar on the strip in Biloxi and ordered a Singapore Sling, then sat in the corner by myself, a state of being that would remain during the rest of the night as I traveled to other bars along the coast, making a meandering jaunt toward Mobile, then back toward the base as the sun began to rise. I remember stopping at the beach feeling enormous waves of loneliness and self pity for my lack of meaningful relationships. Had I known that night of the enormous cyclone known as Female that was about to hit my life in the following 365 days, I think I would have clung to my anonymous, frigid world rather than consciously choose to descend into the romantic/sexual relationship abyss that at times during the next year swallowed me whole. 

Between my baseline of physical conditioning I had brought back to the States from Turkey, and continual running long-distance and playing pickup basketball games at the Keesler gym, I was in the best shape of my life. I weighed 180 pounds with little body fat, wore size 32 pants, and I ran 8 to 10 miles at a time with little distress. My physique caught the eye of a female airman who worked as a medical assistant in the E.R. at the base hospital, as she would always be the sole courier for blood draws on the nights I worked, a task that was usually was shared by many. Small talk led to banter, which led to 3am meetups in the cafeteria for food, which led to the inevitable "let's hang out." 

Hanging out with Diane was thrilling for me. She was also a Cancer, but had an edginess about her much more suited to a fire sign. We shared a love of German wines, especially Zeller Schwarze Katze (Black Cat), three bottles of which we downed on our first date at a cafe situated at the local mall, and most of all, we loved getting stoned. I still had that marvelous Columbian I had scored the month prior, and we soon found a reason to see each other every few days to smoke and drink. I guess my lack of physical advances intrigued her, because on our following date at a beach bonfire, she grabbed my arm wrapping it around her at an angle when my hand was firmly planted on her right breast. I may be tentative, but I can take a direct message. We were all over each other within seconds, and quickly left the party to find some privacy. Back on base, we had trouble making it from the car because we kept stopping every three feet to make out. Finally back in her dorm room, clothes  came off and I prepared for what I knew would be ecstasy. One small problem blocked that attainment however; I believe the sanitized technical term is "beer penis." Whatever the nomenclature, even if a billion dollars had been on the line, I would have left that night a poor man because nothing she or I did coaxed Mr. Limpy to life.

I was crushed. Check that, I was utterly humiliated. I had never had a problem in this area before; in fact, it was often quite the opposite, often having to hide signs of my arousal in the presence of visually stimulating females. Diane was visibly let down, and since I was breaking rules by being in the girl's dorm to begin with, I slithered away in agonizing defeat. Two days later when I next saw her, she lowered her eyes and didn't acknowledge me. This was the proverbial dousing of acid on the open wound , so I didn't try to engage her again, and we coexisted for the remainder of my time on night shift like two ghosts, invisible to one another. Looking back on this episode for the first time in forever, I realize how defeating it was to my self-confidence, which was never at the highest level to begin with. In a time before the Internet or any other good resource to educate myself, I saw this letdown (or more properly, lack of come-up) to be a failure as a man. In the balance, it was just one of so many times that alcohol ruined some extent of my life experience. Maybe that's why marijuana will always have a warm place in my heart, because unlike often-embarrassing sequels to drinking, I have never been ashamed of my behavior when intoxicated by THC.

Someone else entered my life shortly thereafter to distract me from the pain of the unrequited tryst with Diane. Robin was a fellow lab tech who had been on maternity leave when I first started working midnight shift. After returning, to accommodate her need for child care, they flipped me away from my usual partner Tim and paired me with her. Robin had a back story that I couldn't help but sync into. Her husband had left her while she was pregnant and then divorced her, and now that their baby was 3 months old, he was suing for full custody claiming she was unfit as a mother. This was inconceivable to me as I grew closer to her over several weeks. She was soft, gentle, smart and funny. Physically, she wasn't exceptionally attractive but her whole persona more than trumped that. She seemed fond of me too, but the situation with her ex, whom she claimed was now stalking her, kept her distracted. As usually happens between young, unattached men and women, sexual tension kept building in our banter and body language. Finally, she invited me over on an off-night for dinner. We ate spaghetti, drank wine, and laughed at each other's humorous anecdotes. The time had come for the inevitable, and we found a pretense to make contact. 

