Slowly Sliding Into the Abyss
1962-1963
Too Young, Too Soon, And Unspoken Words
The east and west bound traffic on Winnemucca’s Main Street, otherwise known as US 40 in those days, was brisk that weekend morning in early October of 1962. A cold crisp breeze, having first tumbled over the snowcapped tops of Nevada’s Santa Rosa Range, then lazily rolled over the drowsy little city, was now whispering up and over the prominently-located Chevron gas station where I sat in the office nursing a warm cup of rapidly cooling cocoa. It was 9 am, my first of three days working at the eight-pump, two-bay, full-service gas station, after having worked nine grueling back-to-back rotating shifts as a U.S. Air Force radar operator on top of Winnemucca Mountain.
As I raised the heavy ceramic mug to my lips, I noticed that my hand was trembling ever so slightly. The shiver seemed to be originating deep in my chest—traveling through my shoulders and down into my arms and hands. I looked at my arm and saw the skin peppered with little goose bumps. The little electric space heater under the steel desk wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping the drafty office warm.
I took a short sip and thought that my military issue olive drab wool sweater would’ve come in handy this chilly morning worn over the light-blue short-sleeved Chevron work shirt that I’d neatly tucked into my stiff blue jeans. But putting the mug down next to the cash register, I recalled seeing Sharon get up in the middle of the night to answer Ricky’s colicky cries then returning a bit later wearing my sweater. Because of the high cost of heating oil, we usually turned off the furnace when we went to bed every evening, and left it off until well after sunrise.
As I was leaving for work that morning I saw that Sharon had taken Ricky out of his bassinet and brought him into bed with her, tucking him close to her breast. As I eased out of the bedroom. I saw that they were curled up, sleeping soundly—both of them tightly wrapped in my olive drab sweater.
The station’s hydraulic bell rang loudly, shocking me out of my daydream and calling my attention to a couple of cars that had peeled off Main Street’s endless stream of traffic and were now rumbling up the drive and stopping at two of our four fueling islands.
Isn’t that the way it always is? I thought, putting the mug down and sliding off the high backless stool I’d been perched on. They always seemed to come in pairs or in packs, but never just one car. I braced myself for the blast of cold air as I pushed open the door and sprinted out to wait on my first customers of the day.
Since Phil Egosque’s gas station was full service, I was expected to not only fuel up the cars but check all the fluid levels—oil, radiator, windshield washer—then Windex down every window (not just the windshield) on each car.
“And if you’ve got the time,” Phil had instructed me my first day on the job, “ask the customer to open the trunk so you can check the air pressure in their spare. Service like that’ll keep them coming back, you know.”
I always made sure that I never had time for that—unless the customer specifically asked, or if Phil just happened to be at the station balancing the books.
About fifteen minutes later, after the last car had pulled back into traffic, I eased back in to the office and drained the final dregs of my now cold cocoa. The short burst of activity while waiting on the two cars had actually warmed me up a bit and I now felt comfortable as I resumed my vigil on top of the stool.
Glancing over to the station’s two-car maintenance bay through the glass-topped side door I noticed that sometime during my shift I would have to restock a couple of the oil can shelves. Always something to do. I said to myself. Restocking or wiping down shelves or sweeping out and mopping the office or, (ugh) cleaning out the rest rooms. I groaned softly as I visualized the condition they’d be in later on that day.
Before working at this gas station no one could have convinced me that women’s bathrooms at gas stations had to be the filthiest things existing on God’s green earth.
Oh sure, men would sometimes pee, and in their haste occasionally miss the entire urinal or toilet bowl; or at times they’d leave the disgusting remains of the greasy meals they’d hurriedly swallowed and digested while on the road—then leaving the floating heap decorously topped with humongous piles of feces-smeared tissue paper for me to flush away for them.
But women! Well now, that was a completely different matter!
Discarded tampons: that was a subject in a class all by itself! I would find them strewn willy-nilly all over the floor; around, but never in, the chrome trash can that was uselessly labeled ‘Sanitary Napkins and Tampons Here Please!’; in the hand basin; or gaily hung on the edges of the mirror; but most times firmly clogged in the commode causing it to overflow all over the floor.
