Chapter 3
The Wanting And The Resentful
Randy
The bus ride to Fort Jackson, South Caroline is one of those types of journeys one hopes will never end and the destination will never be reached. Randy sits motionless in his seat, and as the bus speeds down the highway, he feels more angry and resentful with each passing mile. What he feels could even be described as hate for a system that has removed him from a life he was so much beginning to enjoy, or more accurately, hate for a part of the world in which he does not belong.
As far as he knows, he has never done anything to hurt anyone, and for the first time, he can identify with such a person as the beggar lady he remembers from the downtown street. Possibly, she has done nothing to deserve where she finds herself either. What is it she feels towards those who pass where without even a glance? Could it be the same hate and resent Randy feels now in losing the career that was his ambition since he was in high school, and all for nothing – all for a war that has only mobilized opposition and misunderstanding and has even caused an emerging opinion that the United States is actually on the wrong side in the conflict?
Thoughts and reflections fill his mind as begrudgingly, he is being forced to turn away from a life that has become so important to him. He has worked so hard to learn his field and to excel in it but now, when he was finally beginning to enjoy his life, it has all been taken from him. It seems so terribly unfair. In a strange sort of way, he has come to like Euclid Avenue and false emotions or not, he is beginning to feel a punishing and heartfelt loss at the prospect he will never see Evette again. Self-pity and resent are a curious combination. One moment, he feels like crying and the next, he feel like cursing the whole damn world in the most violent and coarse language he can marshal from a disposition which, almost over-night, has changed from content to one of doubt and bitterness.
He gazes at the farmland through the bus window, and his thoughts turn to a psychology class he had in college. He never really understood those terms such as "behavior changing experiences" and "personality establishing traumas," but such things are taking on a true meaning now. Again, he remembers those on Austin Avenue and the beggar lady on the downtown streets. No one is born with a destiny or a wish to be trapped in such an existence, but somewhere in their lives, they had gone through an experience that had either caused them to lose confidence in themselves of simply rebel against what life had doled out to them by losing any resemblance of drive or objective other than to just make it through the next day.
With casual curiosity, he has followed some of the news reports about the aftermath suffered by some of the men who have served in Vietnam. Drug addiction, what some describe as guilt, the inability to hold a job and a host of other characterizations weigh heavily on his mind, and he wonders if this nightmare is about to ruin his life in the same manner it seems to have ruined so many others. Even now, he feels himself a different person than he was only a few days ago, and he has never known the emotions that sear at his heart and mind.
The bus turns into the terminal at Columbia, South Carolina exactly on time. Randy and the other passengers bound for Fort Jackson pick up the one piece of luggage their orders had indicated was permitted and unenthusiastically begin looking for the permanent party post representative who is supposed to meet them. No one is there. They gather in one corner of the terminal and begin to wait. Randy throws his bag to the floor and growls, "Well, it's beginning just as everyone told me it would. Nothing is ever organized, and its always hurry up and wait."
The others manage a stifled laugh but say nothing as they sit down on the benches and begin to stare at the walls. Randy wanders around until he finds the post card rack. He picks up a card picturing a group of cats, and immediately Evette comes to his mind. She often spoke of the group of alley cats that hung around her apartment. There always was one of them at her door, looking for the dish of food she would leave for them. As much as he has tried to get her out of his mind, he can't resist buying the card and trying to think of something to write that would amuse her.
He sits down on one of the benches next to a man with a very unkempt appearance who speaks up, "You remind me of myself about twenty years ago when I was sitting right there on my way to Fort Jackson."
Randy looks at him without much interest and asks, "Were you as pissed off as I am now?"
The man laughs aloud and responds, "No, I wasn't pissed off then but I was within about ten minutes after I got to that fucking post. Hell, I volunteered, thinking the Army was an easy place to make a nice retirement. After I'd been in a little over a year, they had my ass over there in Korea, and that's when I really got pissed off."
The man laughs again and asserts, "Man, I got out on the day my time was up, and then I got smart. I got a job working for the Army as a civilian. I've got just as good a retirement plan as the Army, I don't move around all the time and am even working in the mechanic trade the Army taught me. I laugh all the way to the bank every payday. I'm going to retire in about a year and tell those simply son of a bitches to shove it."