Just as we were about to consummate the act, we heard a motorcycle being revved near the window. She froze immediately, and said it was her ex-husband. After 5 minutes or so, the sound stopped, and she then asked me to leave because she didn't want me to get hurt. Of course, I doubled-down on my intentions to stay to protect her, and despite her protests I stayed the night, albeit on the couch as amore was now out of the question for her.

Two days later when it was our turn in the rotation, I came to work but Robin was missing. Her replacement told me she had requested an emergency separation from the military because of her domestic situation and that it was going to be granted. I was sad and bewildered, and was only left a bit less so when she called me just before my shift ended early the next morning, saying only between sobs, "I'm sorry" before hanging up, and becoming another in my growing collection of romantic disappointments. The vagaries of my love life continued to confound me. First alcohol, then a stalker ex-husband - what or who was waiting next in the wings to cock block me?

I poured my energies into the hedonism of being high, both from extreme exercise and from Cannabis. Even better was the combination I achieved from running several miles until exhaustion dropped me somewhere along the beach, then firing up a number I had brought with me. The combination of runner's high and THC did miracle work, making all the cells of my body vibrate with the glory of being fully alive, then descending into a deep sleep that is unmatched in my experience for regeneration. 

Nights in the lab were often borderline insanity, and I always made sure to keep a good work-life balance by spending at least one of my days off exploring the dark allure of New Orleans. I'm sure that many who read this have already formed opinions of that unique city, so I will truncate what could be a long discussion about spiritual influences to say just this - every person I was with in New Orleans, male or female, ended up in a fight with me. I wasn't innocent in this regard either, with the help of my old nemesis alcohol. But one might certainly admit that when I have been intoxicated in at least 50 other locales, yet have never had a sliver of the conflict I've had in New Orleans, then there must be some invisible, quite negative force at play there. But this insight has come with hard experience and long passage of time. At 21, I was in the Big Easy to get drunk, high and laid, and I did just that. The karma was to come later.

I had been alone in the room for a few months, but one day I had a new roomie, who was a bit off-center of a dude, also named Bob. He began to extol the virtues of magic mushrooms, which I had been interested in for awhile, but now I had an impetus. One Sunday morning just after dawn, we drove out into the rural area to the north, looking for cows in pastures. We had a hit fairly quickly, parked on the shoulder and then climbed the fence. The caps were everywhere, sprouting out of the cow patties, and we filled two gallon baggies with them. In the most stereotypical close to our escapade, the farmer whose property we were of course trespassing upon spotted us yelling from a quarter mile off, then raising a shotgun in the air and firing a warning shot. Though we had no fear at that range with that weapon, we still scurried quickly back across the fence and sped off to the beach.

That's where the fun began. The taste was hideous, and I washed down the 3-4 I consumed with an orange juice. It took 20-30 minutes for the full-fledged effect to kick in. I previously had experienced interesting visuals with MJ, but nothing prepared me for the psilocybin experience. Colors; non-real images blending with real ones. I'm not sure how we got back to the dorm, but somehow we did and eventually the intensity was so great I passed out for 10 hours. I gave Bob carte blanche for the rest of the shrooms as I did not consider myself ready for a repeat experience for a long while.

