Harsh Realities 2
That Sinking Feeling
The words: ‘I wouldn’t know what to say’; had just spilled out after Michael asked me if I’d written to Amparo—and it was true. I really didn’t know what to say, or think, about this whole situation with Amparo.
Ever since arriving in Winnemucca I had been wrestling with my conscience about this engagement thing and wondering how in the world I ended up getting trapped into this situation. Before I’d been talked into buying a set of wedding rings, I had never even considered marrying anyone—had never even remotely thought about it! Now here I was, more than fifteen-hundred miles from my home with absolutely no plans for my future except that now I had a fiancé waiting for me to return and marry her and become her husband. Husband… The word sounded foreign and had absolutely no meaning to me.
“So…what are you gonna do?” Michael asked, startling me slightly and pulling me temporarily out of my funk.
“I don’t know.” I sighed.
“Well shit man, you gotta write her, right? You can’t just go on and do nothing. Maybe you can just tell her you thought about and decided it was all a mistake. Then you can just say you’re sorry. Oh, and you’ll want to get that ring back.”
“You know…I really don’t want to think about it right now. I’ll figure something out later on.”
“OK man, it’s your funeral; just trying to help.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
Michael shrugged and drained his shot glass, washing the whiskey down with a couple of sips from his water glass.
I stared down at what was now my third shot of Jack Daniels and wondered if I could down it all in one slug. I was feeling what seemed to be a snug halo of warmth surrounding my face and sensed a soft pleasant hum buzzing somewhere in the back of my head. I raised the glass to my lips and tipped it back quickly—feeling the cool liquid hotness slide over my tongue and down my throat. A long draw of tepid water flushed the growing bitterness away and I suddenly felt a fuzzy giggle rise up from my chest.
“What?” Michael exclaimed, obviously surprised at my sudden change of mood.
“Oh, nothing.” I mumbled. “Just starting to feel good, that’s all.”
“Well, for a guy who’s standing on the fucking gallows with a rope around his neck you’re pretty mellow.”
“What? Oh! Ha! I get it.” A mental picture of me waiting for the trap door to be sprung by my mother materialized in my mind. “Yeah, she really put me there, didn’t she?”
“Who?”
“You know. Her!”
“What the fuck you talking about, man?”
“Hey Sid!” I called out, a bit too loudly. “How ‘bout another one of these.”
“Whoa partner!” Michael said. “That’s my dime you’re riding on. I’m supposed to be offering!”
“Hey, I’ll pay you back! What’s these costing me anyway?”
Sid stepped up and filled my shot glass from the square black-labeled bottle. “Don’t worry boy, this here nigger’s good for it. And, if he’s not, I am. Drink up!”
“Hey, fuck you Sid!” Michael growled.
“Best you’ll ever have, and you know it!” In one smooth motion, Sid slid the bottle from my shot glass to Michael’s, topping it off without losing a drop. “On the house, from the resident white cracker.”
“That’s more like it–as much as I spend in this dump every week.” Michael’s voice now softer now, with a hint of grin.
Without another thought, I brought the small gold-rimmed glass up to my mouth and quickly drained the dark brown liquor. Smooth and warm, with not even a bite, I tipped my head back to let the smoky liquid settle into my ever-warming tummy. I slammed the glass down and decided to not chase it with water. I look to my right to see Michael grinning at me a bit, and I noticed that the room seemed to spin just a bit.
“You OK, buddy?” Michael asked, cocking his head slightly.
“Yeah, sure. Feel good…” I replied, suddenly feeling laid back. “Why?”
“Well for one, you’ve got a big shit-eating grin all over your face.”
“I do?”
“Yeah…you do. Let’s have one more then we’ll get back to the base.”
“Works for me.”
I recall having just a little bit of trouble sliding off the stool as Michael was settling up with Sid. My legs had grown heavy and the entire bar seemed to be slowly rotating one way then back the other. I walked slowly to the door and was surprised to see that the afternoon had cooled considerably and the day’s brightness had dulled to a pleasantly muted hue.
Taking a deep gulp of Winnemucca’s dry desert air, and exhaling slowly, I again tasted the aged whiskey’s sweetly smooth and smoky essence caress my nasal passages on its way out. Glancing around I noticed the starkly stoic gray mountain in the distance—the odd white radome capping its highest peak like a colorless cherry on a dirt gray ice cream sundae.
