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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781524642419 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 10/26/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 362 |
| File size: | 906 KB |
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A Pact with the Living
By Dan Eberhart
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2016 Dan EberhartAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5246-4242-6
CHAPTER 1
Josh
"These guys are scared shitless," Josh mumbled.
Around him sat boys and young men whose eyes were wide, glassy and about ready to pop out of their heads. His best friend, Ryan's eyes bulged, too, but he wasn't about to tell him that he looked as frightened as everybody else.
December first was a cold Monday in 1969. On that night, Josh, Ryan and every American man aged eighteen to twenty-six was going to have a number assigned to his birthday by lottery. The number would be a reprieve or a ticket to the war in Vietnam.
Faceless bureaucrats somewhere in Washington D. C., said the lottery would give all draft-eligible males the ability to plan their lives. What the hell did that mean, Josh had thought when he'd first read news accounts about the lottery. He didn't feel like his life was being made easier. Three years earlier, when he'd turned eighteen, he had done his civic duty and registered for the selective service. When his draft card arrived in the mail, he'd been overwhelmed by feelings of ominous responsibility and the sense that somehow his manhood had been ordained. Being enrolled at the University of Colorado granted him 2-S status, a student deferment, but it seemed merely a buffer against reality. But, planning for his future? Anything beyond this night seemed an excruciating mystery.
"Well, they have every right to be scared," Ryan said without turning his head. Defiance and anxiety fused in his voice.
A few guys were telling jokes and others laughed, but they were out of sync with the punch lines. A few of the small number of girls in the crowd had smiles that looked painted on their faces. Two younger looking boys seemed startled every time the double glass doors opened and they watched each newcomer until he found a place to sit. Everyone stole glances at the television set that was perched on top of a pedestal at the front of the room, but they all avoided eye contact in case a chance encounter might ignite unbridled panic.
Cigarette smoke drifted toward the ceiling in filmy clouds. Josh tried to lick his lips but his tongue was as dry as his mouth was sour. Everybody else's nervous attempts at self-deception might have been amusing but for the realization that he was just as terrified. The events unfolding would profoundly affect the rest of his life, and he felt powerless to change the outcome.
He and Ryan sat on the opposite ends of a ratty, over-used couch in the commuter lounge of the University Memorial Center. Though neither had said so, they might have shared hope that there would be comfort in a crowd. A wide tie-dyed headband corralled Ryan's stringy, dark brown hair as his eyes swung back and were glued to the TV. Through the veneer of his indignation bled a sense of vulnerability that was immediately contagious and uncomfortable. Josh followed his friend's gaze to the front of the lounge and marveled at the hypnotic sway the square black box held over the crowd. It held unseen forces that stood in judgment, preparing to dictate the fate of each young man in the room.
A large wooden bowl nudged past Josh's shoulder and crash landed in his lap. Rattled, he was about to jump up and cuss someone out when he remembered the clean-cut frat boy who had stood up and announced the 'pool.' Everybody in for five dollars, he'd declared. The lowest number drawn in the lottery would win all but twenty-five dollars, which would be split between the second and third place finishers. The bowl was heaped with ones, fives and a few ten dollar bills. Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Josh pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. It was the ultimate irony; while the bucks would come in real handy, winning the jackpot unquestionably meant you had a one-way ticket to Vietnam.
Counting out five bills, Josh threw them in the bowl and pushed it over the cushions to Ryan. Laughter erupted from the back of the room. He started to look, but then decided he was tired of people watching. Let's get this show on the road, and over with.
An officious-looking man in a dark suit walked onto the screen and in a stern voice announced, "Welcome to the first annual selective service lottery."
Clamor in the room evaporated. The hush puddled around Josh's feet and a chill stole up his spine. All eyes were riveted on the television. A clergyman stepped into the picture and offered a muffled convocation. The words were hard to understand, but his serious expression left no doubt as to the solemn nature of his message. With a minimum of ceremony, another self-important appearing man introduced as a congressman from New York stepped next to the tall cylinder filled with plastic capsules. He thrust his hand into the container and drew one out. Pulling it apart, he hesitated for an instant and then announced, "Number one is September fourteenth."
Paralyzing stillness fell over the commuter lounge and on the television. Josh realized he had been holding his breath and gasped with everyone else when it became obvious that no one in the room had a birthday on September 14.
A young woman stepped into the picture and was introduced as a member of the Selective Service Youth Advisory Committee from the state of Alabama. A crisply pressed uniform failed to hide her nervousness. She reached into the canister and carefully picked a capsule, only to have it slip from her fingers. With a look of desperation, she glanced down and grabbed frantically at the mound. As if she had found the exact same one, she snatched a capsule and pulled apart the two halves to extract the small slip of paper.
"April twenty-fourth," she said and quickly headed off stage.
