Search and destroy, p.2
Search and Destroy, page 2
CHAPTER 2
RICK HAD A HARD TIME getting out of bed the next morning, but he made it to work on time and he put in his day, even though the eight hours seemed like twenty. The money was good, but the work didn’t interest him. He mixed mortar for a crew of three bricklayers and then carried it up scaffolds, climbing with a heavy bucket in one hand. Whenever he had time, he also had to “strike joints,” which was using a metal tool to smooth out the drying mortar between the bricks. He sort of liked doing that because it finished off the job and made the brickwork look good, but he usually wasn’t at it long before he heard his boss wail, in his nasally voice, “Hey, Rick, we need some more mud up here.”
The boss, Darrell, was a moody guy. He could be funny and sort of easygoing at times, but he was a stickler about the “mud” and cussed Rick out at times. Rick mixed the mortar the same way every time, but Darrell was always telling him it was too wet or a shade too light in color. Rick didn’t see how it could be, and he didn’t see why Darrell had to get so upset about it, but he never talked back to the guy.
On Thursday of that week Darrell showed up in a bad mood. Before Rick mixed his first batch of mortar, Darrell called for him to help pull down some scaffolding and then rebuild it in a new place. That was fine with Rick, but then Darrell yelled about having to wait because no mortar was ready. There was no way for Rick to speed up the process, except to shovel the sand and cement into the mixer a little faster, and that’s what he did, but when he carried up the first batch Darrell told him it was way too wet. He swore at Rick and told him, “This job ain’t that hard. Your dad told me you were a good kid, and that’s why I took you on, but if you don’t know how to count how many shovels of sand to throw in, tell me now and I’ll hire me a Mexican who at least knows uno, dos, tres.”
“I did count. I put in exactly—”
“It’s not just counting. You gotta look at the stuff. By now you oughta be able to see when it ain’t right.”
For three weeks the guy had been harping on him about counting right, mixing by the right formula, and now it was supposed to be a matter of judgment. Rick held on for a moment, then he said, “Do you want me to add a little more sand into this—”
“No. That’ll get the color wrong. Just dump this batch out and go back and mix it right.”
So what did that mean? Mix it by the numbers or use his judgment? Rick decided to play it safe. He counted carefully as he shoveled in the mix, but he put in a little less water than the time before. He took a good look at the stuff as he dumped it from the mixer and it seemed about right, so he carried a couple of buckets of it around the corner. Darrell was waiting, smoking a cigarette and talking to the other bricklayers. They were all three built like pro wrestlers, with big arms and shoulders, but Darrell had a big gut on him.
When Rick poured out the mortar on Darrell’s board, Darrell started cursing. “That ain’t no different from what you brought me last time, Rick. What’s wrong with you? I don’t have all day to wait around here. Can you do this job or can’t you?”
Rick knew he was close to losing control, so he said nothing. He put his hands on his hips and waited to find out what Darrell wanted him to do. But Darrell was losing it too. He stuck his toe under the mortar board and flipped it over, dumping the mud on the ground. “Do I have to come around there and mix the stuff, then carry it to myself?”
“Yeah. I guess maybe you do,” Rick said. He turned and walked away, pulling off his gloves as he walked. He needed a job, but he wasn’t going to put up with any more of this stuff. He could hear Darrell yelling at him, cursing at him for being a punk and an idiot, but he didn’t care. People didn’t have to treat each other like that. Dad would be mad about him walking off, but he had taken enough.
What Rick didn’t dare do was go home. If he returned early, his mother would ask questions and then his dad would find out. He decided to look for another job, and once he found one, he would tell his parents he had decided to try something else. That wouldn’t be so bad. Dad would get the word on what had happened sooner or later, since he saw Darrell now and then, but if Rick had a new job, his dad wouldn’t be so upset. So Rick drove to the employment office downtown and filled out some papers, but the woman who took the forms didn’t give him much hope. “We’ve got a lot of young guys like you looking,” she said. “I hate to admit it, but the best way is to know someone. Or you can pound the pavement—you know, just put in a lot of applications at stores and various kinds of companies.”