In mid-September, I had spent a fun night alone at the base track running, then lying in the bleachers staring at the stars high on endorphins and God's Green Wonder. I had brought a transistor radio with me, and tuned to a news program. A warning for bad weather came across, a hurricane named Frederick that had gone through the Keys and was headed toward the upper Gulf Coast. A premonition of danger coursed through me, that remained through the night and the next day as I prepared to go to work. My lab manager called the dorm and a message was sent to me. The entire lab staff and their families were on the way there as it was their designated evacuation zone. The night was long and memorable. Biloxi took an almost direct hit from the Cat 2 storm, and the damage was tremendous. Power failed early in the hospital, so I had to rely on flashlight and manual dexterity to perform backup methods that had been mothballed there forever. I climbed over sleeping bodies to get to microscopes and centrifuges, but at least when the workload became overwhelming I had no end of people to wake for assistance. When I walked back to the dorm the next day the damage was everywhere, and for the next several days until power was restored I took to running to the beach to sleep since the rooms were stifling hot. It was somewhat of a primal experience to see the blanket of stars above me with absolute darkness all around.

Life-altering events were around the corner. I had been giving Mom money the entire time I was in the AF. Some months she would call more than once, and with me making only $500 a month I was at my limit of being able to save them. In early October, she called and said they were being kicked out of the apartments and Dad was not able to help. The only solution I had was to bring the entire family - sans Liz who then lived with Dad and Joan - to Biloxi as I could claim them as my dependents and then get quarters and rations allowances which at that time was an additional $350. Once I offered, she desperately grabbed at it and within a week Dad had moved what paltry possessions they had and I had rented a single-wide trailer in nearby Gulfport to deposit all in it.  

While more than a small decision compared to my previous "Butterfly Effect" observations, this choice was to alter all of our destinies, for some of us profoundly as will be later discussed. It was a shock for me as well to suddenly be a de facto father again, and if possible Mom was even more indecisive and needy than she had been when I left home three years before - and that was a high bar to get over. I struggled with trying to get the kids started in school and her going on a job search, but though the former worked fine nothing panned out for her with employment. Within a month, the money began to get tight and I searched for alternatives. One of the guys at the lab worked at a private hospital in Ocean Springs across the bay, and I went there to inquire about work and was offered two weekend shifts twice a month. The only problem was the hours - sixteen each, and this would have to be strung together with my primary job at Keesler so that on each Friday, I would leave at 6 in the morning and would work the next 24 hours at 2 different locations, then have a brief sleep before doing yet another 16. But desperate, I agreed. 

So between working much more than I had before, having a commute versus just walking to my workplace, and managing grocery shopping, school for the kids and trying to glue the situation together because of Mom's passivity, I had precious little free time compared to my prior life. Without anyone to talk to as a close friend, stress began to take a toll on me and I compensated by over-indulging in substances. I tried to stay high as much as possible, drank wine at night, and to make up for the missing hours of sleep and still be productive, I entered a patch of time in my life where I used, and frankly abused, amphetamines. It seemed a magic pill for my unique situation; kept me awake and alert when when I would have otherwise been drowsy, quelled my hunger for quick-fix junk foods, and kept me thin. Obtaining these pills though began to take a chunk out of my cash and to occupy so much of my time that I began buying larger quantities, selling some to pay for the ones I used. I had exponentially increased my risk factors for getting caught, going from misdemeanor possession to intent to deliver status of possible charges, and though aware of the risk it didn't exert a chilling effect on me.

For at least the first few months after the family arrived, I made an attempt to spend time with them. My brother James Henry was learning to play basketball, and I would take him out to a nearby court and we would go full-court against each other. I was much bigger than he was then, so I would handicap the games by spotting him a 90-0 lead on the way to 100, then teasing him almost winning and finally catching up dramatically to be at him. I like to think these many sessions made him more skilled and determined to win, because the little 5:6 stringbean at 12 would grow into a 6:5 beast on the court, the MVP of the state AAU basketball tournament. 

A new training class had arrived the month before, three members of which would play significant roles in my life over the next few years. One was Steve, a tall curly-haired older guy from Florida whom I hit it off with instantly. He made me look positively minor-league when it came to smoking marijuana. It was impossible to smoke Steve under the table, though I certainly tried many times. Since I had the established connections for buying it, I became a frequent visitor to his apartment where he lived with his wife and young son. Steve was to my naive appraisal at least a master player of the guitar. I had never know anyone who even played the instrument poorly, so I was intrigued and he taught me the rudiments of chords and strumming. This was enough to propel my interest into an often-frustrating yet ultimately satisfying 42 year hobby of being a passable guitar player. 

