The sergeant said, “Sit down!”
The kid didn’t sit down. In fact, Richie saw, the kid was older than the sergeant. He said, “America is still a democracy. This bus will move when the people have decided it will move. Men!” He turned toward the guys in the seats. “Everyone who wants the door to close, say aye!”
Richie shouted, “Aye!” There were maybe five or six ayes.
“No?”
“Noo!” the whole bus erupted.
The kid said, “I think we need to debate this! Parliamentary procedures apply!”
The sergeant said, “Sit down.”
The kid went right up to him and put his arm around the sergeant’s waist and pushed into him slightly. He maybe outweighed the sergeant by twenty pounds. He said in a calm voice, “Let’s have a debate, all right?” He kept his arm around the sergeant, kept pushing into him, until the sergeant backed toward the driver and shrugged. The debate about closing the door, and then about driving away, lasted twenty minutes. Richie participated. He made the case against blocking traffic.
When the sergeant sat down, the kid sat down right beside him. It was clear who was the boss. When the bus pulled up at the facility, the door opened, and an older man got on, also a sergeant, but a lifer. The bus went dead quiet. This sergeant handed out cards and pencils — they had to write down their names, birth dates, and some other information. When everyone just sat there, the sergeant pretended to get mad and said, “Move it!”
The kid stood up.
“Sit down!” shouted the sergeant.
The kid said, “It is moved by the sergeant here that I sit down. Second the motion?”
A hand went up.
“What the—”
“All in favor?”
A few ayes. Not Richie — Richie wanted to see what might happen.
“All opposed?”
The bus roared.
The sergeant shouted, “Son, if you don’t sit down, I’ll sit you down!”
The kid said, “Motion made to sit me down by force. Second?”
A hand went up.
“All in favor?”
As everyone in the bus shouted “Aye!” the sergeant pushed the kid into his seat. But he popped up to exclaim, “Motion carried!” Everyone laughed.
Now they scribbled, but when the sergeant told them to pass their pencils forward, they all threw their pencils right at him — he had to duck. By the time they had debated and voted for getting off the bus, even he looked a little intimidated, though red-faced and angry. Richie didn’t know what to think.
Once inside the building, they were told to line up. Richie suspected that he was between two guys who knew each other, though they didn’t look at or talk to each other. For a while, things went along — no debates or votes. The “chairman” of the bus was five guys ahead of Richie, and the only thing he did was try to engage every doctor or orderly he met in conversation. Was Dr. So-and-So aware that 68 percent of American voters no longer favored the war in Vietnam? How did Dr. This-and-That personally feel about the invasion of Cambodia? Had Dr. Up-and-Down known Lieutenant Calley personally, and was he present for the My Lai massacre? (This last was said in a smooth and friendly voice.) “Keep it moving!” was all the army people said. But it moved very slowly, because it seemed like it took everyone in the line at least a minute to unlace each shoe and unbutton each button. Richie thought that the army personnel were pretty patient.
They came to a large room and were told to strip down to their underwear, put their clothes into a basket, and stay in line. It was then that he saw that the kid in front of him had painted black skulls with red eyes on his chest and his back, with the words “US Army” across his collarbones. The kid behind him had a bomb blast on his back. The line moved, and the doctors kept their eyes down. The “chairman,” still five ahead, had a map of Cambodia on his back and the words “Next stop, Peking.” They shuffled along very slowly. At one point, the front group paused. Richie could see the first guy come to a doctor sitting on a stool. He turned his head to the right and coughed, then to the left and coughed. He stood there. A few minutes later, when Richie got a better view, he saw that each kid was dropping his pants, and the doctor was sticking his finger up into the kid’s scrotum. They shuffled forward.
Finally, the “chairman” came to the doctor sitting on the stool. The doctor’s assistant muttered something, and the chairman said, “Please repeat your request.”
“Take your pants down!”
“Pardon? Je ne comprends pas.”
The doctor and his assistant exchanged a glance, and then the doctor said, “Baissez votre slip. Tout de suite.” And the kid dropped his pants. Everyone crowded close to have a look. Painted on his chest was an arrow pointing downward, and affixed to the tip of his cock was a photograph cut from a magazine, of President Nixon. Everyone laughed, and even the doctor cracked a tiny smile.
Richie had been told that processing would take a couple of hours, but it was midafternoon by the time they were back on the bus — so it had taken six hours and fifteen minutes. He was tired, and he was glad that the Yippies, because that’s what they were, let the bus go back into town. It dropped them at the recruiting office. Richie didn’t quite know what to do next. He had thought, somehow, that the back door of the facility would open onto a platform, and all the ones who’d passed their physicals would get on a train or a bus to Fort Dix. From there he would call home and tell them what he’d done. But now he was in Boston, not far from Kenmore Square, with some change in his pocket, and he was seventeen years old, and he didn’t know what to do.
—
DEBBIE DIDN’T GO to Kenmore Square very often. Normally she shopped at Coolidge Corner and enjoyed herself in Cambridge — her new boyfriend went to Harvard Business School, and he did seem to remember her last name and to think she was pretty and fun. He respected her principles. He was from Lincoln, Nebraska, where, apparently, they also had principles, and thought Iowans were a little untrustworthy. He made Debbie laugh.
But Debbie’s dentist’s office was right across from those shops on Beacon Street. She was standing in front of the case, looking at the sausage, when a guy bumped her, and she looked up to scowl at him. She could have sworn it was her cousin Richie, though taller and without Michael, which never happened. She put aside the thought, but then he ordered a ham sandwich, and the voice was Richie’s, too. Richie’s and Uncle Frank’s. When he took his sandwich and went to pay, she followed him. He couldn’t have walked more like Uncle Frank, so, when he was out on the street, she said, “Richie!” and he spun around.
He hugged her. He had never hugged her since he was about four years old and told to do so. He had a beautiful grin, and Debbie had to admit she was a little dazzled. It was when he shoved the whole second half of his sandwich into his mouth at once that she realized he was starving, and not in Boston on a school trip or something. She adopted her best teacherly demeanor (at least, it worked with the eighth-graders she was teaching now) and said, “Okay, Richie, what is going on here?” and as they hiked up Beacon Street toward Coolidge Corner, he told her the whole story about walking away from his job, coming to Boston, joining the army, falling into a whirlpool of Yippies.
“No one has any idea where you are?”
“I don’t know.”