DEDICATION AND PREFACE PAGE
DEDICATION:

I cannot thank Rica Saffer of the English Department, of Richland College, in Dallas, TX, enough for encouragement and reinforcement prompting me to tellingly write with confidence and zeal; I must righteously honor her as my devotee this time and hope she allows me to confer my tour de force, if you will, to her and with her in mind.

PREFACE:

I feel indebted to writing and hope that no one goes into shock or reaction after reading this.  I have been a rebel at heart and developed my own method and style for writing which is not original, but more from corollary reading that facilitated my composite definition for the raison d'etre of my writing.

My first rule in picking the subject is to realize what I "got an emotional stake in:" and elaborate on something that means something personally (resolved or not; sometimes I found a "royal road: to my unconscious ego by the Freudian technique of "free association.")  In writing itself I have been tempted to censor my thoughts which I never did in the first draft and often found myself giving rein to a sense of humor slippage of discovered none words, fresh phrases or flattering jargon.  It was this rule that let me know what I was good at writing and, even though I experimented on different subject matter and moods or relationships to the reader, I like to pretend I'm brighter than I am, so I wrote more of what I was good at to avoid plainness.

After the first draft, I was usually admiring it too much to edit it; I had to read it to someone or put it away for a week to let my subconscious improve it in dream work, sudden wee-hour insight, or educated commentary of my prof--I was forced to keep a bedside notebook from brainstorming.  I tried to accept teacher critique without umbrage but couldn't easily.  It was this rewriting or even typing up the paper that showed so much improvement and gratification in its ease.   I was more wordhood conscious at this stage and aware of connotation.  I knew I could spend a lot more time on any one paper, so was never completely satisfied after one week. I have learned a lot about myself in second-chancing my past with vivid re-recreation (being creative about the truth proved educational).

COMITY WITH A COED

There I was, sitting so formally in my German class with my feet together and on the floor, stiffly in my seat, with my round-shouldered back vertical, hands folded loosely on the desktop when I noticed this chic next to me aggressively crossing her legs in my direction and leaning my way.  She was a thing so hard to ogle me that her nearest shoulder was almost as high as her chin.  I immediately slumped back in my chair and thrust my legs out to cross them at the ankle. 

Looking at her with as natural a smile as I could eke out and muster; she grasped her Magen David on her necklace nervously.  She had passed notes in class to me lots of times and was comfy talking to me in the realm of class topics but had not yet dared to get too friendly, though it was tacitly understood that we liked each other.  It all started when he noticed that I was sitting next to her every day.  I couldn't change now without being conspicuous.

"I need such help on my homework I'll die, because I'll never, ever pass!" she fretted while I smiled to encourage her.

I gladly patronized, recognizing the imperative and her feminine touche, and proceeded to open my book.  I continued to straighten her out as she expected.  As esoterics this seemed to  me she was distracted and so I let her interject her two-cents worth of "gee-whizz."  

She went on with such sotto voce I couldn't hear but feigned to understand her with susseration with periodic nods.  I naturally exuded such self-confidence that her eyes flared, dilating without a blink, and her eyebrows leaped giving away her poor impressionable soul.

Somehow, by telepathy or something, we got around to my "pet mania."  I am glad to talk politics with anyone if they can endure my conversation wiles without umbrage.  I couldn't wait to talk with her about it and always tried to give clues of my willingness by using a political tract as a bookmark knowing she was hypersensitive from the McGovern bumper-sticker still on her car like a sore loser.

"I'll bet you know who won that mock-election, don't you?"
"Of course,"  I asserted quite brusquely with my overtones of reassurance.
"Ab ... Steelman ... He won? By that much?"
"Are you going to vote?"  I skillfully evaded her by answering with another question.
"No, I haven't ever voted.  I'm too awfully young.  It seems like my opinions are never important...."
I inadvertently interrupted her but she kept her composure.  She kept quiet, acknowledging my masculinity--and I resumed the lead in the conversation.

"Here's a brochure of the candidate I'm pushing if you're interested."
She rebounded back into her chair and attempted posture as she glanced it over:  I could sense her attempt as she slid both feet as far under her chair as she could.
"Oh!  He's a Republican."  She disgustedly flipped it back; crossing her arms in aloofness; moving away from me in her chair; sitting more formally; squealing:  "Are you a Democrat or a Republican?"