In the stillness of the moment, a pulsing rush of anticipation rumbled deep inside my core and a wispy mental picture of Amparo’s face pushed itself ghost-like into my thoughts. I held my breath and imagined her again on that porch the day I’d given her the ring: pale pink lips frozen between sweet happiness and bitter sorrow, her delicate shoulders slightly trembling and tears slowly streaming down her cheeks. An urgent yearning gripped me and I found myself desperately wanting to reach out—pulling her close and holding her as I had never done before; and probably as I should have done on that day many miles ago. My throat tightened, my eyes stung, and I felt my hands ball into fists.
“Hey! You ready?” Michael’s cheery voice violently pulled me back to the door of the ancient dusty bar.
“Huh, oh yeah,” I croaked, as I was rudely yanked back to reality. “Just waiting on you.”
He brushed by me, all but gliding on the pebbled sidewalk, heading towards the Star’s rear parking lot. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll get you back in time for evening chow.”
True to my military training, I fell in lockstep but wondered why my legs felt loose and rubbery.
“You know,” Michael said as he started the old Chevy, “it’s none of my business—and if it were me I’d tell you to fuck off—but, you really need to actually talk to that girl back home.”
“Yeah, I know.” I said sullenly.
“Seriously man, write her and tell her how you feel.”
“Yeah, I will.” My reply not even convincing me.
“Uh, look—again, not really my business, but how do you feel about her anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, that sucks.” Michael said quietly as we spun out of the parking lot.
“Yeah, it does.” My voice trailing off.
We rode in silence for the next three miles, the flat gray tumbleweed-dotted landscape passing silently as I stared vacantly out the window.
Pulling into the makeshift carport Michael shut off the wheezing engine. I opened the door and all but fell out of the passenger side. Making an exaggerated effort to maintain my balance I held tightly to the door and said, “Hey, thanks for this afternoon. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“Sure. Next one’s on you bud. Hope you get paid pretty soon!” Big smile, lots of white teeth.
Struggling to get my bearings, I pointed myself in the direction of the barracks building and pushed off at a rather unsteady gait.
I remember thinking that I had never really noticed how uneven the sidewalk leading to my barracks was.
***
I was surprised when I awoke later on that evening to find that I’d fallen asleep on my bunk fully clothed. Lying there crossways—left foot on the floor—shoeless—and the other foot, with shoe still half on, hanging off the end of the bed. A dull throbbing pulse was beating a slow but painful cadence deep inside my brain and my mouth felt like it had been stuffed with extra-dry cotton balls.
The small room was dark, save for a dim luminescent glow coming from the numbers on the face of the cheap wind-up alarm clock resting prominently on the tiny military issue tin dresser behind my head. Wondering what time it was, I swung my right leg off the bed and onto the floor in an attempt to look behind me and was greeted with a violent explosion of pain blowing forward from my lower neck to the inside of my forehead. Squeezing my eyes tightly against the sudden ache behind them, a blast of brightly-colored stars exploded in the blackness and my stomach did a slow rolling somersault.
I sat tentatively, butt on the sharp edge of the mattress with my head in my hands, my stomach still undulating uneasily and rested my head slowly onto my hands, elbows perched on my knees. I didn’t feel well, but wasn’t quite sure what the problem was. Every time I lifted my head to gauge the distance from my bed to the door I felt the room spin a bit and I was having trouble focusing on any one object. I couldn’t understand why my stomach felt like I’d just gotten off a rough riding roller coaster.
Finally, my instincts told me that I had to get up and make my way to the latrine (urinals and toilets). With a gargantuan effort, I pushed myself off the bed and shakily headed for the door, reeling slightly but grabbing the small doorknob just before I lurched headfirst onto the floor.
Stepping out into the long and brightly-lit hallway, I was suddenly not sure which direction the latrine was. Leaning clumsily on the doorframe I thought I heard someone down the hall and behind me say something. I knew that if I tried to turn around to respond I’d probably fall, so I leaned forward and pushed myself in the direction where I hoped the latrine was.
Half walking and stumbling, I kept my head down and hurried as fast as I could move, knowing that I was now seconds from throwing up. I needed to find a commode fast! Voices behind me were getting louder and closer but I paid them no heed—intent on reaching the latrine before my throat unlocked and released the terrible mounting pressure high up in my esophagus.
