Purple Daze (8 page)

 

“The need for this legislation is clear. Beatniks and so-called
‘campus-cults' have been publicly burning their draft cards to
demonstrate their contempt for the United States and our resistance
to Communist takeovers ... Just yesterday such a mob attacking the
United States and praising the Vietcong attempted to march on the
Capitol but were prevented by the police from forcibly moving into our
Chambers. They were led by a Yale University professor. They were
generally a filthy, sleazy beatnik gang ... This proposed legislation to
make it illegal to knowingly destroy or mutilate a draft card is only one
step in bringing some legal control over those who would destroy
American freedom.”

 

—The bill was brought to a vote and passed the House by 393 to 1 with 40 not voting on August 13, 1965.

 

—President Johnson signed the Bill into law on August 30, 1965.

USS
Hermitage LSD-34
Guantanamo Bay

 

Dear Cheryl,

 

I'm here in Cuba soaking up the sun.
The base is 45 square miles. Just like a city.
Civilians live in it and all that junk.

 

I'm standing watch on the back of the ship.

 

If I see anyone swimming it's my job to find
out who they are and if they don't answer up
I'm suppose to fire a shot in the water near them.

 

If they still don't answer up I swear to god
I'm suppose to shoot to kill. This is an enemy
country. The base is only leased to us.

 

So far I haven't killed anybody.

 

Love, Mickey

 

P.S. The cookies you sent were mostly crumbs
but the guys still appreciated them.

Dear Cheryl,

 

Did you know it's possible to have
110% humidity without rain? It's so hot
I sweat salt through my flak jacket,
which makes it heavier than the usual
6 pounds, 6 ounces.

 

I had this revelation and slit the bottom
of the nylon shell, ripping out 6 pounds
of Kevlar-type fiber.

 

My helmet is a steel pot, about 5 pounds.
Peace sign scrawled on one side. I put the
camouflage cover over the lightweight liner,
dumped the pot. Nothing can slow me down;
I got it dicked.

 

Can you believe Gunther dressed up for Halloween?
Somehow he scrounged a red Santa suit.

 

No “Ho! Ho! Ho!” though.
He shouted, “Trick or Treat.
Smell my feet.
Give me something good to eat.”
The guy looked like a big, fat,
fur-trimmed blister.

 

Guess the jungle was fresh out of candy canes,
cuz he passed out grenades, pins straightened
for easy lobbing.

 

Love, Phil

 

P.S. Are you seriously considering going to
nursing school after graduation?
You can take my temperature anytime!

Mom hardly dates
since Daddy died.

 

Now there's this guy,
seems nice enough.

 

He picks her up on Friday nights,
brings me Nuts & Chews.

 

Mom wears lipstick and sling-back heels.
“It's a real date.”

 

I say it's okay to invite him over
for English muffin pizzas
and
The Beverly Hillbillies
.

 

Will he sit by her on the couch,
hold her hand like Daddy

 

While I eat my Nuts & Chews?

USS
Hermitage LSD-34
Guantanamo Bay

 

Dear Cheryl,

 

QUESTION TIME:

 

No, I never shot anyone swimming in the water.
It's a good thing I didn't get the chance because
I don't know how to work the gun, swear to Buddha.

 

No, I didn't spend all the money I won playing cards.
I still have 33 cents left.

 

I definitely got some P***Y in Jamaica.
That slays me.

 

Love, Mickey

 

P.S. Ziggy hasn't written much lately—
probably too stoned to hold a pen.

Dearest Cheryl,

 

I'm sitting in my tent listening to the monsoon
winds and rain ruin everything—including our
morale, which is lower than a cockroach in hell.

 

Zipperheads fight more fiercely in the rain.
Paddy algae, jungle rot, spongy mold
communicate in code. Damn leeches.
Just chopped up one with my bayonet.

 

Today we were supposed to go on operations
down south. Now there's a 5 day delay.
We smoke.
Drink Kool-Aid.
No one talks.
Not even Gunther's bullshit to chew on.

 

Man, I wish I could take in a drive-in movie. See,
the trouble is, we don't get any saltpeter in here.
In the 10 months since I left, I'll probably turn into
the worst sex maniac to ever hit L.A.

 

Love, Phil

 

P.S. I started writing this letter on a box.
Now I'm sitting in it. Damn thing broke.

The girl who shares my PE locker traded
tight sweaters for Empire-waist dresses.
Gym shorts tugged over a girdle.

 

One Saturday her boyfriend drove her to Tijuana.
Monday she returned to school,
tight skirt, no girdle.

 

Ziggy used a coat-hanger
in a gas station bathroom,
nearly bleeding to death.

 

Mickey doesn't have a clue.

USS
Hermitage LSD-34
Pussy Patrol

 

Don—

 

I thought we were friends, man.
But you're too goddamned busy
to write one lousy letter.

