How did I get here?
What decisions did I make that brought me to this place?
What do I remember that can contribute to understanding?
I was a high school student – I knew more about how to run my life than my instructors – I made the highest SAT scores in my school yet managed to graduate with ’C' average. I joined no clubs – so fearful of being rejected that I gave no one the chance – I rejected first.
Hmm.
I went to a souththern university. While there I discovered alcohol and cannabis sativa. I learned some stuff about biology and chemistry and getting along with people from other parts of the country. I met some Viet Nam veterans and learned something about the war from their perspective. One vet was Gordon. He’d had pretty much the lower half of his face shot off in Cambodia, fighting a secret part of the war. I met him after he’d spent a few years at Walter Reed getting his jaw and face rebuilt / grafted. He told the story of how he’d gotten wounded matter-of-factly, but he never talked of the time at Walter Reed – the many surgeries, the physical therapy, teaching himself how to talk again with his mangled / refrabricated mouthparts. At first glance he didn’t look as if he’d been hurt very badly; his new chin wasn’t so oddly shaped unless he showed you his before pictures. He didn’t have lips anymore (he adequately disguised this with his full beard.) His gash of a mouth couldn’t form a proper seal on the lip of a glass, so he used his tongue as proxy lower lip.
Gordon was a rifleman in his squad. They were, like I said, in Cambodia, across the border from Viet Nam, doing some reconnaissance. They were ambushed, and, as Gordon told it, he got “knocked out.” When he came around, a medic was on the ground, on his knees, with Gordon’s head in his lap, working on him. Gordon said, “I was looking up at the medic, and his head disappeared. They blew his head off. I got up and ran three clicks back to our base.”
Gordon was the only one of his squad to make it back alive.
Gordon put a knife to my throat once. Threatened to slit it and let me bleed out. We’d been drinking a little, and I’d said something that, I guess, touched him the wrong way. I’d always been quick with a quip but never was too sensitive towards my audience. I was enamored of my own cleverness. This moment caused me to look outward a little more than I had been used to. Especially around Gordon.
Gordon came back from the war focused. He pursued his studies relentlessly. He found a woman and married her. He got his degree and got on with his life. He wasn’t like me at all.
Jim was another vet. Friendly to a fault; just a real nice guy. He wouldn’t talk about what happened over there, but we all knew something had. Jim would, no matter where he was, hit the deck and cover his head at any sound even remotely resembling a gunshot. A sharp handclap would do the trick. Jim smoked pot just to calm his nerves. The guys in the dorm relished tormenting Jim by dropping textbooks, slamming doors, lighting firecrackers, you name it. We were idiots – or jerks – both, I guess. Jim stuck it out and got his degree. Nervous, but focused. I hope he found a nice quiet career.
Stuart was in Nam in the early years. He’d been out of the service for a couple of years hippie-ing around in Arizona before coming to our little university on the GI Bill. He just wanted to party and screw. The first real freak we’d met. He quickly located the folks who sold the best drugs and hooked us up with them. Very popular guy. He acted as our mentor (like I said, we were idiots). He vanished sometime during Spring quarter.
Gary was my other vet friend. Gary had no fear and no sense. A born bullshitter. A schmoozer. He got along with everyone (well, there was the one felonious assault charge, but it was dropped). He’d smoke, swallow, or snort anything in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to get out of his own head. He’s either the CEO of some corporation or living in a trailer somewhere. No in-between for Gary.
… more later …
I do hope you “get back to this later”. I would like to know the rest of the story.
Thank you for sharing about Gordon — and what he means to you and how his life impacted yours.
I mean to get back to it; these stories come hard — mostly because I was an idiot back then and it’s difficult to write about those days without revealing too much of me ….
reveal yourself – it’s cathartic. (huh, didn’t think i knew any biggish words did ya?)