When I answered "I am neither a Republican nor a Democrat" I reversed it and pronounced the latter dysphemistically while gritting my teeth.  She was too sensitive to raw manners, losing all objectivity.

Then she lost her equilibrium shifting her weight back and forth on the chair: She was leaning slightly back and then forward, fidgeting with "pen-in-mouth"  I naturally assumed our attitudinal disparity blocked any further spontaneous communication.  Her congeniality with me digressed into mere rote: She could no longer look me in the eye trying to restrain frank remarks.  I was discomfiting sitting there when she couldn't even admit this guise to herself.

I was going to reconcile us somehow.  When the teacher asked me to dispense other "opinions" I had a clue.  Approaching her desk I deliberated to give her time.  As I just happened to be looking at her, I serendipitously saw those flaring brown eyes gazing at me.  She blushed and we emitted atoning smiles.

This was no ordinary coed that earned my magnanimous pardon.

INNOCENCE LOST IN JAIL

"I can't see any state park near here, Dave, how 'bout if I go ask a cop where we can stay?"

He rode his bicycle over to the county sheriff's office thinking that they would be friendly and help out.
"Where'ya from, boy?"
"Minnesota."
"How didya git down hereya?"
"Rode our bikes."
"Whooo's with ya, boy?"
"My brother.  All we want a know is where to camp tonight.  We won't make it any farther today."
"This is a terrible straaange boy, you tellin' me you drove bicycles all the way??
"Well, our dad gave a ride part-ways."
"North Star to Lone Star," the sheriff gasped astonished, "I s'pose you are plann' in on goin' all the way to Tex-xas, too?
"We are gonna hafta lockya boys up because of our vagrancy code--yawl under eighteen?"

This small-town-southern-bred sheriff threw the juveniles in a cell and the dog in a closet after fetching the other one.
"Dave, what are we gonna do?  I think this's illegal."
"Let's make as much noise as we can, maybe they will come in and listen 'ta us!"
They jumped up and down on the bed in this ten-by-ten cubicle and kicked the cell door making as much noise as possible.  The dog was getting in the act too;  so loud no one could brook it.  In the meantime, the bed broke and it didn't look like they got any attention yelling so frenzied.

"They aren't attending--what can we do?"

They began yelling in unison one phrase:  "We want our rights!"
They had not been given their rights before when thrown into jail, but both knew from Dragnet that this was illegal.
"OK, yawl have dunit now. Yer gettin' solitary confinement.  If ya make any mo' noise ya will be sorry."
They thought they were in some kind of limbo because this sheriff thought he could get away with anything.  Then he sent for the dog-catcher to take care of the noisome dog permanently.
"I'll kill'em if they hurt Nikki."
They were also worried about the bikes which were unlocked.  They knew all they had to do was call their grandpa to prove they weren't runaways.  They thought solitary confinement was rough, but it was better that they are separated the way they incited each other so easily.  Neither cell had blankets and cushions and being made for four people they were cold trying on concrete.
Finally, with the change of shift, a new sheriff decided to find out something for himself.

"Doya want to call your mother, son?"  the deputy politely asked.
He couldn't believe it; having fallen asleep it was unreal.
"We hafta call our grandfather first--don't know our mother's number."
"I'm not sure I believe you, son. But we'll give it a while."

The deputy called their grandpa and explained the predicament so that he would divulge her unlisted phone number.  Having talked to her they agreed to let the mother's step-father take responsibility if he was willing.
When "Lloyd" arrived, as the boys called him, it was a  natural for him to "take to liking" the paternalistic law officer; seeing the "Mayor Daley was here!"   plaque he drank his usual demitasse and refilled his thermos.  The "kaffeeklatch"led to the boys' good fortune: "I s'pose I won't really press any charges for the busted bed which, according to the books, is a $100 fine--seeking you are taking custody; sir!"

The closer-than-ever brother-ship was kindled by this reprehensible report; they shared the embarrassment but let this one go by; for 300 miles there were no lectures, and "thank goodness" on a fourth-of-July visit.

AN ESCAPADE TRIALS COURSE

A friend of ours named Tom, my brother Mark, and I had been out driving an LTD with a four-barrel and nitrous-oxide converter down Forest Lane in Dallas when we got restless and tacky.  My brother volunteered to lighten up the evening with hustling some chic and brought us over to her apartment.  I didn't know what girl they were talking about but went along--being the night for tricks or treats. When we knocked on her door she took about five minutes to answer and was still risque or indisposed (en dishabille). 

