Tower Guards

    There weren't but four of them. One tower at each corner and me coverin' the gate. For all practical purposes the guard job consisted of stayin' awake. Sounded simple but they weren't allowed reading material or music. Time passed slowly up in the towers. Standin', starin', countin' the minutes 'til lunch or dinner.  Seriously, it was ugly duty not suited to many people.
     One man loved it. 'Course he usually smuggled a short wave radio up there with him. Had some way of hidin' it so long as he was warned if anyone was headin' his way. That was my job.
     He'd spend his hours listenin' to music from Australia. Had any of the prisoners wanted to climb the fences and worm through the barbed wire atop each, our man would no doubt have not seen a thing.
     Then on his way back from lunch, tell me in minute detail 'bout everything he'd heard. Some of which he'd made up to add a little spice. He was a perfect man for the Army. Happy doin' nothin'. Passin' the time in the never ending repetition of crap he'd heard or done a thousand times before.
     Sometimes I suspect that's why we went to war. Time passed a lot more interestingly when your next step might be your last. Vietnam, Iraq probably both times, all wars resultin' from boredom? The Military sometimes seems just like a huntin' dog when his master grabs the shotgun and puts on his field jacket,
     "Oh boy! Oh boy! We gonna go out and kill ourselves somethin'. Let's go! Let's go! Oh yeah!"
     Or something to that effect.
     That's all well and good but there's a point to my rememberin' the man. Simply put, I failed him. He was up in the tower on one of the nights Super Seven paid us a visit. I was a little slow recognizin' the sound of his Mercury Monterey, just as slow ringin' the inside, then first two towers each hit the snooze button. By the time I was done with them, Seven was out and about. Should I ring up the last tower it woulda been my ass in the slinger. In the dead quiet of the Hawaiian night a ringin' phone coulda been heard all the way to Molokai. And the man was 'sposed to be awake anyhow. So it was his slumberin' butt that got caught. And relieved of the duty he liked. That kinda duty's hard to find in the Army. Bye-bye tower, hello infantry, again.
     By that I mean he was sent back to his regular unit. There was no such thing as a trained tower guard at the Schofield stockade. They were sent to us from the infantry companies. Mighta been a punishment for all I knew.
     There's intelligent men and then there's real intelligent men. We needed a new tower guard. The one we got had in Vietnam with me. Don't remember his name. But I do remember he was from Florida and had been Bravo Six's RTO. So we were radio buddies from a half year in the past.
     One of the non-coms gave him the lowdown about his duties. Take a shotgun, head up in a tower and sit there ever vigilant and awake. No books, magazines, radio, playin' cards and don't even think of man handlin' yourself as it sets a bad example for the prisoners. He looked at me, then the tower and then the shotgun. And thought of spending the next month doin' absolutely nothin' for eight or twelve hours a day.
     So he heads off with the non-com and was shown how to work the tower like he hadn't already got that figured out. The non-com headed back to his cup of coffee inside the fence. For a half hour peace reigned supreme over the land.
     The blast sure got my attention, as it did all the boys with stripes. It was like all hell broke loose as they came runnin' out the gate and headed right for the tower where the new man was. Seemed he'd blown a hole through the tower roof with his government issue, stripped down twelve gauge.
     Let me tell you he was one lucky man. I knew for a fact not a one of those guns had been cleaned since I'd been there. And maybe for years before that. A look in the breech of one was like seein' an ocean beach after a storm. Sand, sticks, glops of unidentified animal parts and detritus from nations far away. So ugly there way no way I was gonna clean one without threat of jail time. Pullin' the trigger was an invitation to disaster. But he took his chances.
     Super Seven led the reemin'. They bitched him up and down, threatened him with every punishment they could think of. And all our hero did was play dumb, near to tears and swear it was an accident. A classic case of tactical stupidity. My kinda guy indeed.
     So they sent him on his way. Back to his unit. As he passed the guard shack surrounded by the non-coms, he gave be a brief glance and a wink. Sometimes you just gotta do what you just gotta do. Even if it's claimin' you're an idiot when you're the smartest man on the scene.
   