One night in November after his wife and kids had gone to bed, we began one of our "competitions" and I tapped out after I think 11 doobies were consumed. (For any who might raise a red flag here, I will argue this point to the grave - unlike alcohol, which I totally agree has drastic influences on one's ability to operate a vehicle, Cannabis has in my experience, the only data I have to evaluate with, zero effect, and in fact I become an even more scrupulous adherent of the rules of the road. The matter is settled in my mind - I was and am a better driver when I am high.) I drove the short trip back to Gulfport and plopped down on my bed. Not 30 seconds later I heard two sounds that unmistakably were gunshots. I tore out of my small room, and Nancy came out into the hallway as well, having also been jolted awake. "Get down!" I hissed at her, and with my stoned bravado I grabbed a golf club and went outside to address the situation. "Butterfly Effect" part 127 coming up in 3 ... 2 ... 1.

The trailer we lived in was part of a small four-unit mini-park ran by an older man who lived in the one parallel to us. I knew the shots had come from that direction so I crept around the corner to view it and I heard yelling. I came to the porch and the door was open. I could see a group of people inside screaming and crying and in their midst was my elderly landlord shakily holding a .38 in his hand. Realizing it must have been a defensive firing, I rushed in. They were standing over a man in his 20's who was moaning: he had been shot twice in the chest and from one of the wounds blood was pulsing out with every heartbeat. One of the young women was hysterical. I yelled at the old man to put the gun down, and for someone to get towels. The other young girl said the police and ambulance was on their way. Since everyone was frozen, I instinctively went into emergency mode, dropped to the floor and pushed my hand down on the entry would to stop the blood flow. Still insanely high, I felt for his pulse as his moaning had stopped along with his respiration's - he had just died. I was trained in CPR, so I switched to that mode, having someone else maintain the chest pressure on the wound while I did the breaths and compressions. I heard the sirens get nearer after 30-40 seconds, but still no response. I bellowed as deep of breaths as I could and on the next series of compressions his body shook a bit and he started to breathe and moan, and his pulse though racing was back. 

At that moment the EMT's and cops came in, and I quickly described my actions. They took over and I went to my feet, blood all over my arms and shirt. As they transported him to the ambulance to the hospital, one of the cops told me "You may have saved his life." This would prove to be a true statement. Years later the youngest girl there that night, the then-fifteen year old granddaughter Karleen who would stay an acquaintance to me through my sister Liz, told me that the guy had indeed survived. The back story to the shooting was domestic abuse by the guy against his wife (the hysterical one) who lived in the back trailer. She had gone to the old man's unit for protection, and he had busted through the door threatening everyone with a knife, and that's why he had been shot. The postscript to this was that though he had survived after me bringing him back from death's door, he was left paralyzed as the bullet had injured his spinal cord, and he was a bitter survivor who told people that he wished he had instead died. This is perhaps the most dramatic example of my life to illustrate this premise - we may think we are doing something good and noble, but we are clueless babes in the woods when the greater longitudinal impact is considered. Despite good intentions and the support of society, none of us really know what the fuck we are doing. Or, in modern 2022 Reddit speak - TL;DR: Saved some one's life. Maybe I shouldn't have.

The other two members of the Phase 2 class who played significant roles in my near-term future were females. I first pursued one; was rebuffed by her then was pursued by the other; had a three-month romance with that girl that broke my heart; then at my lowest point of heartbreak I was suddenly pursued by the first, with whom I lived together for over two years. That's a long association train, and much of it will play out in future year's chapters. 