My bare feet slapping cool tile told me I had finally reached the latrine and I quickly looked up to zero in on a commode. About twenty feet in front of me, lined up like miniature white ceramic thrones, I spied them. Just then, a forceful abdominal spasm froze me in place and a gurgling wave of nausea pushed violently upward through my body.
Hands grabbed my shoulders from behind, and spun me to the left and down onto the cold checkered tile floor. Another set of hands grabbed my neck and shoved my head into a white oblong enclosure reeking powerfully of mint. As I tried to focus, my stomach convulsed and I projectile vomited into the white porcelain thing.
Frankie, meet Mr. Urinal.
***
I don’t think I’ve ever been that sick in my life, and although I knew that the liquor that I’d consumed had something to do with it I still couldn’t understand how I could feel that bad in such a short time. I remember imploring God that if He helped ease the pain and discomfort just for a little bit I would never drink again. Further, I implored, I would look for a little church in Winnemucca as soon as I could and attend a service to ask forgiveness. This would mark the first of many wretched supplications and false promises that I would make over the years while experiencing the vile after effects of liquor overload.
After about fifteen minutes of experiencing the painful process of trying to empty an already empty stomach, (commonly called “the dry heaves”), I was helped to my feet by my unknown benefactors, dragged for a few feet, and unceremoniously dumped onto the floor of the communal shower. Suddenly, sharp needles of ice cold water pummeled me from head to foot; and although shockingly cold the stinging shower helped me regain some of my fogged over senses.
I stood up unsteadily, water now banging my face and head, and blindly searched for the faucet to turn off the painful needles. I looked around trying to remember if I’d brought a towel with me. I hadn’t.
Leaning against the cold tile wall I looked down to assess my state of dress. Thankfully, I was only wearing my white military issue boxer shorts, which were drenched and clinging wetly to my skinny midsection.
Pushing myself away from the wall I shakily plotted a route out of the communal shower and headed to the exit door.
“Hey chico,” a voice cheerily coming from the direction of the wash basins, “feeling a little bit better?”
Thinking the question was serious, I tried to get my foggy mind to form an answer…
“He don’t fucking look like he feels better!” Another deeper voice chimed in, ending with a throaty chuckle.
Afraid that turning my head to find my tormentors would summon another painful bout of dry heaves, I stared straight ahead, eyes glued to the doorway and stumbled out into the hallway.
Laughter echoed behind me as I headed back to my room careening off the walls.
***
I woke up Sunday morning to a pounding headache and a most disgusting taste in my mouth. Laying quietly in my bunk I slowly glanced down to the floor and saw a pair of wrinkled boxer shorts that appeared to be turned inside out. Tentatively I pulled the thin sheet up to glance down at myself and discovered that I’d apparently gone to sleep completely naked. Closing my eyes and forcing myself to concentrate, I gradually and painfully attempted to recalled the foggy events from the night before.
I felt a deep embarrassment, but I still didn’t completely understand why I had gotten so violently ill. I knew it must’ve had something to do with the alcohol that I’d consumed, but since I’d never drank before I wasn’t sure that it had been the sole cause. I was confused and felt oddly empty and weak.
As I lay there thinking about what had happened to me, my thoughts gradually turned to Amparo. As I pictured her on her porch the last time I saw her a deep dread began to creep into my already stressed-out mind and a slight tremble passed through my body. I couldn’t put a name to the dark feelings that were beginning to churn through my mind, and I surely had no idea that I was in the throes of a full-fledged anxiety attack.
I’d been in Winnemucca a few days and knew that by now I should’ve already written her at least one letter—but I just couldn’t come up with what I should say to her. Even at this early stage of my enlistment I knew that my life had taken an extremely radical turn; a turn that I barely understood and knew would be difficult, if not impossible, to explain to anyone who had known me previously.
Although I was no longer under my parents’ or the church’s suffocating control, and was free to live my life as I pleased, there still remained one little thread of connectivity that my mother had so deftly bound to me. Amparo.
Closing my eyes tightly I choked off a rising tide of panic—and the question that would torture me endlessly kept swirling in my brain: how could I have possibly agreed to marry someone…anyone? My God, how?