While men sometimes missed the mark when they urinated, women seemed to have great difficulty hitting the large porcelain bowl when they defecated. Feces on the wooden seat, on the edge of the bowl and sometimes on the floor. And I can’t remember how many pairs of soiled panties I found, and had to dispose of, during the months of my employ at the station.
It was disgusting.
I complained endlessly to Phil, but he would just smile and ask me who I thought had cleaned the place before I was hired.
Between my two jobs I was left with precious few hours at home, and as a result Sharon and I ended up being apart much more often than we were together. And Ricky, not a very healthy baby from the get go, suffered from extreme bouts of colic, endless rounds of head colds; and probably because we were not very experienced parents, a persistently severe case of diaper rash.
For the first two or three months after his birth, it seemed that the poor child cried non-stop; when he finally did quiet down it was because he’d all but passed out from sheer exhaustion.
During those few respites Sharon and I would end up so physically and mentally drained that we’d just sit and cherish the quiet. Then before long, Ricky would come to and it would start all over again.
Although I thought I had it rough because of my having to work almost seven days a week at my two jobs, it was Sharon who really carried the heaviest burden. Confined to the house for most of the day tending to the baby, the only breaks she got were spent running errands to the grocery store, the Laundromat, or the drugstore to buy medications. And then, because she had no other choice, she was forced to take our fussy baby along, as a result making her short outings less than pleasurable.
That morning at the gas station, while waiting for the inevitable flood of gas-hungry customers to come pouring in, I began to think and take stock of the horrific situation Sharon and I presently found ourselves in. Here we were, two young and inexperienced people, with no inkling of what life was all about, burdened with bills, very little money, an infant, and very little hope for any kind of successful future.
Sitting in the quiet little office, I looked out at the mountains and the endless crystal blue sky and tried to grasp the jumble of circumstances that had culminated in our disastrous situation.
Panic’s cold hand grabbed the pit of my stomach as I tried to envision our lives two or three years into the future. Where would we be? How could we possibly ever have a better life?
Even without finding answers to all my questions, I knew one thing for sure. We were doing nothing more than existing day to day—and not doing a very good job of it at that. But even more frustrating to me was that I realized I had no clue as to what I needed to do to provide a life worth living for my new wife and my child. My panic gave way to a deepening sense of sorrow and my mood turned sullen. I was hopelessly frightened and sad and needed some help.
Maybe we can talk about this, I thought. Maybe she has some ideas about what we need to be doing to make things better for us. I made up my mind to ask her tonight when I got home from work.
Then, the hydraulic bell rang.
That evening, after a lean dinner of canned spaghetti and fruit cocktail, and after finally putting little Ricky to sleep, I asked Sharon to join me in the kitchen for a talk.
“Don’t you want to get some sleep?” She whispered, a look of surprise on her face as she quietly closed the bedroom door behind her. “You look really tired, and don’t you have to open the station early tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I do, but I think it’s important we talk over a few things.” She paused slightly, and quietly said, “OK”.
I pulled the two chairs out from under the table for us to sit on, and I thought to myself that this would be the first time that we’d ever really discussed anything of substance.
She sat down hurriedly and crossed her arms on the plastic topped table, eyeing me apprehensively.
I didn’t really know how to start, and as I struggled for the right words to begin our talk, she quickly asked, “Am I doing something wrong?”
“What?” I said, a little rattled, but mostly surprised at the question.
“Well,” she looked down and began to fiddle with her nails, “I…well…I kinda know what you’re going to say…”
“You do?” I asked incredulously, “what do you think I’m going to say?”
“Oh, you know…that I’m…” a little shudder passed through her body as if a cold wind had suddenly hit her. “…that you’re sorry we had to get married…because…you know, I’m…not a good wife…and…not…not… (choke) …really a good mother…”
Before I could say anything, her hands flew up to her face and she hurriedly removed her little cat’s eye glasses. Big tears rolled down her cheeks and she hastened to wipe them away, sighing deeply and quickly looking away.
“No, Sharon…no…” I mumbled, reaching out to touch her hand. “No, that’s not what I had in mind at all.”
She turned her face back and slowly withdrew her hand from mine. “Well…see…the baby…Ricky…,” she was now beginning to cry heavily and was having difficulty getting her words out; and as much as I wanted to say something soothing, I just couldn’t find the words.