Rick had never had to look for a job before. He had always worked during the summer, but usually his dad had known someone, or some friend had told him about an opening. He hadn’t realized it was so hard to find work. But he didn’t go looking that day. He couldn’t really pound on doors dressed the way he was, and that sort of stuff scared him anyway. He thought maybe he’d check around with some of his friends that night, just to see if anyone knew of anything.
He drove over to the beach, ate his lunch, then found some shade and slept for a while. At 4:30, when he normally got off work, he headed home. He took a shower and ate dinner with his parents and little sister, and he didn’t say anything about his day. But it wasn’t long after dinner that he heard the phone ring and then, soon after, heard his dad’s voice. “Hey, Rick, come on out here.”
Rick was lying on his bed, reading and listening to the radio. He turned the book over on his bed and got up. “Rick!” he heard again. His dad had first called from down the hallway, but now he was right outside the door. Rick opened the door and saw immediately that his dad was angry. “I just talked to Darrell on the phone. He said you quit your job.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“What were you thinking— or were you just not thinking, as usual?”
Dad had probably showered after work, but the grime—even the smell—never seemed to come off him. He was wearing an old plaid shirt with the shirt-tail hanging out, his big stomach, like Darrell’s, bulging underneath. “That guy treats people like dirt, Dad. There was no way I could get anything right for him. He kept swearing at me like I was—”
“So what are you, a cupcake? Can’t you take a little chewing?” Now it was Dad who let out a stream of curses. “Men on the job don’t talk like old-maid schoolteachers. If you do something wrong, they tell you—and they give it to you straight.”
“Hey, I can take that. But Darrell was on my back from the day I got there. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff he called me.”
Dad slammed the palm of his hand against the door frame, shaking the wall. He was not a big guy, not as tall as Rick, but he was powerfully built, and Rick could see how much he wanted to pound his son instead of the wall. He had done plenty of that when Rick was a kid. What he had called spankings had sometimes been more like beatings. He hadn’t done that for quite a few years now, but he had seemed on the edge at times, and Rick had never seen him angrier than he was right now. “Get out!” he shouted. “If you think you can pick and choose your job when work is so hard to come by, then go out and make it on your own. I’m not going to feed you anymore.”
Rick heard his mother begin to cry. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was down the hall watching all this, scared what her husband might do. Dad turned toward her and shouted, “Just stay out of this, Helen. It’s you always spoiling him that’s made him like this. If he has to look out for himself, maybe he’ll start to act like a man.”
“Where’s he supposed to go?”
“That’s his problem. He’s the one who quit his job. I guess maybe he can sell that pretty car he loves so much. That might buy him a little food for a while.”
Actually, Rick was relieved. Dad had made the decision for him. Rick was tired of Darrell, but he was a lot more tired of his father, and he had been for a long time. So he walked to his closet and grabbed his gym bag. Then he started throwing jeans and shirts and underwear into it. At that point Dad walked away. The man was probably bluffing, and Mom might talk him out of the whole thing, but Rick had had enough. He felt bad only when Mom came into the room. “Just wait an hour or two. Don’t go,” she said. “He’ll calm down.”
Rick looked at her, saw how scared she was. She was a little woman, just turned forty, but she looked older, her light hair already full of gray. Her rounded face was red now, her eyelashes wet. She was holding a dish towel and she used it to dab at her eyes and nose. She was the patient one, the peacemaker, and yet Dad was always calling her ugly names and threatening her—especially when he was drinking.
“Mom, I gotta get out of here. I’m the one who always makes him mad. Things will be easier for you if I’m gone.” Rick didn’t believe that, but he wanted to. He didn’t want to feel as though he were running out on her.
“No, things won’t be better for me. But that’s not what I’m worried about. You don’t have anything to live on. I don’t know what you’ll do.”
“I can probably stay with Renny for a few days. I’ll find another job. I’ll get by.”
“Just go over to Renny’s for the night. By tomorrow I can calm him down. But do look for a job tomorrow. If you have something, he won’t be so hard to deal with.”