The Boys, Inside and Out

     Buck Owens. No not that Buck Owens, the one I'm talkin' about's the man who worked the gate when I was off. First off, Buck wasn't his real name. That was Roy. But, you see, Roy wasn't his real name either, just the one he admitted to. About the time I left the stockade he told me what his real one was in the strictest secrecy. It might be forty-two years later but I sure as hell won't go back on my word. Let's just say it was a humdinger. Unless even that wasn't it. And I don't want to think beyond that level. That'd be like poppin' open Pandora's box. Might release all the evil names some kids were been stuck with by unthinking parents since the beginning of time.
     Buck was a big time Buck Owens fan. Yeah, that one, the country boy twanger from California. So we probably woulda called Roy, Buck, even if he didn't call himself that. He also liked Elvis and Charley Pride. Like that matters a whole lot. But it does peg him as a country-western fan of the first order.
     Buck hailed from Florida. Musta picked him a fair share of oranges in his early years 'cause he brought those days up now and then. Taught me the proper way to pop one open. Worked fine but left me sticky fingered.
     Since both of us worked the same job we faced the same problems. One of which was passin' time on the midnight shift. When we were doin' six days on, three off, the late night hours were a terror. Our shifts always rotated, three days 6am to 6pm, then the reverse. Tired all the time but never so tired as around 3am.
     Durin' those early mornin' hours the gate guard was the most important man at the stockade. All because of Super Seven. We called him that even though his graying hair said the over achievin' days were in his past and he wasn't so super anymore. The seven part was his rank, Sergeant First Class, E-7. Seven was either out to make us one strack stockade or at least have the satisfaction of bustin' someone's ass.
     I only saw Super Seven when he passed through the gate. During the day it was nothin' but a howdy and a snappin' open of the gate lock.
     Gotta sidetrack again. The main gate was locked with a two pound Yale padlock. At minute one on day one each of us gate guards were told that lock had to be opened one handed with no fiddlin' with the key tryin' to fit it in. 'Sposed to be a one handed stab with a twisting motion. Slam it in and pop it open. Like stabbin' someone in the gut and turnin' the knife for good luck (how's that for a prison analogy?). Make the dude passin' through think we knew what the hell we were doin'. So we practiced and oiled the Yale daily.
     Night time was another story. Super Seven either couldn't sleep or his old lady kicked him outta bed on a regular basis. So around 2:30am or so, he'd come flyin' down the road, side drift into the parking lot and head for the gate all hell bent for leather. Anyone caught sleepin' was a goner. Especially the gate guard. He had to make the whole routine seem like everything was peachy keen normal.
     You see, there was this doorbell button under the guard's desk inside the little gate shack. Everyone knew it was there, even Seven. It was a warning bell that could be pushed unseen. So when I knew for sure it was Seven barrelin' down the road, it was my job to hit that thing machinegun like. Then after Seven passed through the gate and before he made it to the office, phone the towers to make sure they were awake. I know that doesn't sound all that military but that's just the way she was. In general, Army life on Oahu was a game, the idea bein' no one gets hurt. Or smokes dope for that matter. Or if they did, don't get caught.
     And damned fine practice Seven's middle of the night dash was. Should some maniac with a pistol grip, sawed off shotgun come barrelin' down the road with the aim of bustin' his buddy outta stir, we'd be ready. 'Course soon as that gun came out, I'd be gone like a flash.
     So the gate guard was the most important man at the stockade, the first domino. He goes down, the whole house follows. Maybe. So me and Buck had to find ways to stay awake at night when the hours stretched out.
     My plan involved reading novels about people who were on the left side of crazy. Like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and On the Road. Could be argued that both were about sane people in a crazy world. But somehow, that doesn't seem to hold much water. Truth be known, at three in the morning sittin' in a stockade's guard shack I wasn't much sure which side was which.
     Buck got into disassembling and reassembling a .45 caliber pistol. Out in the guard shack we had a small armory of weapons locked up. None went inside the fence. Nobody the prisoners could lay their hands on sported a fire arm. Only boys with guns sat up in the towers with bare minimum 12 gauge shotguns loaded with double ought buck. We also had a bunch of .45s. Buck worked 'em all. Even cleaned 'em so he could break 'em down and build 'em up faster.
     When he got his time under twenty-five seconds he took to blindfoldin' himself so as to put some sport back in the game. Even that paled when he could feel his way under a half minute. What he did after that I don't recall.
     Buck, like me, was a PFC. He'd ended up at Schofield 'cause he'd gotten bored with MP life in Germany and volunteered for Vietnam. Wasn't there long enough to move up the ladder. Not many MPs were killed in the Nam so there weren't many holes to fill. At Schofield he was stuck as a PFC just like me. Schofield had more than its quota of Spec. 4s. If you were a PFC, you stayed one. Maybe even to this day.
     Buck had been in the Army better than a year more than me. And had been a PFC longer than anyone in the Army. No shit. 'Bout the time I mustered out, the Division Commander held a ceremony for Buck. Made him a Command PFC. Gave him a set of PFC stripes with a wreath encircled star in the middle, kinda like a Command Sergeant Major. It was great fun but Buck didn't get a nickel more in his paycheck.
     And that mattered. Buck was always lookin' to borrow a little dust come mid-month. Not sure what he spent it all on. But when you're livin' in Hawaii and only makin' a hundred, thirty-three bucks a month, well, that ain't a lot of dust.
     Born and raised on country-western and Baptist religion, it didn't take but one hit of weed to open the man's eyes to peace, love and freedom. Also rock and roll. Even Peter, Paul and Mary. Buck was goin' through a change in life when I last saw him. Good man.
    Then after a couple of months, who should show up as the new First Sergeant but Davy Heath? Had marchin' orders to turn the stockade into a progressive model for the new Army. For him that meant interacting with the inmates. On Saturdays he'd come in to play a little basketball with the bad boys.
     The inmates loved it. Gave them a chance to take out their frustrations on the cadre. Only problem was Davy was a big man. Not fat, just power lifter big. He gave tit for tat, only his tit was quite a bit more than their tat. Davy hammered 'em big time. Respect for authority was taught on the stockade court at the end of an elbow. All in good fun of course.
     Once Sergeant Heath showed up life was even better at the stockade. And he never said a word about my stripes changin' from Spec-4 to PFC. Good man.