“…the baby…, she continued, “he’s always so, so sick…and…oh…um…I know it’s because…because…I’m just no good…as a mom—I know I’m not. And, then…as a wife…well… (sob)…God…I never learned to…cook…and…oh God, I’m so terrible!”
Those last words burst painfully out, then she put her head down into her crossed arms on the table, and cried deeply and bitterly.
I felt so helpless, useless—watching her all but implode in front of my eyes. My throat locked up and a painful swell of emotion rolled up my chest. My eyes stung.
I found myself reaching out and softly stroking the top of her head, not knowing what else to do. I put my arm around her shaking shoulders and whispered softly that I knew she was doing all she could.
Her head slowly came up, and she looked at me with red, tear-swollen eyes. As her grief and sorrow pulled her mouth into a tight grimace she said, in a breaking high-pitched voice, “Oh, Frank! I really want to be such good mom to the baby…and, a good wife to you. And, God…I see you working so, so, hard all the time. But, as much as I love you and the baby…I just don’t know how…how…to do this…any of this…at all…”
I felt her pain, and her love, and realized at that moment that I too loved her and the baby, very much.
Holding back my own tears, I held her tightly and whispered in her ear, “It’s OK, my love. You’re doing OK, and I know you’re doing everything you can to make this work. And look, regardless of what it may look like I think we’re really doing OK.” Then, looking into her eyes, I said, “And…Sharon…I love you too. So, how can we not be doing OK?”
“Oh Frank.” she whimpered, “You’re so sweet and you really are a good husband. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”
I helped her up from the table. “Come on, let’s go to bed and get some sleep.”
She walked over to the sink and pulled a paper towel off the roll to wipe her eyes. “Did you want to talk to me about something else?” She said, looking up at me, her bottom lip quivering.
“No.” I said. “We’re both doing the very best we can. And, I’m not unhappy with you or the baby. Let’s forget about this and just keep going forward.”
As I recall that evening, I realize that it was the first time ever in our relationship that we’d ever expressed real feelings for each other. Sadly, it would be a very long time before either of us would ever express those feelings again.
Frank and Sharon Go On Vacation
No matter how hard we tried or how much we wished, things didn’t get much better for us in the next few months. Luckily, the winter of 1962 was a rather mild one, with only a few light to moderate snowfalls, and one memorable ice storm.
With Alberta and Sharon now married and not living at home, (Roberta, the oldest sister had been married a few years already and was living with her husband in Redwood, California), Pat decided that this would be as good a time as any to pull up stakes and move away.
During one of our very few conversations, Pat had mentioned wanting to “go back” to Reno, where she’d apparently spent some time during her younger years. With a good recommendation from the small casino in Winnemucca where she was working as a dealer, she landed a good job at one of the better known casinos in downtown Reno.
After returning from one of her several house-hunting trips, Pat stopped by our house and told us she had decided to buy a trailer home located on the outskirts of the city. She seemed very upbeat, and spoke excitedly about finally being able to move out of Winnemucca and settle down in a “real city”.
A few weeks after she moved out of her house and headed west, we heard from Alberta that Pat had invited all of us to visit her in her new digs—and she was even willing to front us some money for a little dinner and entertainment at her casino. Although the trailer she’d bought was not a double-wide, she assured Alberta that there’d be plenty of room if we decided to come for a visit.
“Bernie and I can’t get off work to go,” Alberta told us when she visited and gave us the news, “but if you and Sharon want, I can watch the baby for a weekend and you guys can go.”
Since my Air Force work schedule days off had rotated to Friday, Saturday and Sunday, all I needed to do was to get Phil to agree to let me off that weekend, and we were on our way. He was not that happy about my request, but I finally convinced him that Sharon and I really needed the time off.
So on a gray Friday morning Sharon and I made our final preparations for the one-hundred and sixty-mile drive to Reno. We had dropped Ricky off at Alberta’s the night before and turned in early to get enough rest for the trip that morning.
As luck would have it, during the nighttime hours Winnemucca experienced a bout of freezing rain, and by the time we were ready to start our drive west a heavy snow began to fall. Not to be deterred, I made sure we had a couple of gallons of anti-freeze stored in the trunk of our ancient 1949 Chevy in the event the radiator decided to spring an old recurring leak, and brought along pair of old fuzzy blankets in case our car heater conked out.