“I know.”
She put her arms around him, and Rick hugged her for a moment, but he didn’t want that. He didn’t like it when she babied him. Dad was right about that part. It was time for him to be a man. He grabbed his notebook and threw it in his gym bag, gave Mom a quick peck on the cheek, and then left. He drove to Renny’s, and Renny said it was no problem for him to spend a night or two, if he didn’t mind sleeping on the floor.
Rick told him that was okay, but he knew it wasn’t anything that was going to work very long. Renny’s family had money, and they were nice about throwing parties at their house or having “the gang” over, but Rick couldn’t picture them feeding him and putting him up for more than a day or two. All the same, no matter what his mother had said, Rick felt like he had to find a way to avoid going back home.
Rick and Renny spent most of the evening sitting in a booth at a loud, greasy-smelling hamburger place called My Blue Heaven. Some of the other guys were there, all talking about their summer jobs and how much they hated them, so Rick’s story made him an instant hero. “He told the jerk where to shove it; then he walked off the job,” Renny would say, and everyone would laugh.
Rick liked the story the first time or two Renny told it, but gradually, he began to see how pathetic it was. He knew what Judy would say about him—that he was messing everything up, that he had no direction in his life. And now, if he didn’t figure something out, he wouldn’t have money to go to school that fall. That night, after Renny was asleep, Rick was miserable on the floor, and worried, so he got up and turned on a little lamp at Renny’s desk. He pulled his notebook from his gym bag.
My dad kicked me out today. He was mad because I quit my job. I was glad in a way, because I wanted to get out of my house and have some experiences in the world, but now I don’t know how to pull that off. All the guys at My Blue Heaven thought I was a big shot tonight—for telling Darrell off. But it was stupid. I should have found something else first. I talked to my friends and no one knows about any work. Half those guys only have part-time jobs slinging hamburgers or sweeping floors. Something like that isn’t going to pay for an apartment. I could sell my car, but how would I get to work? It’s not very likely I could find a job that’s on a bus line or something like that.
I hope Mom is all right. I hate to leave her with Dad. I hate to think what’s going to happen when Roxie grows up and moves away too. Mom only lives for us.
I don’t know if I hate my dad. It seems wrong to say that. But he’s a bully and he’s stupid. I wish I was proud of him—for something—but I can’t think of anything. He goes to work every day, and we’ve never been broke, but that’s about the best I can say about him. When I was little I always wanted him to be proud of me, but he never showed anything like that, not even when I did my best in school and sports and stuff. So I give up. I can’t please him and I won’t try. I just wish Mom didn’t have to get caught in the middle.
I’ve been trying to go to sleep on Renny’s floor, but I’m too worried about everything. There’s no way this is going to work. I want to take off and maybe work in some other states, but I’d have to have some money saved up to get started. For now I’d have to find some dump of a place to live, but even then, how could I pay the first month’s rent and all the deposits and everything? So that’s not going to happen. I keep thinking about things, every which way, and the only idea that makes any sense is joining the army. I said that to Renny tonight and he about lost it. He says I’ll end up in Vietnam and he’s probably right. That does scare me. But maybe that’s what I want. I don’t understand this war at all. It seems like we’re getting a bunch of guys killed for no reason. But still, maybe it’s what I need to do.
Rick stopped and thought about that. The idea was terrifying, but it was also exciting. Maybe it wasn’t Hemingway’s kind of war, but it was war.
Maybe I should go to Vietnam. Maybe I could learn some things. Maybe I need to go over there and find out what I can about myself. I don’t want to get killed, but I probably wouldn’t, and maybe when I got back, I’d be ready to write. I think I’d have some things to say after something like that. Maybe I need to find my Congo and travel down it until I know what Conrad knew—or discover something else. But I’m not sure. Maybe I couldn’t handle it.
I feel like I’ve jumped off a cliff without thinking about how deep the canyon was. I hope I get up in the morning with some other idea, but I’m thinking tonight, the army might be my only answer.