In December 1979, I had first set my sights on Terry, a cute girl though blessed with only a bland personality. The attraction was purely physical for me: she was petite and pretty and she loved to party, so that checked all my boxes. But she wasn't having any of my overtures since she was (at the time) loyal to a boyfriend back at home in Pennsylvania. After several attempts to get closer to her, I gave up and settled for being a party bud. Her roommate Vicky was also attractive, albeit with an unusual look that I have never quite seen since. The closest resemblance since I have no pics of her is a young version of a popular actress of today, Elizabeth Moss.

Elizabeth Moss bears a close resemblance to Vicky circa 1979

Unfortunately, she was a serial relationship queen, having been with three guys in three months, so I kept my distance from her. But one night at a party, she turned the heat on me and we made out a bit before both passing out in separate rooms. I was awakened at 2 am by her sliding herself on top of me (I was laying on a sofa) holding up a "shhh" finger to her lips since there were other people sleeping in the room, and then proceeding to offer me the delights of her velvety recesses.

This began 90 days of insanity for me. It wasn't enough that I had a full-time job, a part-time job, parenting, household management, and the occasional extra military duties on my plate - now I had a big serving of Vicky to balance. She demanded a great deal of attention, acting petulant when, after having sex in her dorm room, I tried to extricate myself from her clutches to return back to Gulfport. Most often, I would give in to her pleading and would stay the night, which lead to crazy trips back-and forth to shower and put on clean uniforms. But still, it was the first full-fledged relationship I had ever had, and despite the obvious warning signs, I fell more in love with her as the days went by. She didn't like riding on the back of my cycle, so just for her I bought a tank masquerading as a Cadillac El Dorado that got perhaps 5 m.p.g.. She complained when I had to work weekends, and would never quite be fully happy even when we were together. There were obvious signs she was cheating on me as well, and I played ostrich burying head-in-the-sand because I couldn't contemplate not being with her.

One day in March everything came to a head. This was my own personal perfect storm. The setup to it needs to be described in detail so my later actions might be fairly assessed. The weekend before, the syncing of my two work schedules came apart and since I couldn't find anyone to cover one of my shifts, my days proceeded as follows:

Fri:  7:30am - 4:30pm at  Keesler lab

        5:00pm - 7:00am at  Ocean Springs lab

Sat:  7:30am - 4:30pm at  Keesler

         5:00pm - 7:00am at Ocean Springs

Sun:  7:30am - 3:30pm at  Keesler

I worked without a break, except for driving back-and-forth, 56 consecutive hours. I still marvel at it to this day, and I often wondered how much damage I did to my adrenal glands and nervous system. It must be admitted, it would have not been physiologically possible without having Mother Speed as my pharmaceutical ally. I was beyond swallowing pills; that took too long. I was opening up capsules, snorting half in one nostril then half in the other. All the while I was doing a highly responsible job involved with medical care, and I did it without making an error. My few memories of the actual process are staggering around like a zombie trying desperately to keep my brain from retreating into waking dreams, which it often did especially on that last day.

Two days later, while I was still in a hazy state due to the insane happenings just prior, Vicky took me outside to talk, It was the breakup spiel. She left the encounter with me crying on the steps of the medical center. My work station was in blood bank that week, and there was no time for bawling when I returned from break as we had a critical case of a childbirth gone bad, with a mother who had an undiagnosed ovarian tumor that ripped in the birth process. She was bleeding out, and I was constantly cross-matching blood products for her the entire day until finally despite all our efforts she expired. The emotions of the day had me strung out. I stopped at the base package store to get wine to drown my sorrows out that night, and in my fugue I had forgotten my hat which we were always required to have on when in uniform. My head looking down, I didn't notice the person passing me on the way out. I hadn't walked three steps through the door when a voice screamed "AIRMAN COME HERE!" It was the Chief Master Sergeant of the base, the highest ranking non-com.

He proceed to rip me a new asshole for my missing hat, my disheveled uniform, and mostly the fact that I had failed to salute a two-star general, the man who had passed me on the steps. He took my name and duty station and promised a visit the next day with ramifications for me. I went home, drank a half-gallon of wine and passed out, and when I woke the next day the vice-like forces of everything happening finally broke me. I rode to the bank, pulled out all my money, came back to the trailer and gave Mom several hundred dollars, packed my duffel bag, then strapped it to the fork of the Honda, taking off to the north somewhere away from the pain.