At about 8 am, we pulled out of our driveway and turned onto westbound US 40, for the four hour drive to Reno. Because of our excitement about the trip, (and possibly our lack of maturity and/or experience), neither of us took into consideration several potentially disastrous factors: the mismatched tires on our car were barely roadworthy, with only minimal tread showing; we did not have, nor did we own, a set of tire chains for us to use in the event the mountainous roads near Reno might be snowed in or iced over; the windshield wipers worked very slowly when they worked at all; and perhaps the most important factor of all—because I was born and raised in Houston, I had never driven on ice or snow.
Nevertheless, balancing a hot mug of cocoa between my legs and experiencing a giddy sense of euphoria, we headed out, radio blaring—two kids, alone together for the first time in months, setting out on a great adventure. What could possibly go wrong?
About ten miles west of Winnemucca the snow began to fall in earnest. Since US 40 was a winding, heavily-traveled two-lane road, on a good day, as soon as we left the city limits (not too far west of Winnemucca) we got pretty much stuck behind an endless line of cars and heavy semis, undoubtedly caused by the underlying ice and rapidly-drifting snow. The heavy slow-moving traffic actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise because it had worn two well-defined ruts in the snow and ice, and we were able to follow these without experiencing any significant traction issues.
The trouble started when my patience finally ran out. After driving between twenty and thirty miles an hour, stuck behind a large truck for about ninety minutes, I decided that enough was enough.
Sharon had long since given up trying to look out through her side of the ice-covered windshield and had curled up with one of the fuzzy blankets to take a nap. The radio station had faded out a few miles west of town and now all I could get was a bunch of static. This, unbeknownst by me at that time, was probably caused by the heavy ice buildup on the radio’s antenna.
Seeing a fairly long break in the line of oncoming traffic I decided to employ one of my famous Houston-approved passing techniques. Pumping the clutch, I jammed the shifter down to second gear and floored the accelerator while twisting the steering wheel hard to the left. This tried and true passing technique would usually slingshot me quickly around the offending vehicle—and even afford me the opportunity to give the pokey truck driver a shot of that withering DeLeón glare as I roared past.
Nothing even close to that actually happened.
Instead of zooming triumphantly by, the old Chevy decided to perform a ragged three-hundred and sixty-degree spin to the left—while, to my astonishment, still remaining steadfastly planted in my lane behind the truck.
This violent herky-jerky maneuver sent an unprepared Sharon flying headfirst into her door, the force of her body causing it to partially unlock and open. Her hysterical scream totally distracted me from the very important task of keeping my hands on the steering wheel. Instead, I instinctively reached for her—with both hands.
All I succeeded in doing was grabbing a handful of fuzzy blanket and some of Sharon’s hair; all the while the car decided to execute another graceful three-hundred and sixty-degree turn, plus or minus a few degrees.
At this point I thought it best to let nature take its course and I pulled my still-screaming wife close to me and hugged her tight. Since we had no seat belts we both slid along the bench seat, one way then the other, finally propelling headlong in the direction of the partially-open door. In my terror I recall observing a panoramic-like view of snow, grass, and mud flashing through the gap in the door.
I don’t think I screamed, but I may have.
Coming out of its second full circle, the car decided to continue its slide backwards—leaving the truck in a position behind me, and with me now looking directly at the driver of the car that had previously been behind me. Before I had a chance to react, I felt the rear end of the car suddenly dip low, and after a soft thud, the car came to a leisurely and graceful stop. It was almost magical.
I struggled to untangle myself but Sharon insisted on hanging on to me and the fuzzy blanket for all she was worth.
Coming somewhat to her senses, Sharon yelled, directly into my right ear, “MY GOD, FRANK! DID WE HIT SOMEBODY?”
“No, I don’t think we did.”
“JESUS, WHAT HAPPENED?!” My right ear began to ring.
“Sharon, if you let me go I can get out and see if there’s any damage to the car.”
“AM I BLEEDING?”
I quickly assessed her wild-eye face, “No sweetie, you’re not bleeding. Now let me go. I see the man from the truck I was trying to pass coming this way.”
She relaxed her death grip and I made an attempt to get back to my side of the seat.
“GOD FRANK, EVERYTHING LOOKS FUZZY!”