 

If you could spare a few minutes,
I could tell you about all the bitchin'
babes I've met.

 

There's one good thing about the Navy
(two if you count all the pussy)
and that's I don't have to listen to my
old man anymore.

 

He does write some damn decent letters though.
But I wish he'd stop asking about medals, like
he's keeping score or something.

 

Your ex-friend,

 

“The Mick”

 

P.S. I hope you rot in hell with double-boogies.

Everyone here's asleep so I call Bubba,
listening to his stupid phone ring
off the stupid hook,
unraveling threads on my cutoffs.

 

I suck a roach on the porch,
holding everything in.
Maybe if I get high enough
I can quiet my head;
maybe then I can blink
without seeing Mick's flat-top,
velvet freckles, his peachy skin.

 

Damn it, I'm thinking about him again,
little heartbeat bombs.

 

My bare feet collect street grit,
counting the steps to Don's house
three blocks away.

 

I tap on his window,
choking on smoky giggles.
“Wake up!”

 

He's angular behind the glass like one
of Golden Dragon's fortune cookies.

 

“Can I come in? It's
freezing
out here!”

USS
Hermitage LSD-34
Guantanamo Bay

 

Dear Cheryl,

 

I don't think Don would lose respect
for you if you went all the way with him.
But just between you and me,
I wouldn't do it.

 

I don't care what he or anybody says.
If he went all the way with you he would
definitely have the urge to brag.

 

All it would take is for him to tell one
guy and you would be screwed
in more ways than one,
if you know what I mean.

 

Make him marry you first.

 

Love, Mickey

 

P.S. Tell Ziggy she's got 90 days
to get to 110 pounds.

“WHY'D YOU DO IT?”
“It's not like I love her.”
“I KNOW, IT WAS JUST SEX.”
“She tapped on my window.”
“YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO OPEN IT.”
“She was stoned.”
“SHE'S MY BEST FRIEND—
WAS
.”
“I don't love her, Cheryl.”
“I'LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!”

Cheryl,

 

I don't know how it happened—
me and Ziggy.

 

I promise to pay more attention
to what my dick is thinking,

 

if only you'll forgive and forget.

 

I love you!

Sometimes I think about that girl,
sixteen and still in Jr. High,
a greaser transferred from East L.A.
Razor blades in her hair.
Camels taped to her binder.
Black eyeliner,
thick as licorice whips.

 

She didn't talk to anyone but me.
Maybe she thought we weren't so different.
Bubba liked the black-blue ink
x
she needled under her skin.

 

I like the idea of razor blades.

No one's home so I put
West Side Story
on the stereo.

 

The Rambler pulls into the driveway, the hood
ornament at half-mast. I pull down the shades,
lock the door, crank the volume.

 

 

I

 

leap
lunge
plunge
sweat

Dear Cheryl,

 

Our troop carrier breaks down so me and Gunther
thumb a ride on a rag-top tanker with a zippered
back window. FTA painted on the guy's helmet,
F
uck
T
he
A
rmy. We figure he's hauling water
to some remote outpost.

 

Man, his rig's tuff. An M-16 hangs on a windshield
“T” handle, muzzle down. The metal plate on the dash—
advisories on how to maintain your vehicle,
in case the driver forgot—holds grenades:
6 frags, 2 smoke, 2 white phosphorus.

 

A radio is the headrest behind his seat,
tuned to the armed forces network.
A 3-gallon jug of Kool-Aid with cup inside,
a cooler on the floor, full of Pabst.

 

You can tell this guy knows the road—
can tell he'd spot a new divot from
exploding devices.

 

I ask about the hole in his door. “Lucky bullet,” he
says, caressing the wheel. “This truck'll never let me
down. It's true love, man.”

 

“What're you haulin'?” Gunther asks,
dipping Kool-Aid.

 

“
Fuel.
”

 

Gunther just about shits his pants.
“This here's a fuckin' 5,000-gallon
Molotov Cocktail. Pull over, dude,
we'd rather walk.”

 

Love ya, Phil

 

P.S. Spent my 20th birthday in a bar listening to
“I Got You Babe” with a Vietnamese accent.

October 15, 1965. After lunch at the Catholic Worker, David Miller takes the IRT to the Armed Forces Induction Center in lower Manhattan. Police barricades line the streets, separating war protesters from hecklers.

 

Dressed in a dark pinstripe suit, a white button-down shirt, narrow tie, and short hair, David climbs a ladder onto the platform of a sound truck. “I am not going to give my prepared speech,” he says, pulling his draft card and a book of matches from his pocket.

 

One match, then another blows out in the breeze. Someone offers him a lighter. David raises the burning card as a group of Hare Krishna chant, “My Sweet Lord,” dropping it when flames singe his fingers.