LEAVING MY INNOCENCE BEHIND

I got a little out of sequence by writing about The Beacon Drive-In back in October of ’06, but it was in that piece that told how Woody and I seem to circle that place endlessly, and one night decided we would get out of that rut by joining the Air Force. That piece would chronologically follow the drag race piece and then this one.

That was the end of innocence for me. The day I decided I did not want to be a child anymore – what the hell was I thinking? Gees, I could have possibly milked that life at least another year or two, and who knows, maybe I would have become an electrician like my old man. Then, of course, I would have missed the war, never gone to college, and never known anything I know and cherish today.

Nevertheless, I chose to leave Harriman, my parents, some of my innocence, and all my youth behind me.

Imagine you are eighteen years old and far from home among strangers and some tough looking Drill Instructor (DI) and his huge black sidekick starts yelling at you during every waking hour and sometimes in your dreams. What do you do? You just look him, listen to every word he barks, and do everything he asks without questioning.

After your first two weeks in boot camp you begin the psychological state the drill sergeants work hard at provoking in your mind. You begin to think that you have always been at Lackland Air Force Base and that you have always been doing whatever you are doing at any given moment for the DI. You become totally his, putty in his hands, and you would literally charge a machine gun nest if he asked. That is the simple fact why the military takes recruits at the tender malleable age of eighteen. They would take them younger if it were constitutionally legal.

As soon as I arrived the DI told us, “I am now your momma! I am now your daddy! I am now your brother! I am now your sister! BUT, I’ll be damn if I’ll be your girlfriend!”

“Do as I say or you’ll have my foot so far up your ass you’ll have to have it surgically removed! Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

“I can’t hear you!”

“YES SIR!”

That was the way if was from the first sticky August night I arrived, standing at forced stiff attention in my civilian clothes. We marched, or tried to, until the next evening in our “civvies!” This is why new recruits are called “Rainbows.” Their bright colored clothing stands out like a sore thumb beside the olive drab of the hundreds of older troops marching everywhere you look.

I arrived with about thirty-five new troops at about 1AM. Everyone was dog-tired and barely conscious from sitting around airports, flying, and riding buses since 6AM the previous morning.

We were marched into a huge building, which turned out to be an experimental barracks the Air Force was testing, and told which bunk was ours. The DI then announced at the top of his voice, “You got fifteen minutes to shit, shower, shave, and get in that bunk. Hit it! The lights go out in 14 minutes!”

Somehow the thirty-five of us made that deadline before “lights out,” but just barely. Everyone I passed, like me, had little pieces of toilet paper stuck all over their faces to stop the bleeding. When you are tired, standing five or six deep in front of a mirror, and are scared shitless, it is a wonder you do not slit your throat!

I remember waking the next morning and sitting up startled, as “The time now is zero five-thirty hours! Get up, get dressed, and get outside,” blared from the loudspeaker! I also remember that the pillow was stuck to the side of my face from the dried blood I had shed during the past four hours I was asleep!

We jumped into our clothes, pissed, brushed our teeth, splashed water on our face and ran down the stairs to the waiting DI and his assistant who were busily trying to show troops where and how to stand and wait on the others.

We left behind a bed, latrine, and barracks area in a shambles, but this was the last time we jumped out of bed as carefree as we used to do at home.

After breakfast, we double-timed over to supply and had our new wardrobe thrown into our faces, our hair shaved off, and then double-timed it back to the barracks. It was then we began learning the finer points of making hospital corners, making a bed tight enough to bounce a quarter off a foot in the air, how to properly arrange and display our clothing and toilet articles, and how to clean the latrine, all before leaving within thirty minutes of “zero five-thirty hours!”

This discipline does not just happen over night, but with a lot of screamed encouragement down the back your shirt you learned pretty quickly!

This was just the first morning and my innocence and former existence were now far behind!

LOSING MY INNOCENCE

We start out in this world trusting those around us – taking them for face value. Everyone was to be taken at their word with no second thoughts or doubts. However, there comes a day when you start to be leery of people and second guess their intentions – you start keeping an eye on them.

I was still small enough to have to sit on the padded board in the barber’s chair the day I began to mistrust adults, and two people regretted the incident for the rest of their lives.

The first visit to the barbershop in the 50’s was a “coming out” for a young man and it was a rite that only a man and his son should share. It was a dad’s way of welcoming you to his world and introducing you to his friends.

My dad proudly opened the door and let me walk into the smoky little red-bricked building first, and my face immediately began to glow hot from the attention as all eyes looked my way and seemed to dare me to enter alone. As soon as my dad appeared, smiles came to those faces, and greetings were exchanged, telling me that dad was known and welcomed there.

Little red vinyl padded chairs, with chrome curved arms and legs, lined one side of the room, separated by brown painted metal ashtray stands, folded newspapers, and stacks of Argosy and Field & Stream Magazines, while the other wall was grandly displayed with giant mirrored cabinets and shelves arrayed with strange electric devices, bottles of blue water soaking dirty combs clean, and big white haired brushes and cans of powder.

In front of the workstations were the stately padded and arrayed barber chairs with their chrome and porcelain pump handles and padded footrest. They were grand, magical things to me that rose and lowered at the barber’s command, or whirled from side-to-side as the customer was shown the barber’s experienced touch in the mirror.

My dad decided to go first, to let me relax and watch the show, and to see that there was nothing to getting a haircut. I watched and listened as the men all talked and laughed. It was all innocent enough and I could hardly wait my turn to climb on the big chair give it all a try. I listened to the clippers click on and off, the slap of the straight razors against leather straps, and the snip, snip of the shinny scissors, and the hydraulic sound the chairs made.

Finally, it came my turn and I stood waiting at the foot of the chair, one foot upon the footrest, until the “booster seat” was added across its arms. “Hop up son…you’re next!”

The barber gently put the traditional neck paper in place, then popped the white barber sheet clean of old hair and draped it around my body. The sheet, with my knees up under it, covered my entire body, and I was ready for the first real man haircut!

The barber clicked the electric clippers on and touched the warm face of the shears against the back of my neck. It felt good and I loved the hum and buzzing it made inside my skull – this was going to be good. The barber went round and around, and side-to-side, did some clipping with his scissors over his long black comb and finally completed his masterpiece on my little blond head. The final touch, so I thought, was the powdered brush across the back of my neck that made me blink and cough.

My dad walked behind me, out of view, whispered something to the barber, and then walked back in front. I should have known something was up, but remember, at that point I trusted all mankind!

I heard another louder buzz click on and thought nothing of it until the barber’s hand; complete with scalp massager touched the top of my head! Down from the chair I sprang and out the door I ran terrified! My dad chased me about a block before catching the barber sheet with me in it!

He carried me back into the barbershop where everyone, except for the barber, was still laughing. The barber looked sheepish and immediately began to apologize to me. “I’m sorry son, you’re dad put me up to it.”

I never again let that barber cut my hair. I went back to the shop for years, but I always used the second chair and kept a watchful eye on the barber when he moved away from the chair. No matter how much my dad pleaded I would not let barber number one touch me. Both the barber and my dad always regretted their little surprise, but never failed to tease me about it every trip back.

I lost my innocence that day, and three people learned valuable lessons for life – never let a stranger get behind your back and a kid never forgets or forgives!