“Your glasses are on the floor, honey. Now get them on, stop screaming, and let me get out so I can talk to the nice man.”
I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled myself up and towards the driver’s side door. I was amazed to note that the car’s little engine was still running and the gear shift vibrating gently was in neutral.
I pushed the door open with my foot and tried to step out. A rather pudgy mustachioed man wearing a heavy jacket and a Russian-style fur cap extended his hand to help me. I hopped out onto some snow-covered grass and saw that we’d slid backwards into a shallow ditch that ran alongside the highway.
“You OK, son?” He said, in an accent I couldn’t quite place.
“Yeah, I’m good. You OK?”
“Me? Sure! You’re the one who spun out behind me. I just stopped to see if you were OK.”
“Oh, thanks. No, I’m fine.”
“What about the little girl on the floor?”
I looked back to see Sharon scrambling around trying to find her glasses.
“Oh, she’s OK. That’s my wife.”
“But she’s on the floor.”
“She’s looking for her glasses.”
“Oh.”
I walked around the back of the car to see if I’d done any damage to the rear bumper.
“Doesn’t look like you did anything to it.” Moustache-man said.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“We need to pull you out pretty quick, your exhaust pipe is buried in the dirt. Wait a minute, I think I got a chain in the truck.”
“You know,” I said, waving him back, “let me try to drive it out first.”
“You can’t drive it out on this incline. You’ll do nothing but spin the wheels and dig yourself in.”
I pulled open the front door and started to get back in. “Let me try. If this doesn’t work then you can pull me out.”
“OK,” he said, disapprovingly, “but you’re wasting your time.”
“What’s going on?” Sharon asked, her glasses a little off center.
“Nothing. I’m gonna try to drive us out of here.”
“Oh, OK.” She pulled her glasses off, and while squinting, twisted the temples to try to get them straight and bent back to normal.
“You OK now?” I asked.
“Yeah, I just couldn’t see anything and I bumped my head on the door handle.”
“OK, let me try to get us out of here.”
I depressed the clutch and pulled the shifter into first gear.
“It would work better if you use second gear instead of first!” The man yell, observing from the top of the ditch.
“OK.” I said, and left it in first gear.
Gunning the engine, I slowly engaged the clutch, and to my complete surprise, the car began to move slowly up and toward the road. I followed the ruts I’d made going into the ditch and the tires held their traction. In a few seconds we were out and up on the shoulder.
I looked in the rear view mirror as I pulled away and saw that the man had removed his fur hat and was scratching his head. He wasn’t the only one who was surprised. I waved.
The traffic behind me in my lane had come to a dead stop, and the traffic in the opposite lane had slowed to no more than a crawl. I rolled my window down and waved my left arm at the traffic to make a hole. They did, and I smoothly merged back into the westbound lane. Accelerating through the gears I saw that I had a clear view ahead of me—all the traffic in front of the truck now long gone.
Settling in, I took one last look back and I was pleased to see that in spite of my spin into the ditch, I was now well in front of the truck that I had unsuccessfully tried to pass, and there was no traffic in front of me. It was still snowing, but the ruts worn in the snow helped me stay relatively stable.
The rest of the trip was uneventful if not painfully slow. The further west we traveled, the lighter the snowfall became, and eventually I caught up with the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Now careful not to lose my patience, I stayed in the queue. The trip, which under normal circumstances would’ve taken us about four hours, took well over nine hours to complete.
Sharon and I were pretty much a couple of basket cases when we finally arrived at Pat’s dingy little trailer.
Good News & Bad News
It was early December and we were about to spend our first Christmas together as a family. Alberta had asked if we wanted to spend the holiday with her and Bernie, but after some discussion we decided it would be best if we just spent it by ourselves. Besides, neither of us really cared for Bernie that much. He tended to be loud and obnoxious, and always seemed to point out how he and Alberta were not planning on having any kids until they were sure they could afford to, and how he’d never want to have to work two jobs, and so on.
“Sure don’t want my kids wondering where their next meal is gonna be coming from, or where Daddy is all the time, right Dinks?” He’d say in a sneering superior tone.
We did, however, reluctantly accept their invitation to a small pre-Christmas dinner. Sharon offered to bring a homemade dessert and, a little surprised at that, I wondered what she had in mind. Turned out she could bake a pretty decent cake.