In a moment Randy answers, 'I'd like to tell them to shove it right now."
The man leans over to him and quietly says, "Listen, take my advice. When you get out of basic training, try to get into as many additional training schools as you can. The Army's got this fear that one day it will look around and won't be able to find anyone who knows a damn thing about anything, so there's this paranoia about always training people. If you end up in the infantry and get killed over there in Vietnam, there ain't nobody gonna say thank you."
Before Randy can answer him, he notices what looks like a school bus out in front of the terminal with that depressing olive drab color and little white numbers painted all over it. In a few moments, a very short and thin Sp4 with a clipboard in his hand begins slowly walking through the terminal, and in a very high-pitched voice, shouts, "All men reporting to Fort Jackson, please see me in front of the bus."
As Randy stands up, the man slaps him on the leg and says, "See if you can't get a job like his. That's perfect."
Randy just shakes his head, moves towards the bus and begins to think of all the things people have told him about the Army. It seems everyone agrees the Army only attracts volunteers who think they can't make it anywhere else and it is only the draftees and ROTC officers who manage to keep everything from getting more screwed up than it is. Some say the biggest job in the Army is just to keep things looking good and finding a way to cover up how most people really don't give a damn what kind of job there're doing.
The group of inductees lifelessly finds its way onto the bus and each answers "present" as his name is called by the young SP4. Randy sits down in the first seat, and when everyone is accounted for, SP4 Hannon sits down beside him as the bus leaves the terminal.
Hannon looks at him and asks, "Where're you from?"
"I'm from up east but have been in Atlanta for the past two years."
Hannon looks rather quizzical and continues, "Am I reading your face wrong or am I right you're not especially enthused about being here?"
"No, you're reading me right. I can't tell you how sick I am in having to waste two years in some masquerade like this."
"I know what you mean," Hannon answers as he begins to laugh and shake his head. "I've got six weeks left and then, I'm going to be long gone. Nobody will ever find me within twenty miles of a military post after that. Damn, I hate the Army."
Sitting by a short-timer makes Randy feel even worse but with interest, he asks, "Did you spend any time in Vietnam?"
Hannon's face takes on an obvious expression of triumph as he proudly answers, "Hell no. I figured out a way to beat it. I volunteered for the draft right before they were going to draft me anyway and asked to be sent to the Basic Army Administration Course after basic training. I thought that was a sure way to avoid being sent over there. Even if I were sent, it would be in a safe MOS and not the infantry. Everything worked out fine. I've spent my whole tour in a garrison company just like I'm in now, typing up duty rosters and morning reports and doing little no-nothing jobs like this."
Immediately, Randy remembers what the man in the terminal had just told him about trying to get into the military school system and already, he is seeing a present-day example of the merit of such a design.
When the bus moves through the front gate at Fort Jackson, it is the first time Randy has ever been on a military post. He looks at the buildings and groups of men walking about. He gazes at the motor pools with all the vehicles so perfectly lined up and again thinks of those who have told him the Army's main concern is just to keep everything looking good. The vehicles certain looked good, all lined up and spaced the way they are.
Presently, the bus passes a group of faded, wooden buildings on concrete slabs. The window screens are torn and tattered and none of them has a roof – only aging, rusting metal supports intended to support a canvas covering. With a sarcastic and disapproving gesture, Randy asks, "What in the hell is that?"
Hannon laughs and slaps his knees with both hands as he answers, 'Oh, that's the temporary barracks that were build towards the end of World War II. I believe they also used them during the Korean War. Back then, I think about 80000 men a month were being drafted." He turns his head to survey the withered setting and with an obviously synthetic inflection of sentiment continues, "Once I asked a few of the career people in the company why they didn't tear them down. They said all the post commanders that have been here since they were built felt they would be destroying some sort of monument, or some shit like that, if they were torn down, so they just sit there, not serving any real purpose except to create all sorts of duty details to pull up the grass around them and silly shit like that. Strange, isn't it?"
Randy shakes his head and exhales, only managing an urbane smile.