I am certainly not proud of my actions. I can't even support them as understandable, though given the circumstances and my youth it probably was. But I did it, and as a result my life, certainly my sister Liz's, and probably Nancy, Henry and Billy's lives were altered as well by this one fateful day. Meant to be? I think so, but then I'm a determinist: what's certain is, like the protagonist of the Frost poem "Road Less Traveled" there will never be a way to know the difference. The term the military used to describe my ensuing absence is "absent without leave" or the infamous A.W.O.L.. I didn't call or contact anyone, and at those early moments of fleeing I had no notion that I would ever come back.

My loose plan was to contact TJ, my roommate from Turkey and take him up on his offer for me to come visit him where he supposedly had a never-ending cache of hallucinogens.

This was March and as I went farther north just past Jackson, the cycle started missing and then quit as I rolled to the shoulder. I was out of gas, having been so lost in my thoughts. The reserve tank was empty as well, and I was stranded. I had a deja vu to the night my 16 year old self was stranded between Little Rock and Memphis, and I was forced to hitchhike and walk through the night. Utter helplessness is the only way to describe it. After I had pushed the bike just a bit, I saw an old pickup slow down on the opposite side of the interstate then when safe turn do a semi circle at the turnaround, then motor up to just ahead of where I was and stop. I was suspicious as to why someone would go to such trouble, so i reached in my flight jacket for my knife, preparing for a fight.

The person who stepped out of the truck was hard to make out at first due to the low light, but as he came closer I saw the features of an older black man, perhaps 65-70, wearing overalls.

"Chilly night to have problems," he said. I agreed, still surprised at this intervention. After I explained the issue he told me to remove the tank and climb in. He took me to the nearest town about 10 minutes back to the north, the direction he had traveled from. After I filled the tank with several gallons, I got back in and he took me back, once again, making the loop around to deposit me back at my bike. We had said few words to this point between us. He had described himself as a lifetime farmer, and I had responded with just the usual pleasantries and a vague explanation about where I was headed as I didn't want to embarrass myself with what was actually going on. After I put the tank back on and primed the gas, it started easily. I got off the bike to shake his hand and thank him again.

"My name's Bob Miller," I said, "you've been my angel tonight sir, God bless you."

Even in the low lighting I could see the whites of his eyes widen in shock. He seemed unable to speak for a few seconds. "Mine is Robert, Robert Miller, but they calls me Bob."

We both stood there frozen on the I-55 northbound shoulder as cars whizzed by us, our hands still clasped together. "Praise the Lord," he simply said, "he must have sent me to help you."

I cried tears that were originally meant for my self-pity, but now they were for the awe of the impossibility that had just occurred. We released our handshake, his eyes as well welled with tears and had no other words left to say except, in long-form paraphrase, yes, what happened on that road re-affirmed my belief in a higher power by whatever name he/she/it be called, and that I was cared for. As I saw his lights disappear in the distance before I too took off, I tried to burn every bit of what had just happened into my brain. I was grateful for this so that many years later I was able to capture that extraordinary night in a song, the lyrics of which can be found by clicking the link below.

Song lyrics: Cold Night in Mississippi 

Somewhere between Gulfport and Memphis, I had decided that I needed to stop in West Memphis and drop the responsibility for Mom and the kids back into the lap of the person whom it belonged to - Toby. I found a weird situation there. His friend John, who Dad had always claimed was extremely psychic, was visiting them that day, and because dad had gone on a booze hunt he was the only person there when I knocked on the door. Before I could give a brief synopsis of why I was there, he looked into me with his piercing blue eyes and said "Looks like you've been burned. An Aries. But she's not for you. You'll meet another one later in life and she'll be your life partner." And with that, he clammed up. Vicky was indeed an Aries, and my wife Karyl of over 28 years is as well, and she is a perfect fit to that title.