A few days before the dinner at Alberta’s I’d just come home from the gas station and was getting ready to get into the shower.
“I need to talk to you when you finish your shower, OK?” Sharon said, a little too seriously.
“Sure,” I said, “wanna talk now?”
“No, go ahead and shower while I set the table.”
“OK.”
Sharon had moved Ricky’s bassinette out into the main room, and for once he was quiet and seemed contented. I walked over and started making small talk to him. When not in pain or sick with a cold he really was a precious little guy. Thin face, bald head, and big expressive eyes. It was easy to make him smile, and boy, could he rattle off the baby talk.
“Frank, could you hurry up and get finished? Dinner will be done soon.”
I hated to leave the baby because it was so seldom that he was in this kind of mood. But Sharon looked rushed and nervous.
“OK, on my way. Bye Ricky M.” I said, letting his hand go. He gurgled something, kicked his legs, and grinned his little toothless grin.
***
Pulling my chair out, I sat down heavily and demanded to know what was for dinner.
“Stew.” Sharon said, bringing the dark blue pot to the table and carefully setting it on a pot holder. “Serve yourself,” she ordered playfully.
As I scooped out the steaming stew into my plastic bowl I asked, “So, what’cha wanna talk about?”
“Oh, it can wait. Let’s eat.”
“OK.”
Throughout the meal she seemed distracted, her mind a thousand miles away.
After we’d finished our meal I volunteered to do the dishes. Sharon smiled gratefully and excused herself to go change the baby and get him ready for his night bottle.
“Wanna talk now?” I asked as I poured the leftover stew into a plastic container.
“Let me do this first. By then you’ll be done with the dishes, OK?”
“Sure.” It seemed to me that as anxious as she was to talk earlier, she was now stalling a lot. She quietly rolled Ricky into the darkened bedroom.
I finished the dishes and sat down in the main room to catch the evening news on our little console TV. Sharon came out of the bedroom and proceeded to warm Ricky’s bottle. She was quiet and pensive, staring aimlessly out the window over the sink into the cold Nevada night as the bottle warmed.
“You OK?” I asked, getting a bit concerned.
“Oh, yeah. Let me finish this, OK?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She hurried back into the bedroom after squirting some formula onto her wrist and determining that it was the right temperature.
About ten minutes later she came out and quietly closed the door.
“There, I think he’s down for the night.”
She sat down next to me, but kept staring at the TV.
“OK.” I said, maybe a bit impatiently. “What’s going on.”
“Well,” she said apprehensively, “I went to the doctor today for my three-month checkup.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Everything OK?”
“Yes, everything is fine.” She was still staring straight ahead. “Except…”
She had my full attention now. “Except what?”
“He confirmed what I was afraid of.”
“What? What’s wrong?” I said, suddenly very worried that the doctor had found something seriously wrong with her.
“I’m pregnant.” She blurted out.
“Pregnant? Pregnant? How could you be pregnant?”
Sharon turned her head slowly, adjusted her glasses, and gave me a look that said, ‘How can you ask me that?’
I wasn’t sure what to say, and for a split second I expected her to burst out in a peal of laughter and say something like, ‘Oh my God, you should see the stupid look on your face! I’m kidding, you idiot!’
But, she just kept looking at me.
“So, he said you’re pregnant? Really?”
“Yes Frank, really!”
“Shit…”
And then we were both very quiet—blindly staring at the TV—neither of us knowing what else to say.
A few hours after we’d gone to sleep, I woke up when I sensed a little shaking movement in our bed. I glanced over at Sharon in the darkness and saw her petite shoulders quivering.
I lay there for the next few hours listening to her softly cry her heart out.
***
On a cold sunny morning in January of 1963, I pulled my old Chevy into one of the parking spaces on the base in front of the Rec Room to wait with my crew for the bus to take us to the top of the mountain for the first of my three-day shifts.
My new crew chief, a technical sergeant from North Carolina, walked up to me and said, “You need to go to the commander’s office.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“What does he want?”
“That’s not my business to know. Now get your ass in gear and report in to the commander.”
“Sure, OK, sarge.” I turned to head to the main Quonset hut where the commander had his office. “What if I miss the bus to the hill?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Not my problem. Now git!”