When the bus reaches the Reception Center area, it is already beginning to get dark. An overweight masker sergeant in a wrinkled dress uniform is standing outside the orderly room and as Hannon steps off the bus, the sergeant grabs him by the arm and in a very unpleasant voice, grimaces, "Hannon, get this aggregation lined up over there in front of the supply room, and don't take the rest of the damn night doing it."
All of the men move forthwith to the supply room before Hannon can follow the sergeant's rather unpolished instructions.
The sergeant walks up in front of the line the men have formed, and as he throws his cigarette to the ground, in a progressively more disagreeable tone begins, "I know it's not your fault, but you're two hours late. Because on Sunday afternoons, there's a group of morons on duty over there at the motor pool, and today there wasn't a single bastard over there that even knew how to fill out a trip ticket to dispatch that fucking bus to pick you up. They just sat over there asking each other what to do until finally one of them had the mentality to call the orderly room. The mess hall is closed, so you're not going to get any supper, but I could care less." He glances at Hannon and points to the open supply room. As he turns and begins to walk away, disgustedly says over his shoulder, "Issue them the bedding stacked on the counter and put them in the 2200 building."
Randy says under his breath to the man standing beside him, "Now there's a polluted image of manhood if I ever saw one."
Each man draws two sheets and two blankets from an over-aged staff sergeant who makes a few marks on a few forms. When each man receives his bedding, the sergeant hands him one of the pieces of paper and says without looking at him, "Use that to wipe you ass."
After they've all made their way to the second story of an old barracks building, Randy makes up his bunk and notices several moods exhibited by some of the other men. Some are laughing and talking among themselves, while others are quiet and withdrawn. Randy doesn't feel like talking to anyone, and certainly not laughing, as his thoughts are only of the life he has been forced to leave. He has never felt so completely alone as he does at this moment. His thoughts are of the career he had hoped for himself, and surprisingly, of Euclid Avenue. He never appreciated it much when he was there but now, he is already beginning to feel what must be homesickness. Maybe it's just more false emotion brought on by the mental shock he has undergone since he received his draft notice. His stomach begins to churn. He feels what he is about to go through is so totally useless and a needless interruption to the career he has worked to hard to attain.
The man in the bunk next to him walks over, extends his hand and says, "Hello, I'm George Haines from Tennessee. Where're you from?"
Randy is in no mood for small talk and without looking at him, answers, "From up east by way of Atlanta."
George waits as though he is expecting him to say something else and in a moment, explores rather cautiously. "You look like there might be place or two you'd rather be than here."
Randy reacts sarcastically and as he throws his pillow down on the bunk, speaks very pointedly. "Don't tell me you're glad to be here." He suddenly stops making his bunk and looks at him. "Oh no, you're a volunteer. What's the term – RA?"
George turns away and starts back towards his bunk. In a restrained voice, he says, "No, I'm not RA, and there's a few places I'd rather be but I can't escape the fact I'm not there but here. Maybe the best thing to do is try to make the best of it."
Randy begins unpacking his bag and mumbles, "Sure, sure – there's always a need for a Good Samaritan or two, but I'm afraid I can dish out motivation like dealing cards. What we really need is a hypnotist to make everyone believe none of this shit is really happening."
George doesn't respond and quietly begins to unpack his bag.
Randy is glad George shut up, because he has no wish to discuss the idea of positive thinking within an environment that quite obviously has no distinction for anyone who has any degree of self-esteem or ambition. His only concern at the moment is how will he mute the ambitions he had for himself and be able to swallow two years of nonsense without losing the drive and determination that had his career moving forward faster than he had thought possible.
When he finishes unpacking his bag, Randy walks down to the first floor and out onto the steps. The temperature is warm for the first of November. Somewhere, he can't faintly hear the counting of cadence. As he shakes his head, he sits down and looks up the narrow road to the old World War II barracks. He wonders how many men over the years have sat where he is now or in one of those ramshackle buildings feeling the same resent he does. Resent is a natural consequence when one has lost something important to him or is being forced to do something against his will. He isn't ashamed of his resent and only looks upon it as verification that someone who has worked as hard as he to put himself through college really doesn't belong in a place like this. Surely, there are enough people in the country who might even have a taste for being around the foul-mouthed, poorly motivated type of person about whom several people at the office had warned him, but how does one prepare himself for something like this? It's impossible to turn your emotions on and off like water and "make the best of it" as George has so childishly suggested.