The strangeness got stranger. Dad acted almost nonchalant about having to re-assume responsibility for four other lives, and he kept focusing on their problems managing Liz, who was 15 going on 30. She had always been a bold, wild child, but even though she toned things down to match their strict rules she still was constantly in trouble; her latest escapade sneaking off to drink with older boys and getting caught by the cops. I stayed two days, which as it turned out was one day too long. Dad had gone to a bar and brought back a stranger with him to ostensibly talk sense into us. This guy huddled with us in Liz's bedroom, and wanted to "rap" about our situation while we smoked a joint. This done, he silently took in our testimonies most of which concerned having to shoulder Toby's rightful responsibilities, and then he declared, "There's only one solution - I need to kick his ass."

With that he yelled to Dad to take him back to the bar to continue drinking. Fearful that the vagabond might try to kill him, I pitched a fit trying unsuccessfully to make him stop. Out of desperation, I began pounding the side of the trailer with my fists, making large dents in it. That made Toby turn his anger on me, and for a few minutes we fought, rolling around the ground throwing wild punches, most of which did not land. Liz and Joan who had been awakened managed to pull us apart, and the stranger I suppose decided he didn't want any more of this chaos and he ran off. I got on my bike and took off, and after a few hours decided to get a hotel room. I called hoping to get Liz and luckily she answered. A few hours later, she had an older friend drop her off at the McDonald's next to the motel and she brought me my things.

After discussing with her what had happened, I concluded that no matter how painful it would be, I had to go back to Gulfport since Dad was not in reality and I was the only person who could keep my family's world from exploding. Liz asked me to get her out of the situation as well, so I gave her the money to get a bus ticket to come stay with us also. This one moment of decision was literally the pivot point for the rest of my and Liz's future, since everything that was to happen down the road sprung out of it. Instead of "Butterfly Effect" this was the "707 Effect" - a huge life event that changed the destinies of so many people.

After coming back, I brokered a return through a sergeant named Paul Humphrey with whom I was a party bud. He arranged for me to first see the Colonel in charge of the lab and then my medical squadron commander. The latter first required that I hand write my version of what had led me to go A.W.O.L. and when he read the three pages I had produced in less than 30 minutes he asked "Where did you do your undergrad at?" He was shocked when I replied that I had not been to college at all. This was one of the first inklings I received from the feedback of others that writing was a natural skill of mine. He concluded that if he had been placed in a similar situation, he wasn't sure that he would not have done the same thing. So instead of receiving harsh punishment for this administrative court-martial - called an Article 15 hearing - which could have included jail time, he instead gave me the lightest possible slap on the wrist: $140 fine and 6 days of extra duty. This allowed me as well to finish my term with an honorable discharge. I have always been grateful to this Captain who allowed his human side to judge instead of being a strict rule enforcer.

The new normal took shape that week. Liz arrived a few days later, having left a letter to Toby and Joan explaining her actions. She found a job within a few days, and immediately became friends with Karleen, the granddaughter of my landlord. This happenstance turned out to be significant to her near-future since Karleen, 16 as well, ran with an even faster crowd which included bikers.

Liz at 16 with James Henry, Karleen at 15 with Billy. Don't ask!

 At work I was treated like a quasi-celebrity for breaking the rules in such a profound way I suppose, and strangely enough one who now looked at me in a new light was Vicky, who claimed that she knew she was wrong for treating me badly, and that she wanted to be back together. Thinking with my southern brain apparently, I swallowed her contrition fully and was briefly happy again - until she cheated on me and dumped me three weeks later.