I had absolutely no concept of what marriage was. Hell, I had no concept of what living alone was supposed to feel like! Since leaving basic training a little over a month ago I’d entered a routine where I had pretty much control of every detail of my daily life. I was just learning to live independently, and now in the near future—maybe even next year, I had committed myself to live the rest of my life with some girl I hardly knew. The concept was so gigantic to me that I couldn’t even picture what that would be like. I felt myself begin to tremble.
I played the scenario in my mind repeatedly. I had only wanted to take my mother to lunch, and somehow she had talked me into buying a set of wedding rings. (Did she really talk me into it, or did I suddenly think it was a good idea?) Lord, I was so confused.
Maybe if I wrote a letter to Amparo, (I thought desperately), and explain to her that all this was really a big mistake. That I really hadn’t meant it! (No! That would be so mean.)
Should I tell her that I don’t think I love her? Would that be true? Do I? How do I find out if I do love her? How do I find out if I don’t? I like her a lot. How much like equals love? How can I convey that in Spanish? Wait, I should write it in English. She is, after all, a high school graduate.
OK, a letter’s no good. I should just call her and talk this out. (But, could I afford the long distance charges? Would her parents accept a collect call?) Does she love me? God, what if she tells me she does and she can’t live without me? Then what?
I was really shaking now.
I sat up suddenly—the effort sending undulating waves of pain through my head and causing my stomach to do a frightening flip-flop. Dropping my aching head into my hands I tried to force myself to push all thoughts of Amparo out of my mind. I looked up at the little alarm clock on the table at the end of my bed: one o’clock! Hell, if I hurried I could still make noon chow, and being Sunday it would be steak day! Yeah! I can think about all this later after I eat; but now I need a shower—a proper one.
Standing up a bit unsteadily, I reached for the small cabinet where I stored my underwear and pulled out a clean pair of boxers. Holding on to the bedpost I slipped into my shorts while grabbing a fresh bath towel from the lower shelf. Gingerly stepping around the trashed boxers, still lying on the floor, I eased out into the hallway hoping I wouldn’t run into any wise-assed protagonists on my way to the community showers. A soggy memory of my having taken this little trip a few hours ago popped into my aching head, but at least this time I wasn’t bouncing off the walls.
Procrastination 101
I began my radar training about a week after my arrival at the radar station, and had been assigned to a crew of six airmen supervised by a staff sergeant named Nietzsche. Although only an E-5, he lived on station in one of the few homes designated for senior staff with his wife and two-year-old daughter. In addition to Sergeant Nietzsche and two other staff sergeants, the station’s officer corps consisted of the base commander, a major; two captains, a first lieutenant, a tech sergeant (E-6), and a master sergeant (E-8). They all lived in station housing, as there were more vacant units than there were officers and non-coms.
Single junior airmen like me lived in Quonset hut units, which were partitioned into single and double rooms on either end, with the latrine and shower facilities in the middle of the structure. If you happened to be a married junior airman, you had to find living quarters in Winnemucca itself. A housing stipend was added to your monthly paycheck for rent and utility expenses, but of course, every property owner in town knew exactly how much the stipend was and adjusted the rent on their properties accordingly.
My job as a height-finder radar operator turned out to be insanely boring. It consisted of my staring at two synchronized radar screens for hours on end. Whenever the SAGE (Semi-Automatic Ground Environment) Center’s master computer in Reno detected an aircraft that for some reason was not on its flight planned route or altitude, it sent an electronic signal to my console. The suspect target would then show up on one screen as a vertical line and on the other as a horizontal line. My job then was to move an electronically generated curser by rolling a track ball with the palm of my hand and dissect the vertical target in half with the electronic cursor. Once the cursor was positioned correctly, I would lock it in by punching an amber button on the console—then electronically send the data by pushing a green “SEND” button within five seconds. This would transmit the target’s altitude and geographical position to Reno’s computer—helping it match up this data with a possible aircraft on a pre-filed flight planned route. If the data didn’t match any known aircraft, intercept fighters would be sent up to investigate.
It was boring beyond comprehension! Altitude requests would average two to three an hour; and all the while I was required to “maintain a steady vigil” by keeping my eyes on the scope and nowhere else. After a short thirty-minute break, I was back at it. Lunch, commonly called chow—whether it was noon, evening or morning—was forty-five minutes long and because there were no kitchen facilities anywhere in the center, our meals consisted of box lunches packed with dry sandwiches that had ridden with us on the ride up the mountain.