Rick didn’t sleep much that night, and in the morning he left without eating breakfast at Renny’s. He didn’t want to talk to Renny’s parents and have to answer a bunch of questions. All night he had tried to think of other ideas. He even considered going home and telling his dad he was sorry, but that was just going back to the life he had to get out of. So the army still seemed the best thing. He had a few bucks in his pocket, so he got breakfast at a little coffee shop close to the beach, and then he looked up the recruiting office in the phone book, got the address, and was waiting at the door when it opened. The guy who showed up to unlock the door was some kind of sergeant, but Rick wasn’t exactly sure what all the different stripes meant.
“Come on in,” the man said. He flipped on the fluorescent lights. The little room was lined with shelves, all full of brochures. “I’m Sergeant Cavanaugh,” the man said. “What can I do for you?” He was an older guy, maybe in his forties, but he was muscular and trim and his hair was cut “high and tight” like the guys in some of the war movies Rick had seen.
“I’m thinking about joining the army.”
“All right. Sit down. What’s your name?”
“Rick Ward.”
There was a desk at the back of the room. Cavanaugh walked to it, then motioned for Rick to sit on the opposite side. Rick thought it was funny how straight the man stood, and the stiff way he moved around, but that also appealed to him in a way. The sergeant seemed like the real thing—the way a soldier was supposed to be. Everything on the guy’s desk was stacked neatly and lined up at right angles. “Tell me this, Ward,” Cavanaugh said, “are you a high school graduate?”
“Yeah. I graduated about three weeks ago.”
“Good grades?”
“Pretty good.”
“What is it you want from the army?”
“I guess I want some new experiences. And I feel like I need some discipline. Maybe I can learn that in the army.” Rick had thought about what he might say; he thought that stuff would sound good to a recruiter.
“Do you know about the G. I. Bill?”
“Not exactly.”
“After you serve you can get a stipend for college tuition and expenses. If you don’t have the cash to start college right now, the G. I. Bill is a good way to go.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard something about that. That makes a lot of sense to me.” The truth was, Rick hadn’t considered the money for college a factor until this moment, but it was something he could tell his parents. Even Judy. He would have a plan.
“You realize, there’s a pretty strong chance you could serve part of your hitch in Vietnam.”
“Actually, is there a way to be sure I get to go? That’s something I want to do.”
Sergeant Cavanaugh was watching Rick closely, almost as though this were a job interview. Rick had expected the man to jump all over him and ask him to start signing papers. “Tell me about that,” he said. “Why do you want to serve in Vietnam?”
“Well . . . you know . . . those people have a right to freedom. The Communists shouldn’t be coming in there taking over and everything.” Rick had actually believed that at one time, but then the war had bogged down and nothing had come of any of that. Still, he figured it was exactly what the sergeant would want to hear.
Cavanaugh showed no reaction. He was studying Rick. “See this?” he finally said. He pointed to a medal above his left pocket—a blue bar with a silver rifle across it. “That’s called a CIB—Combat Infantryman Badge. I served a year in Vietnam. So I know what I’m talking about. If you join up thinking you’re going to be a hero, you won’t find the satisfaction you’re looking for. No one back here in the States is going to thank you.”
“I’m sure that’s right. But I’m just saying, I want to do my part. I was even thinking I might want to get into Special Forces or something like that.”
“Young man, I hope you know, war is nothing at all like the movies.”
“Sure. I figured that.” Rick had seen The Green Berets. He and Renny had laughed at all the gung-ho soldiers, but Rick hadn’t admitted to Renny that he actually liked the idea of being as tough as those guys—not scared of anything.
“Were you a high school athlete, Ward?”
“Yeah. I played football and I wrestled.”
“That’ll help you. If you can pass the screening test high enough, and if you handle basic training well, you can apply for Special Forces. You can get yourself a beret, if that’s what you want. And you’ll like how you feel about yourself. You’ll get yourself into great shape, and you’ll know you’re fighting with the best. But you need to know, you may be raising your chances of getting killed or wounded. I came home with a chunk of shrapnel in my back.”
