Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
the physical by being a hippie—stoned, dressed funny and talking cliché. The army couldn't
draft a bunch of hippies, except that it did.
My draft counselor, a short, squat, unimposing fellow of impressive skill, pushed his black
glasses back up flush and poo-pooed the hippie idea. No standard precluded military service
on the basis of looking or acting strange—to a point. Of course that point was the difference
between normal and genuine strangeness. With thousands of would-be failures showing up
daily as hippies, he could not recommend the hippie approach.
He advised psychiatric treatment. We had time for a series of sessions that would be billed
and paid for—don't worry about the expense; it was covered. Following those sessions, the
psychiatrist would document severe instability and/or psychosis in a letter that I would take
to my physical. he rest would ill in. Read the topic.
I read, developing my strategy and awaiting notice as June graduation and death ap-
proached, inexorably. Its arrival at last was a relief.
Greetings . . .
From
1001 Ways
, draft counselor guidance and personal improv, the strategy
was ready for unveiling. Every inductee was allowed to postpone the physical. We could count
on one postponement. We could request a second postponement and might get it, but we
could not count on the second postponement. We got one. Every inductee was allowed a
change of venue on the physical, especially with a hardship factor. The closest Selective Ser-
vice exam center was St. Louis, convenient but deathly in its low percentage of failures. This
pattern may not be related to Missouri's political inclination, or maybe it's an accurate reflec-
tion. Denver, on the other hand, only seven or eight hundred miles away, had a favorable fail-
ure rate on the military induction physical. I applied for a change of venue to Denver based
on hardship, to help ailing Uncle Fester or some silly shit. Any reason could be suspect. How
could anybody need to be anywhere when they were
going
to be in Vietnam in two shakes?
And they knew it! Come on.
I got Denver with a six-week lead on my physical. My draft counselor called this timing
perfect, and it would also allow for more planning on a move to San Francisco to refuse induc-
tion, if I passed the physical. Meanwhile, I wore long sleeves, long pants, shoes and sox and a
hat to avoid the sun, to become white as a shut-in. A month out, early August, I ordered a bag
of Dexedrine from Brother, a standout stoner of the western world. He felt that five milligrams
daily would do the trick over a month. I weighed about 140 in those days. My counselor said
the actual number of pounds would be incidental to the hollow cheeks and eyes, the gaunt
physique and skeletal demeanor. Oh, boy. I ate nothing. It was easy, because Brother fucked
up, oops, and got a bag of thirties instead of fives—that was thirty milligrams of Dexedrine,
with the teeth gnashing and electric energy that did not sit well indoors. He blamed it on those
fucking tiny numbers. I could not survive thirty-milligram dexies daily, but that was okay, be-
cause success and failure merged. I threw in the towel on the whole fucking Dexedrine deal
because I was ready to die at home and didn't give a shit about anything but seeing another