However, the worst thing of all were the shifts that we had to work. My schedule was commonly called a “nine and three”: Nine consecutive days on duty, with three days off. The nine duty days were divided up this way: three evening shifts (4pm-12am); three day shifts (8am-4pm); and, three midnight shifts (12am-8am).
By the time my days off came around I was so tired I would typically spend my entire first day off in bed. The next two days would blur by with trips to the chow hall, the mailroom (looking wistfully at my empty mail slot), and the recreation building—referred to as the “rec room”. There, I’d lounge on the cheap plastic-covered couches and chairs, watching the small black and white television set hanging on the wall, or observing the endless games of eight-ball being played on the pair of decades-old pool tables.
Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months, and still I could not find it in myself to write—anyone. Phone calls were pretty much out of the question, mostly because there was only one general use phone in the rec room, and it was almost always in use. Further, there was absolutely no expectation of privacy for anyone. Those who bravely attempted to carry on a telephone conversation with anyone, parents included, could expect to be verbally harassed by the ever-eavesdropping crowd of pool-playing or chair-lounging kibitzers.
Crude comments like, “Tell her you love her Billy…as much as you love your palm!”; “Mommy, I miss you and I wanna come home! Please!!”; “Come on Ronnie, quit talking to that bitch and finish doing me!” (All delivered in a high-pitched warbling squeal)—convinced me that I would not be calling home anytime soon. At least not from here.
One Saturday afternoon, on my second day off, I decided to stop by the mailroom on my way to noon chow. I’d slept through breakfast so I hurried so as not to miss lunch. Approaching my assigned mailbox I glanced at it casually and saw what appeared to be an envelope resting diagonally behind the small glass window. My heart jumped and my stomach tightened.
Spinning the tiny combination lock tentatively, I quickly opened the door and found an envelope with colorful red, white, and blue borders.
“PAR AVION”, the bold red lettering on the envelope’s face announced. Wow! I thought. It came via airmail! Must be important!
I saw my name and the radar station’s address written in my mother’s childlike cursive.
My lower abdomen tensed with a sharp stab of anxious anticipation as I held the thick envelope in my hands and tried to imagine what the letter said.
With all thought of food now completely gone, I walked rapidly back to my room tightly gripping the letter, and dreading what I might find when I finally screwed up the courage to open the envelope. I sat heavily on the edge of my bed and turned the envelope over and over in my hands before finally ripping the edge off. I slowly extracted its neatly folded contents.
It turned out to be two letters. One was written by my mother on a couple of sheets of my leftover three hole loose leaf paper was folded first lengthwise then over itself twice. A second letter written on thin, lightly lined, onionskin-like stationery was neatly tucked inside my mother’s letter. It was one sheet, folded carefully over itself, with its message written in small tortured script.
I put the two letters down on the mattress next to me and busied myself looking at the envelope’s postmark, printed and smeared messily over the four two cent stamps my mother had glued haphazardly in the upper right hand corner. It had taken four days for the letter to get to me and I wondered what kind of airplane took that long to fly from Texas to Nevada.
I knew I was stalling, but I had to. I didn’t want to read the words that my mother and Amparo had written in their letters; their mere presence there on my bed was making me feel as if I were smothering in a cloud of fear, anxiety, and regret. I felt trapped and helpless.
The regret I felt for not having communicated at least once since I’d arrived four months prior was suddenly enormous. But what would I have said anyway? I had no words for my predicament, and if I didn’t understand it myself, how could I explain it to anyone else?
Standing up and pretending to straighten out the little table that served as my desk, I saw that my hands were shaking. Frightened, I bolted from my room, slamming the door behind me as I all but ran to the rec center, thinking that maybe the chaotic atmosphere there would help clear my head enough so that maybe later on I could return to face the words that I surely knew were in those letters. I was relieved to find the place crowded, loud and boisterous. With all the chairs and couches occupied, I found an empty space and I scrunched down on the floor, my back to a wall. Concentrating on the boisterous group currently arguing over the validity of a called pool shot on the billiards table in front of me, I tried to put all thoughts about the letter out of my mind.