I walked through the door and headed up to the Duty Orderly’s desk. I was trying to remember if I’d done something wrong last night when I’d worked the last of my three evening shifts. I was sure I hadn’t, because if I had this new crew chief would’ve gone off on me like a rabid pit bull. My old crew chief, Sergeant Nietzsche, had been calm and easy going, but this new guy was a loud overblown bully.
I walked up to the counter. “Airman DeLeón reporting as ordered!” I stated to the orderly.
“Hmm, DeLeón?” He said, shuffling through a stack of papers, finally finding what he was looking for. “Oh yeah, let me announce you to the First Sergeant first. Wait here.” He got up, walked over to the First Sergeant’s office door and knocked loudly, once.
“COME!” Was the response, and the orderly walked stiffly into the office, closing the door behind him.
In a couple of minutes later, he reappeared. “The First Sergeant will see you now. Just walk on in and present yourself.”
“Airman DeLeón, reporting as ordered, sir!” I stood stiffly at attention, but did not salute as the First Sergeant was an enlisted man.
“Stand at ease, airman!” He said, without looking up from the sheaf of papers he was shuffling through.
I relaxed and waited, curiosity making me tremble a bit.
He finally looked up at me. “Do you know how long you’ve been here, airman?”
“Here, sir? Like, right now?”
“No! Here, at the Winnemucca Air Force Station!”
“Well, uh…I got here June of nineteen sixty-one. So, let’s see, that would make it about nineteen months now, sir.”
“Exactly!! Do you know what that means, airman?”
“Well, no sir…not really.”
“It means that you’re a month overdue for your station rotation!”
“Station rotation?”
“Yes, airman! Your tour here was slated for eighteen months, and you’ve now exceeded that by over 30 days!”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Sorry sir.”
“Not your problem, airman! Probably some type of fuckup made by those idiots at the Reno headquarters!”
At this point my mind was running at full capacity trying to figure out what all this meant. I know a few of the guys I worked with, like my buddy Jay and Sergeant Nietzsche, had suddenly received orders to transfer out, and they’d been gone within three to four weeks. But with all that had going on in my life, I really hadn’t given much thought to my being rotated out.
“Does that mean I’m being rotated out to Reno?” I asked, cautiously.
“Oh yeah, you’ve received orders for rotation all right, but it’s not up to me to tell you where. That’s the commander’s responsibility. Let me go get him.”
He got up suddenly, and I popped to attention.
“At ease, airman. I’ll be right back.”
I relaxed, and he left the office. While he was gone I started thinking about this rotation and playing the various scenarios in my mind. If we were to get transferred to Reno then we could live close to Pat, making Sharon maybe a little happier. Besides, Stead Air Force Base was large and had a lot of amenities: the Base Exchange for one, where we could shop for groceries, clothes, and lots of other stuff (think Wal-Mart); a base theater, where the admission was about half of what local theaters charged; and maybe, just maybe, we could be lucky enough to get assigned to base housing. Now, that would be so great.
“He’s ready for you, DeLeón!” the First Sergeant said loudly, startling me just a bit.
“Yes sir, thank you!” I turned to leave his office and headed to the door marked, “Base Commander”.
“Don’t forget to salute!” The First Sergeant reminded me as I knocked once on the commander’s door.
“Airman DeLeón reporting as ordered, sir!” Ramrod straight, I popped a snappy salute.
“At ease, airman. Have a seat.”
His rank was major, and he’d had been at the Officers’ Club a few times when I played the piano and my guitar in what seemed such a long time ago.
Looking at some papers he was holding in one hand, while the other played with the bowl of the dark brown pipe he was smoking, he finally peeked over the top and said, “So, you’re going to be leaving us, huh?”
“That’s what the First Sergeant said, sir.”
“Hmm. Did he mention where your next assignment was going to be?”
“No sir.”
“Tatalina Air Force Station, McGrath, Alaska. Know where that is?”
I was still trying to process the place in Alaska he’d just mentioned. “Uh…sorry sir. What?”
“McGrath! McGrath, Alaska! Do you know where that is?”
“No sir. I think I know where Anchorage is, but not McGrath. No.”
“Well son, it’s nowhere close to Anchorage…matter of fact,” he mused as he closed his eyes to envision where this place might be, “it isn’t close to anywhere.”