                                             

The Planner

     Call him Bob. Mostly 'cause that was his name. Had a last name too. I even remember it. But like Moses that's about as far as I'll take it.
     Bob had an interesting occupation before the president sent him the letter. Stole Porsches in California. San Francisco area as I recall. Havin' to find a niche in a general occupational field was necessary, even back in the dark ages of the '60s. 'Course California was pushin' the envelope as usual. Sounded to me like it was a good job. Good 'til the police found him in a car that belonged to someone else.
     So the judge gave him the choice of where he wanted to spend the next two years. Becomin' Bubba's lover had no appeal so Bob became one of Uncle's finest.
     But, you see, Bob had himself a plan that was real zen like. A third path. One of those lessons in life. When faced with takin' one side of the fork or the other, there's usually a third way. Sometimes you've gotta wait a bit. Give it some time and you'll see it. It's there. Just hard to see is all.
     Don't know how he did the research but Bob came to know that if he was to ever find himself in a stockade, the one at Schofield was the cream of the crop. Anyhow that's what he told me he did and I wasn't one to question the honesty of a car thief.
     Bob shows up for induction knowin' if he goes through with the regular routine, his purloinin' ass is on the fast track to grunt land. So he walks out the door as soon as he can. AWOL. Then works his way to Hawaii and turns himself in to the Schofield Provost Marshall. 'Course he's convicted and ends up in the stockade. Right where he wanted to be in the first place.
    Bob, he's a peaceable sort. Doesn't cause a fuss and works his way up to Honor Prisoner. That's the other end of the stick from solitary. Yeah, Bob was a good boy. Honor Prisoners could actually walk out of the stockade during the evenings to take classes on the base. You see the Schofield Stockade was an experiment in progressive incarceration. One groovy jail.
     Don't know if he actually made it to classes. In one of our conversations he told me he was bangin' some Lieutenant's wife. Maybe that was part of the progressive rehabilitation plan. Also sported a mustache that was a droopin' four inch monstrosity that woulda never passed any inspection had he not been in the stockade.
      Also, Bob, like most of the other prisoners, didn't let bein' in jail cut into his dope smokin' time. Seemed like it wasn't much of a problem for a bag of weed to be tossed over the fence in a discrete spot after the sun went down. Yeah, all the hidin' spots were searched. Dope found. Hands slapped. But more kept findin' its way in. Life in the Schofield Stockade sure didn't sound like the Army all those WWII vets described back when I was a kid.

Moses Was His Christian Name

     Back in Vietnam all of us new MP's to be were taught how to frisk a man. Not an easy thing to to. Runnin' your hands up and down another man's body wasn't something we, or most any red blooded American 1960s male, took to easily. But we giggled, did what we were shown, then ran around punchin' each other in the arm and discussin' which cologne fragrance went best with the color of our eyes. Mostly we figured it was something we'd never have to do again.
     Bein' gate guard at the stockade taught me to feel no shame. On a typical duty day, a work crew of twenty or so prisoners passed in and out of the gate twice. Morning and afternoon. It was the gate guard's job to frisk each and every one of their young supple bodies four times each day. Don't think I could do that anymore.
     A proper frisk ain't that pat job usually seen in the movies. It's a double hand rubbin' over the whole body. Call it a personal invasion of the first order. But us guards did it and didn't think anything of it. Even ignored the razzin' we got from the prisoners. All we had to say was, "Better I be on the outside giving you a feelin' than the other way around."
     Not a lot of real bad boys in this stockade. Some were honor prisoners from LBJ, that's the Long Binh Jail over in Vietnam. I suspect they were in the stockade for the same reason the prisoners from Hawaii were, dope smokers who got caught. Smokin' the devil's weed ran rampant at Schofield. Not among the lifers mind you, they stuck to Jim Beam and brew. On the other hand, draftees seemed drawn to pot tryin' with the idea of makin' a bad time in their lives a little bit happier.
     Kinda odd how Vietnam backfired on America. A few hundred thousand cleaned up American boys were recruited by mail to head overseas and help keep the free world free. A whole lot of 'em came back mentally and physically messed up, also with a taste for grass. Helped create a big market for Mexican and Columbian dope growers. If there was drug testing back in '69 and '70, half of Schofield woulda been in the stockade. But there wasn't, so we only had around ninety inmates.
     Story had it there were two types of soldiers in Schofield, those in the stockade and those who hadn't yet been caught. As a whole, the prisoners were harmless. Life as a prison guard was pretty easy. No real worry of gettin' your ass whipped by some hard core maniac.
   