Later that night, when almost everyone had cleared out of the rec room, I reluctantly got up and began the long slow walk back to my dorm. I entered my dark little twelve by twelve room, and flipping on the light switch spied the two letters, still where I left them on the bed. Knowing that I would have to read them read eventually, I reached down with a sigh and a feeling of impending doom, and scooped them up. Pulling out the chair to my small writing table, I tossed them onto the table. Which one should I read first? Without giving further thought to the issue, I decided that maybe I should read my mother’s first, since it seemed to be the longest one and probably the least painful.
My hands, with just the slightest hint of a tremble, unfolded her letter and I began to read.
The Letters
Mom
October 10, 1961
Hi Mijito,
How are you? Me and your daddy are ok. He’s still working during the week and trying to go to church most of the evenings and on the weekends (Saturday & Sundays). We miss you mijito, and your brother does too. I keep looking at the mailbox every day hoping to get a letter from you but I guess you are very busy with the air force. I know your job is very important and you have to help keep the country safe. I know. They are lucky to have you because you are very smart. Even your daddy says so.
Last Sunday we went to the church in El Campo and then we went to have lunch with Amparo’s family. They miss you too. A lot. She told us she has not heard from you either and wonders what is going on. Can you write to me and tell me? I told her you are very busy and maybe don’t have time to write. She agreed and knows you are doing very important work for the government. She misses you. She cried a little. Pobrecita. (Poor little one).
So I told her to write you a little letter and I would try to find the air force address where you are living and working. Then I can send her letter with mine. She really misses you, because when I told her this she stood up quickly and said she was going to write you a letter right away. Did you give her your address? We don’t have it either. But I called the Air Force after I found the number in the phone book, and a very nice man looked up your base in Nevada and gave me this address. I hope you get this letter OK.
I told him I was worried because no one had heard from you and we thought something may have happened. He told me not to worry because sometimes the soldiers get very busy and don’t have time to write. That made me feel a little better but I’m still worried.
If you want to you can call us COLLECT! Your father said it would be OK. OK?
Well, I guess this is all. I’m putting Amparo’s letter in with mine so you can read it too. I will put extra stamps on the envelope so it will be sure to get to you. Also, I went to the post office and bought some airmail envelopes so the letters will get to you sooner. It will cost more (the mailman said it would) but that’s OK.
Bueno mijito, please take care of yourself. You are a military man now and I know you face dangers every day. I am praying for you and I asked all the church members in all the churches to pray for you too. That should do it.
We love you and we miss you.
Mom
PS. Oh, your dad says he loves you too and said to tell you to write to us and Amparo. She will be your wife soon you know.
Amparo
October 8
Dearest Frankie,
Your mother said I could write you this letter because no one has heard from you since I last saw you here in my house. I am worried, but everyone tells me not to because maybe your letters got lost. But I think maybe you’re mad at me for some reason. I hope not.
Everyday I look at the beautiful ring that you gave me and I dream about how nice it will be when we are married. I can’t wait. Can you tell me when you think you can come home? I want to make plans for our wedding but it’s hard not knowing when it’s going to happen.
I wish I had a picture of you because I want to see you so bad. Your mother said she would bring me one next time they come to our church to visit. I hope so. I was going to send you a picture of me with this letter but I don’t know if you want to see me. So when you write please tell me if you want a picture.
I hope I didn’t do something to make you not like me. At night I can’t sleep sometimes because I’m thinking if I did something wrong. Did I? If I did please tell me and forgive me. I never had a boyfriend before or someone I like so much so maybe I don’t know how to act. When we get married I will try very hard not to make you mad.
Your mother told me to write a short letter so I am going to have to stop writing now because they are ready to go home. I have so many things I want to tell you and so many questions I want to ask. But I will have to wait until you write me. Oh, you know you can call me too. I hope you remember my phone number. Since you’re so far away I think it will be long distance. If you don’t have the money, please call anyway. Your mother said it would be a collect call but my papa will pay when the bill comes.
OK, I will stop writing now. I miss you and I love you. I hope you love me too, you never told me if you did.
(I don’t know if you know my postal address but you can send your letter to Sanchez, General Delivery, El Campo, 34, Texas.)
Love,
Amparo
***
I was devastated. Sitting alone in my room, my head swirling with thoughts and doubts, and my heart beating rapidly. My eyes, blinking rapidly, were stingingly on the verge of tears. What had I done to Amparo? Questions darted in and out of my mind, but for sure, I had no answers.