Though that wasn't his birthday, Josh felt light-headed and drifted through a haze of suspended animation. Relief and an odd sense of disappointment threaded through the gathering. The air was heavy, and the silence, oppressive. Just as the suspense began to suffocate him, commotion bubbled from a back corner of the room. Mildly thankful for the distraction, Josh turned to see two large, muscled men with a slender, dark-haired woman between them sitting on a tan vinyl couch. They laughed and grinned with arrogance as if they owned the room. Their antics were oil on the water of seriousness that filled the lounge.
It took several seconds for Josh to fit the aberration into the picture. Confusion dissolved into contempt. One of the men, the black one, was a varsity football player, but Josh didn't recognize the other guy. They reminded him of the jocks that had lived on his floor in the dorm during freshman year. Full of swagger and disdain for anyone not as exalted as them, they roamed the halls with brash conceit. Josh loved football, but he had come to despise the Neanderthals that played it and the hero worship they flaunted. Needing to stem his irritation, he grunted and looked back to the television.
A few more numbers went by when the representative from Florida pulled open a capsule. "Number six," he paused, "is September sixth."
"That's me! I win!"
Head and bodies swung toward the outburst. A skinny kid with spikey yellow hair jumped up and scanned the room with a look of triumph, arms raised. His fists hung in the air until the quiet overwhelmed him. The roomful of stares seemed to melt his arms, which dropped to his sides.
"You got that right, Connors!" boomed a voice to the kid's side. A big, meaty hand clapped on him on the shoulder. "You won the most expensive prize that no one wants!" The wooden bowl materialized from the middle of the crowd and bobbed toward the boy named Connors. The kid's eyes were large and white as the polished alabaster eggs Josh's grandmother kept on her knick-knack shelf.
A disembodied voice from the television sliced the air, "Date number seven is October twenty-sixth."
In unison, everyone fell back under the spell of the lottery. Another date was drawn with no reaction from the room when a lanky young man stepped to the microphone. His crisp movements defied a vaguely disheveled appearance. "Number nine, November twenty-second, sir," he barked.
"Aw, fuck!" groaned a voice off to Josh's right.
"Hey, that's my birthday, too!" A boy in front of him yelled, jumping up and whirling around.
While the group tried to fathom the concept of dual winners, Connors pushed the wooden bowl at his round-shouldered friend and announced loudly, "Here, you count out their winnings."
After a quick rummage through the currency, his buddy shouted, "Wow! There's $165 in here! That leaves, uh, wait," the boy hesitated, looking at Connors, "How am I supposed to split up twenty-five dollars evenly?"
Connors looked annoyed. "Give 'em each twenty, I don't care."
The chubby friend thumbed two stacks of bills and handed them toward the second place winners. One handful came to Josh, who turned and passed it behind him. Blood money, he thought.
More numbers found their victims. Groans mingled with shouts of sympathy and callous ridicule. Heads were cuffed, shoulders slapped and backs pounded. Bright red veins scored swollen eyes and agonized smiles tried hard not to quiver. Pity, thick and bitter, washed through Josh. This was Russian roulette, only the trigger got pulled twice. Your birthday in the right capsule put you in misery. A second bullet in the right chamber would put you out of it.
Over the somber drone of the television and through the collective tension, more racket filtered from the back of the room. Josh turned to see the two jocks pointing at a boy whose birth date had just been called. He looked like a small kid who had been told that a parent had died. Tears streaked his cheeks and his eyes were crimson. Watching him cry, the burly black guy hissed, "Pussy."
The woman between the two men attempted an apologetic smile. For a quick moment, she looked at Josh. It was almost like she felt embarrassed in front of him and wanted the bullying to stop for his benefit. The connection dissolved when the two men suddenly stood and made a performance of stretching and yawning. The white guy reached a hand down to the woman and pulled her to her feet.
"Those guys make me wanna puke!" Ryan spat.
Walking through the glass doors, the men swaggered into the hallway, exaggerating self-importance with each step. Disappearing around a far corner, the aura of their defiance lingered. Resentment simmered in Josh's stomach.
"The rest of us are in here sweatin' bullets, and those two act like it's just another game to them," Ryan sputtered.
"Yeah, I think that's Jerome Bookhart, one of the Buffs' linebackers. Don't know who the white guy is, but he's built like a fucking barn!" Josh exclaimed. With accidental curiosity, he added, "And the chick looked kinda like Joan Baez."
Ryan stared at the doors as if their images were embossed on the glass. "Why'd they come here to watch the lottery, anyway? You know what really pisses me off?" Without waiting for a response, he went on, "Yeah, I heard about Bookhart and that he has a shot at the pros, but I bet he'll play the 4F card to get out of the draft, y'know, claim some knee injury or something. Then while the rest of us have to watch our lives auctioned off, they'll wrap themselves in the flag and cheer on President Nixon's war machine!" His growing anger seemed to be lifting him from the couch.