He rests his head in his hands and leans forward to place his elbows on his knees, all the while his eyes remaining stationary on the ground immediately in front of the steps. Finally, he puts both hands over his ears in an effort to expel the strange sounds of the shock that has entered his life and left his sick to his stomach. In a moment, he quietly says to himself, 'This must be what it feels like to be raped."
Cindy
Cindy Jenkins is tired. She has worked an extra half shift for one of the other waitresses who is sick on this day. Her feet and back are aching but not nearly as much as her head aches from looking at greasy hamburgers for twelve hours. She is more than just tired and is thoroughly disgusted at being ordered around by almost everyone with whom she comes in contact. No one seems to pay her much attention as long as she is where she is supposed to be when she is supposed to be there. When she sometimes, for a number of reasons, does not meet the standards that others are constantly setting for her, customers and the head cook become increasingly intolerant with her – sometimes at the same time. There is something about a person who is unattractive that induces near universal relegation to a tier of second-class citizenship where the poor souls finding themselves among that hapless lot are predetermined to be servants and nothing else. Dejection and envy quite naturally find their way into their nature and in time, resent attended by a searing wanting and yearning for the stability and happiness seeming so inherent to others hardens their hearts. Thinkers have entitled such persons "the have nots."
The night manager leaves the cash register and points to the booths at the rear of the restaurant, saying in a demanding voice, "Cindy, clear those tables over there."
She is immediately angry and reacts, "I've got three orders to write. Get Sue to do it. I've been doing two jobs all day."
He doesn't even look at her and again instructs," Get the booths and let Sue write the orders."
She walks over to him and protests, "I've been here twelve hours today. That's my area and my tips. She stands motionless for a moment, looking at him with something of a pleading expression on her face.
He grasps her firmly by the wrist and pulls her into the kitchen. Without releasing her, he grimaces and his mouth becomes drawn when he pointedly says, "Listen goofball, Sue can write orders twice as fast as you can, and I don't care whose area it is. We can't have customers sitting out there watching you stumble all over yourself. Now do what I told you or I'll put you out with the rest of the garbage." He throws her hand to her side, turns around and walks away.
It is all she can do to hold back the tears, but she knows not to make a scene. She has made better tips here than any other job; and in an admittedly unceremonious sense, the job is important to her, because she knows she can't do any better.
Sue is slender, has long red hair and an outgoing personality. She jokes with the customers and gets larger tips. Cindy knows the customers prefer Sue as she hears some of them laughing at the front tables. A cramp comes to her throat, and an embittered tingle seizes the flesh around her cheeks. She takes several short breaths but can no longer suppress the tears. She steps back into the kitchen without being seen and wipes her eyes with one of the discarded napkins. When she regains her composure, she starts to clean the tables, occasionally glancing at Sue and at what should be her orders and her tips. Her self-pity quickly becomes the feeling with which she has become so very accustomed. It is a combination of detestation and mistrust for nearly everything around her. She realizes such feelings only serve to make her more unhappy, but she can't escape them. Her life has become a succession of experiences that constantly find her seeking to justify herself before an assortment of disapproving observations from a number of sources.
She is glad when her shift is up and leaves through the back entrance. There is a long wait before the nearly empty bus finally picks her up. She sits motionless in one of the front seats and tries to think of some way she can free herself from the terrible wretchedness that possesses her. It is a self-examination process she has undergone on a number of previous occasions – all with the same result. All options seem closed. She is consumed by an unhappiness from which there is no escape. She opens her purse and begins to count her tips. When she sees she has done much better than she thought, he thoughts receive a momentary, although unwarranted, elevation.
She is the last passenger as the bus turns down Euclid Avenue and stops at the corner a block from the boarding house. She slowing walks down the aging street and looks at the high-pitched roof, the large windows and the rocking chairs along Blanche's front porch. She has become attached to the house and especially to Blanche as well. The times she spends there have become her most happy. Blanche has always shown her an interest and concern that is so different from the attitude she has received everywhere else. When she walks through door, she is glad to see Blanche sitting in the living room, and a warm smile comes to her face.
