CREATIVITY, Bk 1, Chpt 3
LIFE ON THE EDGE
Chapter 3 (first draft)
Happy Thanksgiving
By the time I was in high school, money was a constant concern in our family. Before that, I lived with my grandparents during school days. Dad picked me up for most weekends. The rest of the time, he was an attractive bachelor working on a series of creative projects.
Dad had bought new ’55 and ’56 T-Birds. When the ’56 was stolen twice, he bought a slightly used ’57 Vette. Then the ’56 Bird came back repainted turquoise. Lousy color, worse paint job. Eventually, Dad sold the ’56. He told me the Vette would be mine when I turned 16. Six years later, when I was 14, “my” Vette was stolen.
By the early 1960s, Dad’s finances were on the way down. He had downsized to a ’64 1/2 Mustang stick convertible. Ford introduced the Mustang in the middle of the model year. Dad said this was the last car he would ever own. He was 43. Five years later, the Mustang quit because neither of us had thought to check the oil…maybe ever. Dad bitched about having to purchase a new car. He bought a burgundy ‘69 Mustang convertible automatic, saying, once again, it was the last car he would ever buy. I didn’t want to know what he meant.
Summer melted into fall, and the holidays approached with no resolution for my draft predicament. One cold November morning before Thanksgiving, I headed out our front door toward Dad’s car to drive to the nearby shopping center to get a late breakfast. As I neared the tall fir trees on either side of our front walk, two men in suits came walking fast across the street onto our lawn and grabbed me.
“Hey, what the hell!” I said.
One guy asked me my name as the other guy held me. I told them, and they identified themselves as FBI agents. They said I was under arrest for refusing induction into the Army, a violation of Code: XYZ, Section: You’reScrewedKid.
They marched me to their car and forced me into the back seat without answering my questions, except to say I would be allowed to make a phone call from the detention center. The back seat was screened off from the front. No door handles were visible inside. We drove downtown in silence.
I got my phone call. Woke up Dad. He was shocked, angry, and worried. He tracked down an attorney who secured my release from FBI custody within hours. The whole process went smoothly, except for scaring the crap out of me.
Back home, Dad and I had a serious discussion about my going to Canada. He had not been in touch with his friend in Toronto for years, but felt I would be welcome. Money was on my mind as I considered going to Toronto. I knew Dad would spend whatever was needed to get me there, but how long would I need to stay? What would Dad do without me? Even though I was pulling away from him as I looked forward to turning twenty-one, I did not want to leave him alone or drain his bank account. After one sleepless night, I vetoed Toronto.
At twenty, I was still a kid. I liked playing games, hanging out with my friends, and dreaming about girls. The Vietnam War, the draft, and all the body bags coming back to America dominated the news. The FBI had arrested me, and yet I was at home.
I heard about guys getting out of the draft because of allergies, bone spurs in their feet, too low an IQ, and being underweight. I opted for the latter.
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Dennis...! Bella needs to go out...!
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