Like it was yesterday.
Sitting around a radio – chain smoking – staring to somewhere in space – pondering oblivion.
You and your friends – all eighteen – all went to the draft board.
Future on hold – maybe no future at all – last good day on earth.
The tinny, dispassionate voice on the other end of the speaker – droning out birthdates and numbers. Him; it’s just a job – you; it’s just a body bag.
Head going to explode – hands soaked to the bone – heart beating a million miles an hour.
One cigarette left – you bought a pack this morning – went through it all in less than an hour – Lungs destined to become prunes at this rate.
It’s forever – one number after the next – one birthday after the next. It would put you to sleep if you weren’t terrified.
You think about all the things you never got to do.
Never hit a homerun – never bought that Mustang when it was almost free.
Never had anybody call you in the middle of the night to say they loved you.
Never found the one who felt the same way you did.
Never felt special. Never got picked.
Never saw The Beatles when they were in L.A.
Never had anybody stick up for you when you got caught.
Never had a Pink’s Chili Dog.
Never spent the night with somebody you loved or even liked a lot.
Last cigarette stubbed out. Empty pack sitting exhausted in your shirt pocket.
Gas station two blocks away. If you ran, you won’t miss much.
Ask your friends to keep an ear open – they nod. The collective sweat in your group could float the Queen Mary.
Make it to the gas station and back in a little over a minute.
World speed record and a pack of Pall Mall’s.
Look nervously around the group for maybe an answer.
You got picked – Number 10.
Turn grey, look ashen, chest tightens.
If you dropped dead now . . .
Collapse in your seat – bury your head in your hands.
Think of something funny – you got nothing else.
Buddy tries – tells you Number 10 ain’t so bad.
Consider all the other guys born on September 23rd.
You pick your head up – September 23rd? You’re weren’t born on September 23rd.
Friend looks puzzled – could have sworn . . .
The Voice of Doom then calls out another birthday – Yours: October 18.
October 18 – Number 340.
Blood rushes back to your face – you no longer look like a candidate for embalming fluid.
You see light at the end of the tunnel.
You got a reprieve – so did your friends. Nobody went below 100.
You would all celebrate but the best you can do is go home – rest – resume breathing and count blessings.
You; it’s sitting in your room, making a list – everything you’re going to do.
Tomorrow it’s Pinks – celebrate with a Chili Dog.
It’s the least you can do for a start.
And while you’re getting your life in order, here’s a little under an hours worth of Mississippi Fats on KPPC in Pasadena – September 6, 1971.