She walks in, sits on the sofa and takes off her shoes. Then, a broader smile comes to her face as she looks at Blanche and says, "I don't think I could have taken another step. I'm glad to be home."
Blanche is gratified she referred to the rooming house as "home" and says, "I waited up for you."
With the smile still on her face, she looks at Blanche. A warm feeling comes into her heart, and she can feel the tension and discontent of the day escaping her body.
Blanche is wearing a dark blue dress with a white lace collar that has a cameo pinned in the center. Her shoes are the old-fashioned, lace-up type that somehow compliment her dark stockings. Her white hair is combed straight back the top and sides of her head and is secured with a small, gray comb. She puts down the evening paper and says, "You look tired. You're going to have to cease these 12 hour days."
Cindy manages a slight laugh as she leans forward to massage her feet. "It's not the hours that's getting me down, it's that wretched hole where I work. Everyone is so demanding and intolerant – both the customers and by bosses, and I don't seem to have the knack to hit it off with any of them." She pauses a moment, and a very serious expression comes over her face. "Maybe it's not the place at all. I'm not a looker and don't have the sparkling personality necessary for people to overlook that. I suppose that would follow me wherever I went."
Blanche can see Cindy is very depressed. At first, she feels she should change the subject but very cautiously asks her, "Do you think many people have the luxury of having their lives turn out exactly as they wish?"
Cindy leans her head back on the sofa and looks at the ceiling. "I don't know about everybody else. All I know is that my life could stand an improvement or two. Every once in a while, I examine my alternative but that always makes me feel worse, because I don't seem to have any."
For an instant, Blanche recalls the many times in her life when that very same thought occurred to her. She had always been fortunate to have a loving family and a reasonably good job but sometimes, she found herself wanting the fulfillment that could only come from a happy emotional experience she was never to have. Loneliness in that sense has left scars on her life – not as obvious as the scars on the life of Cindy Jenkins but there were just as painful. She can identify very well with what Cindy must be feeling at this moment, and thinking of herself as much as she is Cindy, she slowly and thoughtfully responds, "What type of person someone becomes is determined by experiences in life. Everyone has ambitions, but those who have a hard time in life sometimes loose them along the way. I suppose it's natural that after awhile, disappointment will take over ambition."
Cindy raises her head, and a flinch comes to her face. She glances at the floor a moment before her voice becomes short and curt. "What I feel is more than disappointment." Her voice pauses a moment, and in a softer inflection, adds, "I resent being spit on all the time. What hurts me more than anything else is on those nights when I'm working the evening shift, having to serve those girls who come in with their dates. What's the word for that – jealousy?"
Blanche listens very intently and quickly responds, 'No, it's not wrong to want to be happy. You remind me so much of myself, years ago."
Cindy is surprised and injects, "You always had a good job and a home."
Blanche nods and with a slight smile says, "Wherever one finds herself in the world, there will always be those things she wants but cannot have. Years ago, there was this man at the old Railway Express Agency that I cared for so much – or at least, I thought I did. He was quite handsome and always seemed so kind and gentle. We had a few dates. I can remember so many nights, sitting right where I am now, hoping he would call. Finally, he just stopped calling, but I could never get him out of my mind. Just now, I was thinking of him before you came in. It's true you want something more when you know you can't have it. Take my word though – its even worse if you want something and never realize you can't have it."
Cindy's thoughts abruptly turn away from herself. She feels sorry for Blanche and asks, "What did you do?"
"That was before the liberated woman, and I'm afraid I didn't do anything. I just drifted through my life waiting for something to happen on its own, but it never did. You're correct. I had a good home and job, but I never had what I really wanted." Now, it is Blanche that is staring aimlessly at the furniture. It isn't quite a smile that comes to her face when she says, "I remember one day back when I was with Railway Express and a few of we middle-aged women spinsters looked up 'old maid' in the dictionary. It said something like 'a woman who is unmarried and likely to remain so'". We laughed, but after I thought it over for a while, I found it not so funny. I knew what we had just read was really me, and there didn't seem anything within my reach that was likely to change it."