 I recognized the girl right away; I had liked her a long time but never had the nerve to ask her out.  She was supposed to be prudish; this would be a challenge.  She let us in because we were a slight acquaintance and Mark was a good friend.  We talked about three hours in her pad that night; it took that long to get anywhere.


We always bring our friend along because he is blunt and cavalier in guiding the conversation.  His double-entendre proved poly-advantageous; we were talking marriage.  She had some kind of complex about her looks, but we reassured her.  She had nothing to worry about:  "Anyone of us would marry you."  Tom was getting vulgar:  "Why won't you trust me on a date, you twerp?"

"Why won't you go out with me?" Mark asked intrepidly.

"You're too young for me--and besides, we have zilch in common."

We had not been drinking but the milieu centering around was apropos to the Latin sally "in vino veritas" (in wine much wisdom).  We had lost all inhibition and were rapping candidly when Tom had to say:  "Well, Karl looks like the only one who got anywhere tonight."  Actually, she found out how much we had in common and agreed that we could have a lot of fun together.

As we were shaking hands on our rapport about dating propriety I ventured:  "I admit I don't have a crush on you, but I think we'd be cheating ourselves if we didn't get to know each other."  I said rather matter-of-factly intimating an overture.

We now agreed on everything from "male-chauvinism": too long engagements and Mark and Tom were shocked at how naturally this evolved; I didn't know what was going to happen but our tenacity was inevitably going to lead to something.  I told her that I was too shy to talk with her before and if we weren't so flippant I wouldn't know, without this perfect set-up,

"Do I have to call you up to ask you for a date when I'll be scarfed--or can I ask you now?"
She told me where she worked but having two jobs she didn't have much time but could stop by and talk with her any time.

As we left I told Mark that only he knew how long I wanted to get to know this girl.

"Oh, it's so obvious when you like a girl--why do you think I brought you over here tonight?"

CASE HISTORY

It was a hot summer day in humid Okinawa and  I had a hard time getting to sleep for going to bed at 3:00 AM. It seemed like a dream after just falling to sleep when this dude raps on my door waking up everybody in the barracks.  Those walls were so thin that I could hear a guy roll over in his bed across the hall.


I really got embarrassed when someone knocked on my door or shouted at me from the corridor and had to answer with all celerity for respect to other mid-workers sleeping in this wing of the billets.  Dream-like memories started flooding my mind like on death-row.  This had happened many times before; I always seemed to oversleep for latrine detail and "lucked-out" when the squad-leader wok me without "writing me up," like I had brown-nosed him or was his friend.  I also had a friend that would come over and wake me, but I thought he had been trained by now so didn't think it was him.  

This had only taken a second or two and I was already jumping out of bed, scrambling for the door,   the usual: "just a minute" in my "pass-the-butter" voice as I heard him say my name, recognizing the company clerk.  This was their way of letting us know it was important; it could've been anything; he knew everybody's personal business being a messenger-boy.


I was told to call the commanding officer.   He never knew anyone's schedule and didn't care if he would've.  I put on some civvies, usually just thrown over my chair, and was trying to wake up before this started to hit me.  I must've been bitter if awake; it was fortunate to have a good disposition. Calling the CO [commanding officer] made me feel important.   I used the line where no one would hear.


"We need to discuss this with the Chaplain, Broberg."

He made an appointment for half an hour in his atelier.  I was still in a daze going up to my room to finish dressing.  I came back down in ten minutes to wait and had twenty minutes to kill when a friend came in to talk for fifteen minutes.  We had a little "mutual-admiration society" going about the captain.  The last time I talked with the chaplain had been over a discrepancy.

I already knew him; he thought a lot of me for being a Sunday School teacher.  I remembered the time they thought I was shooting heroin because my urinalysis showed up positive.  The chap and I knew the system "it's accurate enough for the Army."  I had to shake hands after saluting affecting a congenial atmosphere; I was ready to talk; I didn't have a notion about what.

"It's your dad.  Your gramma sent a wire via the Red Cross."
"Is he in the mental hospital again?"
"He shot himself in the head."
"Sounds like my dad alright."