He put his pipe in a little ceramic bowl shaped like a commode, then stood up and walked to a wall where a large geographical map was posted.
“McGrath, McGrath. Let’s see.” He rolled his finger around the large green and beige map. “Ah! Here it is! Come here.”
I walked over and squinted at the little dot on the map at the end of his finger. ‘McGrath’. It was situated in almost exactly in the center of the state of Alaska, next to a small squiggly river running northeast to southwest. There was nothing around this place for miles. It seemed so desolate.
“What do you think?” The major asked.
“I don’t know. I’m just kind of wondering what my wife will think about going there.”
“Wife?”
“Yes, sir. I got married in June, sir. Had a baby in September.”
“Baby?”
“Yes sir.”
He stared at me, apparently waiting for some kind of punch line. Hearing none he motioned me back to the chair.
“Well son, this is going to be a bit of a tough go, I’m afraid.”
“How so, sir?”
“See, this assignment is for twelve months, beginning next month…February. But the bad news is that it’s rated as a remote assignment.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, afraid that I already knew the answer.
“It means you go there for twelve months…no wife…no kid…just you.”
I felt numb, and all of a sudden I couldn’t seem to put two thoughts together in my head. Remote! My God, I thought finally, how did it all come down to this?
“Sir?” I forced the word out of my mouth.
“Yes, airman?”
“What am I supposed to do with my wife and child?”
“Well, I’m assuming she’s a local girl, so maybe have her move back with her folks. Grandparents love grandkids.”
“Oh, I don’t think we can do that. Her mom is a single mom…and she lives in Reno now anyway. And my parents, well they live in Texas. I don’t know how I would get my family down there.”
“Well son, that’s going to be your problem to work out, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir, I guess.”
“OK. Go on out and talk to the First Sergeant. He’ll give you your orders, the paperwork you’ll need to set up your dependent pay, moving instructions, and whatever else you’ll need prior to your reassignment. Good luck!”
“OK, thank you, sir.” I stood and managed a not so snappy salute.
I zombie-walked back out to the foyer between the two offices, my thoughts whirling around in my head.
“Airman DeLeón!” It was the First Sergeant. “All the paperwork you’re gonna need is out with the orderly. Pick’em up on your way out.”
“OK, thank you.” I turned to leave when I realized that I hadn’t asked a very important question.
“Sergeant?”
“Yes, airman.”
“Well, I didn’t mention to the major that in addition to the baby born last September, my wife is pregnant with our second child. That baby is due in August of this year. When I go to Alaska, will I be able to come home for the birth of that baby?”
“Airman DeLeón! This man’s Air Force does not exist solely to solve your fucking problems. And, no! Your assignment is rated as ‘remote.’ That means you’re there for the entire twelve months…no leave, no nothing! Twelve months!”
“Yes sir, I know and I’m sorry, but when I leave, my wife will be left alone with two infants to take care of by herself. I don’t know how she’s gonna be able to handle that.”
“Well, airman. There’s only one thing I can tell you about that!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You should’ve kept your dick in your pants! Now, get out of here, I have things to do and you need to go to the motor pool to have someone drive you up the hill for your shift. Good day!”
“Good day, sir.”
I don’t actually recall my walk back to the motor pool, or the drive up to the radar site on the mountain. What I do remember is my reporting in to my crew chief and him acting like I’d gone AWOL.
“About time you got your ass back here! Now get into the radar room and see who needs a break.”
“Yes sir.”
“Hey, DeLeón?” The sergeant yelled as I stared to walk away. “Somebody fucking die, or something?”
“Sir?”
“You look like your fucking dog died! So if he didn’t die then fucking cheer up! I don’t need to have you dragging your sorry ass around here all fucking depressed! You hear me?”
“Yes sir.” I turned quickly, hoping he didn’t see my mood turn from morose to rage. My anger told me to go back and bitch slap him, but my instincts told me that it would be much safer just to keep moving towards the radar room.
For the rest of the shift I sat quietly watching the phosphorous glow of the height finder antenna on my radar screen swing up and down, and I answered each altitude request strictly by rote.
And, until I finally got back into my car and headed home, the same two questions kept rolling around in my head: What am I going to tell Sharon, and what are we going to do about Ricky and the new baby?
To be continued……