Refolding the letters and slipping them back into the envelope I stood up and wondered what I could/should do. I undressed down to my skivvies, and after a trip to the latrine, decided that I should get some sleep. It was a very long time before I finally slipped the knots of apprehension, discomfort, and embarrassment, and settled in for a night of worrisome dreams and restless sleep.
The next day I penned a quick letter to my mother—being careful not to mention anything about Amparo. I mentioned that I had been very busy with work (partially true), and promised to write more often.
It would be another month before I got the courage to write to Amparo. After much procrastination, I forced myself to sit down and pen this message:
November 12, 1961
Dear Amparo,
Hope this letter finds you in good health. I know it’s taken me a long time to write this letter and I ask you to forgive my thoughtlessness. Time has a habit of getting away from me here in Nevada.
My work is fine and I’m learning a lot about radar that I didn’t learn in tech school. The weather here is turning very cold, but it’s dry—not at all like Texas. I’m told snow will be falling soon. That should be an adventure for me.
I wish I could fill you in on when I’ll be coming back to Texas but I don’t know. My assignment here is for 18 months and, although I earn leave time, I don’t make enough money to bear the cost of transportation to Houston and back.
Sometimes I get lonely and sometimes I wish I could talk to you or my parents on the phone but there is only one general use phone here at the station and it is always in use. You have to put your name on a list to use the phone to call home. Most of the other guys here go downtown and use the public phone booths, but I don’t have any way of getting into town. I don’t have a car.
Well, I guess this is all. Say hello to your parents.
Sincerely,
Frank
***
I read my letter over several times before I sealing it and walking it over to the orderly room to buy postage and drop it in the outgoing mailbag. I knew it sounded impersonal and detached, but it was the best I could do. Several times, while writing it, I told myself to say that none of this was ever going to work out. That there would be no wedding, because I didn’t want to marry anyone! And, even though I had no idea how I felt about her I decided that I couldn’t just write it out; that that type of news was best delivered in person. So, I fooled myself into believing that someday soon I would travel down to Houston and give her the bad news in person.
I knew the ring had been a bad idea; an idea that I felt had been forced on me because I was too weak and cowardly to stand my ground and tell my mother that it was not what I wanted to do. But too late now.
Even now, my cowardice was in full display. I’d completely avoided any mention of affection or commitment, and instead had composed a missive full of insipid generalities. Even so, it had taken me most of the day to pen that letter and get it mailed.
Stepping out of the orderly room I stood in the dark blustery desert air, and zipping up my field jacket against the biting wind, wondered what I should do now. I dreaded going back to my room and wasn’t in the mood for a game of pool or TV watching in the rec room.
Just then, I heard the muted strains of the officers’ club jukebox over the whine of the wind. It had been a few weeks since I’d been in there—needing at least a couple of dollars to buy table time with a beer. Checking my wallet, I found that I still had a few one dollar bills, and there was a bit of change in my pocket, so, head down braced against the wind, I walked off in the direction of the club.
As I pulled up a round seated wooden bar stool, the bartender—a staff sergeant who was a cook in the chow hall—stepped up, and while wiping the bar in front of me asked, “What’ll you have?”
“I don’t know,” I responded truthfully, “what do you suggest?”
“Oh, that depends on your mood, I guess.”
“Melancholy.”
“Oh, that serious, huh? I would guess woman trouble,” he surmised, with a little sideways grin.
I shrugged.
“Well now,” he said cheerily, “I suggest we lighten your mood by taking you on a trip around the world. What say we start you out in England with a Tom Collins—what do you think?”
“What’s that?” I asked innocently.
“Oh, this is going to be fun.” He said with a mischievous smile. “Let’s start our little trip.” And, off he went, jiggling ice cubes and pouring a clear liquor and some soda water into a glass full of ice—finally finishing it off with a wedge of lemon. “After this one I’ll make you a Singapore Sling! I just learned to make one the other day. Very exotic! Ever had one?”
“No.”
“Well, I guarantee you’re gonna love that one! Pretty too.”
“If you say so.” I said, as I took my first sip of the clear lemony drink—my first highball, ever. It was bubbly, a little sour, with a distinct aroma of rubbing alcohol. I shuddered a bit as went down.
Arms crossed, and obviously proud of himself he said, “Yup, you’re going to remember this night for a long time.”
He was so right.