"Hey, where you going, man?" Josh said, alarm in his voice
"I've got a mind to tell them who the real pussies are. I'm getting real tired of these assholes letting the politicians sacrifice our lives for their own immoral purposes."
"Wait, wait, wait!" Josh demanded. "You know what those two guys would do to a hippie like you? I bet the big white guy could send you across the room with a flick of his finger." Grabbing at Ryan's sleeve, he argued, "Fuck 'em, man, they're not worth our time. Let's see what date they're gonna call next."
Ryan was definitely a lover, not a fighter, and those guys weren't going to let him lecture them on the war. Josh shared his friend's revulsion for the jocks, but knew the real drama was in front of them. He kept a hand on Ryan's shoulder until his tension reoriented itself toward the TV. Several more numbers were met with moans and commentary, and then the hazy silhouette of another cadet moved into the screen. The introduction was lost in the room's chaos.
"Shh!" someone hissed loudly.
Piercing the lull, a sturdy voice with a Southern accent announced, "Number thirty-nine is December eleven."
"Shit!" Josh spat and clenched his teeth. "Figures."
"Ah, man, that's your birthday?" Ryan faced him with concern and confusion pulling at his expression. His eyes were wide and questioning, his mouth half-open like words were trapped in his throat.
Josh's eyes slowly turned back to the television, hoping he'd heard wrong. The turmoil bounced around the room and then faded until there was only a bubble of emptiness. A future that once had some definition dissolved into a haze of suffocating, pulsing shadows. Panic seized him as the fear of death swelled in his gut like a balloon daring to be burst. Heat flooded his face, and the skin of his cheeks stretched until they felt brittle. Subtle pressure on his forearm caused him to flinch.
"Josh, are you okay?" The voice was remote, a small buoy riding raging seas in a storm.
Grating noises and vague silhouettes began to dissolve into real shapes and sounds. Breaths came a little easier.
"We'll get you out of this," Ryan said with budding resolve in his tone. "You're not going anywhere if I have anything to do with it." His hand found Josh's shoulder and squeezed gently.
"My student deferment," Josh started with a rush of air, "that'll keep me out 'til '71, I guess." The knowledge was only a minor salve on the burn of inevitability.
"Well, yeah, I guess your 2-S gives you time to plan some way to make sure you never have to go to that goddam war."
The air between them became thick and expectant, but neither seemed capable of adding to the conversation. The crowd was beginning to thin by a person or two here and there. Voices rose and fell. Announcements from the television filled the spaces.
An hour later, the number 286 was called. Tension visibly flowed off Ryan like melted butter. He blew out a big breath and slumped into the couch cushions. His obvious urge to shout out loud was squelched in his glance toward Josh.
"Way to go, man. They say the last third of numbers are safe. I think that covers you. You're free to spend the rest of your life the way you want to."
Ryan replied with genuine concern, "Guess so, but I'm still real bummed about your number. I want to be happy for me, but," he took a deep breath, "you're my best friend, man. I hate that you've got the draft staring you in the face, even if it's a couple years down the road. Maybe, somehow Nixon'll get us out of there by then ... but that ain't gonna happen."
His back stiff and thoughts stale as the air in the lounge, Josh stood and stretched. "Let's get out of here."
They got up and Ryan squeezed his friend's shoulder as they wove their way out of the smoky room and through the UMC. It felt like all the words that needed to be said had been said, so they walked in silence. Pushing through the big wooden door to the outside, a blast of cold slapped Josh's face. He inhaled deeply, and the oncoming winter tasted crisp and refreshing. Beyond the flagstone portico and amber floodlights, darkness trickled through the pines in soft billows. Knots of dried leaves fluttered around their feet as they walked up the stone steps and through the archway into the Mary Rippon Theater. A half circle of flagstone benches swarmed out of the shadows. On the walkway where they passed, a stage would be constructed for the Shakespeare festival that was held every summer. Strains of a song from a record he'd just bought and had been playing seemingly non-stop in the last few days, filtered through his head. It was taken from a speech by Hamlet, and on the soundtrack from the play "Hair."
"What a piece of work is a man." The lyrics came together and he half-sang in a low voice, "How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable. In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god."
Soft amusement dispelled a bit of the gloom. To Ryan's inquisitive expression, he mused, "You know, man is a piece of work. Men are supposed to be noble, angelic and godlike, but what do they do? They start wars. Then the man in charge sends other people's kids to die on the battlefield. He sends other mothers' sons to die for worthless causes.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Pact with the Living by Dan Eberhart. Copyright © 2016 Dan Eberhart. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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