This time, my depression became acute anger. There was no taking it out on her, so I took it out on myself. I would go for ridiculously long runs, at times over ten miles, and began in a real sense to crave physical pain since that was nothing compared to my emotional distress. I became flamboyant and careless with my actions both at work and out in civilian life. I started dealing pot and speed at work, carrying in my gym bag far beyond felony amounts of those substances, and would crush capsules of the amphethamines and snort the white lines while working in the back room under the microbiology hood. One night I got blindingly drunk at some one's dorm room on base, and when I came to the next morning I was on the floor of a storage room in the lab, a half-eaten pizza cradled on my chest. Since it was 6 am, I somehow managed to sneak out and clean myself up enough to appear at work. I talked another wild student named Eddie into going on a mushroom hunt before work, WHILE dressed in our hospital white uniforms. Our search was fruitless; the mud stains that ran up to our knees were our only souvenirs, and I had to work all day with the disapproving eye of superiors. But nobody tried to intervene. I guess they thought I was too far gone and were just waiting out the next few months of my enlistment and then they would be rid of me.  My more mature self now knows that all of these acts were a general cry for help that I wouldn't articulate, since I was wise enough to know that there was no one who cared to answer. 

Within six weeks, Liz could see the futility of my, and now her situation. She told me that I would be stuck forever taking care of everyone unless I made a break. I agonized and cried over this, but I couldn't refute her because I knew she was right. By coming back, I had salvaged my military service but I had given Toby and Mom yet another out from being fully responsible. So I rented a small house just blocks from base, and the two of us moved into it.

 Several times the first few weeks I wanted to go back buy groceries, pay their rent but Liz stopped me. And she was right. Out of this, both for bad and good the future of my Mom, Henry, Nancy and Billy emerged. Dad finally showed up, and moved them out once again, back to Fort Smith. I won't discuss the trauma they went through there until Mom finally attained and kept employment; it is their story, not mine, and though I for many years felt guilt for the true suffering they endured, I have made peace with this part of my past. Some situations are non-winnable.

Pic in 2000 of the Forest Ave. house that was party central in summer 1980

Now that we had a house close to where people could walk, it became party central. A person who re-emerged into my life then was Terry, my original crush from the past year. She began hanging out  with me, and though I didn't sense anything but platonic intentions at first, my physical attraction to her was undeniable. One night, after copious amounts of gin and MJ, we made some hot-air popcorn and then did a silly faux fight throwing it at each other, which led to chasing, which led to tackling, which led to kissing, which led to ... the next two years of my life. But that belongs to further years. 

Liz wasted no time getting involved with a leader of a local bike gang. Though I of course did not approve, my opinion was lost in the shuffle. What I did care about was getting involved in multi-state drug trafficking, the spectre of which was raised one day when I returned to the house to find a package on the porch. It was unlabeled, and I was curious so I brought it in and opened it. It was full of over-the-counter nasal decongestant capsules. About an hour later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a sight out of Hollywood central casting for a "B" movie about the Hell's Angels. This guy was dressed in full biker regalia with a red bandanna stereotypically covering his head, and he said without expression "Where's my shit?" 

Some stereotypes are real

My mind raced to provide an explanation before it hit me - the package! I turned it over to him, he grunted then did an about-face to his bike. later, Liz told me that it wasn't all that bad - she had talkled him out of using our bathtub to cook the obvious derivative of the capsules - crank. Gee, that was a relief. Liz and Karleen who was an omnipresent guest there thankfully dispensed of their biker phases soon after that, and I could sleep with both eyes closed finally.

As my 22nd birthday arrived my life was a whirlwind of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll, framing the hours I spent at work. Sleep was the casualty of this lifestyle, as there was no time left after these four demands were met. A friend named Roger brought me a gift - it was a large green gel pill called a placidyl. I had never taken such a powerful downer before, and I had no idea it would turn me into a human jellyfish. For the next day, I lapsed in and out of sleep, momentarily awakening to greet people who had come to wish me Happy Birthday then passing out again. I estimated that I slept 20 out of 24 hours. My adrenal glands must have been in desperate need of such a disconnect though, as I came out of the fugue a calmer more rational person, and began to avoid taking amphetamines.

Sometimes the wrong thing actually is right.