Cindy stares at her for a moment, and then with a blank expression says, "That's sad." At once, she knows she has said the wrong thing.
Before she can say anything else, Blanche folds her hands in her lap and carefully says, "You're young enough not to make the same mistakes I did. I never changed what I wanted to something more realistic. As a result, I ended up as you see me now."
Cindy impatiently asks, "How can someone just change what she wants?"
"You can't. To this day, I still yearn but I know now where I failed when I was young was not trying just to make the best of where I found myself. I could have studied for another job or worked at something I felt was more important rather than just swallowing up the wanting and feeling sorry for myself. If you can't have what you want, try not to permit your disappointment to blind you. There's always something else, if you really try and work at it. I've known a few people on this street who, over the years, could not accept what life handed out to them. They continued to want until the course of their lives was ruled by resent at not having what they so desperately wanted. Everything they eventually found themselves doing was a reactionary rebellion because of it. It finally destroyed them. Sometime, look at that bunch down there on Austin Avenue, and you'll see what I mean."
Cindy thinks a moment. "I've put a little money back since I started to work over there on Highland Avenue. I really don't know for what."
"You can find something," Blanche says, beginning to rock in her chair. "Don't make the mistake of just waiting for something to come to you."
Cindy's eyes turn away from Blanche. She realizes she has done exactly what Blanche is discouraging – just living from one day to the next, not having the self-confidence to set some definite direction or goal. Slowly, her eyes turn back to Blanche who has such a consoling smile across her wrinkled face. Cindy stands up and says, "I feel better. I guess I'd better get to bed. I've got another 12 hour day tomorrow." She stops for a moment at Blanche's side and rests her hand on her shoulder.
Blanche looks up at her and says, "I'm going to bed too, as soon as I write down this add for the paper. I've got to find a roomer to replace Randy, you know. I don't know what I would do, if I didn't have the house."
____________________
On this night, Cindy Jenkins, Blanche Wilson and Randy Coleman are all unhappy. As they rest their heads on their pillows, their eyes stare at the shadows that dance across the walls ceilings as sleep evades them. Their thoughts obsess them as they reflect on the wanting and resent that possesses them.
Randy's eyes search about the darkened barracks building. His mind is filled with the career he has lost, and the images of Evette haunt him. He remembers the gentle, soft touch of her hand and the mystifying uncertainty about her that captivated him from the moment he met her. He feels victimized by circumstances he did not create and intimidated by George Haine's ludicrous suggestion each of them should make the best of the situation. He fully intends to do as little as he can manage until this nightmare is concluded and he can get back to where he belongs.
Cindy's eyes are moist with tears that stream freely down her cheeks. She dreads facing another day at that restaurant, jumping at everyone's command. She wantingly pictures the couples coming in and out of the restaurant, hand in hand and appearing so happy in each other's company. Sometimes, when she is writing their orders, she notices their eyes, filled with fascination and attraction, glaring across the table at each other. She yearns so much for someone to care for her, for a loving relationship such as those she is condemned only to observe. She is dejected at the inevitable expectation that each new day promises only to be an echo of the last.
Blanche's thoughts are of Randy and Cindy. Before Randy left for Fort Jackson, she had several conversations with him, similar to the one she just had with Cindy. They are both so resentful, although for completely different reasons. Randy is resentful because he seemed to have what he wanted but suddenly, it was taken from him. He is wanting and resentful for something he has lost.
Cindy is quite different. She seems to have at least a provisional idea what she wants for herself but is wanting and resentful at the unlikely prospect she can ever have it. Constantly being among those who seem happier than she has made her outlook on life all the more disheartening. Blanche is afraid Cindy will not accept the advice she has given her, because she is hardly the product of her own council.
Blanche's thoughts turn to her own life, which she can only recount as uneventful. She just moved from one day to the next and then, from one year to the next, gradually casting aside one hope after another until finally, just accepting the remnants of her lost dreams. Now she realizes there were so many things she could have done to add a more meaningful dimension to her life, but for some unexplained reason, chose not to do so. She possesses only the consequences – tormenting memories of a life that in so many ways has been a failure. She wonders how many others along Euclid Avenue at this very moment are haunted with so many troubling memories and now have become the wanting and the resentful.