Life at the Stockade

     Back in Vietnam all of us new MP's to be were taught how to frisk a man. Not an easy thing to to. Runnin' your hands up and down another man's body wasn't something we, or most any red blooded American 1960s male, took to easily. But we giggled, did what we were shown, then ran around punchin' each other in the arm and discussin' which cologne fragrance went best with the color of our eyes. Mostly we figured it was something we'd never have to do again.
     Bein' gate guard at the stockade taught me to feel no shame. On a typical duty day, a work crew of twenty or so prisoners passed in and out of the gate twice. Morning and afternoon. It was the gate guard's job to frisk each and every one of their young supple bodies four times each day. Don't think I could do that anymore.
     A proper frisk ain't that pat job usually seen in the movies. It's a double hand rubbin' over the whole body. Call it a personal invasion of the first order. But us guards did it and didn't think anything of it. Even ignored the razzin' we got from the prisoners. All we had to say was, "Better I be on the outside giving you a feelin' than the other way around."
     Not a lot of real bad boys in this stockade. Some were honor prisoners from LBJ, that's the Long Binh Jail over in Vietnam. I suspect they were in the stockade for the same reason the prisoners from Hawaii were, dope smokers who got caught. Smokin' the devil's weed ran rampant at Schofield. Not among the lifers mind you, they stuck to Jim Beam and brew. On the other hand, draftees seemed drawn to pot tryin' with the idea of makin' a bad time in their lives a little bit happier.
     Kinda odd how Vietnam backfired on America. A few hundred thousand cleaned up American boys were recruited by mail to head overseas and help keep the free world free. A whole lot of 'em came back mentally and physically messed up, also with a taste for grass. Helped create a big market for Mexican and Columbian dope growers. If there was drug testing back in '69 and '70, half of Schofield woulda been in the stockade. But there wasn't, so we only had around ninety inmates.
     Story had it there were two types of soldiers in Schofield, those in the stockade and those who hadn't yet been caught. As a whole, the prisoners were harmless. Life as a prison guard was pretty easy. No real worry of gettin' your ass whipped by some hard core maniac.
   

Transfered Again

     Nigh onto two months with the MP's my day of glory arrived. Never ever figured I'd end up at the most famous stockade I'd ever read about, at least not workin' on the outside. But there I was at the one and only Schofield Barracks Stockade. If you've seen From Here to Eternity, you know the story. Frank Sinatra as Angelo Maggio is marched up to the First Sergeant's desk, that bein' the one with Ernest Borgnine as Fatso Judson sittin' behind. Fatso picks up his night stick, we called them batons, and doesn't say a word. You know for sure Angelo is in a world of hurt.
     The novel's somewhat different, a whole section devoted to life in the stockade. A lot of spoutin' about freedom and human rights and time in the hole. But the movie was made only a few years after the war and Hollywood didn't want to piss off the Army, so all the stockade scenes were left out.
     Now I didn't know squat about bein' a prison guard. And the cadre knew I didn't know squat so they stuck me on the outside as main gate guard. That was fine with me. The few times I was on the inside, I was fillin' in for someone on a lunch break. Bein' on the wrong side of that double chain link fence with the barb wire on top gave me the heebie-jeebies. The less time on inside the happier I was.
     No ifs, ands or buts about it, work at the stockade was the best I had in the Army. Had a good friend, that bein' Thomas C. Smith as opposed to either Thomas A. or Thomas E., all three were in Bravo Company back in the Nam, who was a lifeguard at the Shafter pool. Don't know how that came about. Maybe 'cause he was a surfer from California. You came from California back then and it was generally assumed you were on the swim team somewhere. He also lived in a tiny stilt house up near Rocky Point on the North Shore. Yeah, That North Shore, the one with Sunset Beach and Waimea Bay. Gotta admit, his time in the Army while in Hawaii was about as good as it got.
     You wouldn't think work in a jail, especially a military one, would be all that special. But we worked regular hours. Just like a civilian job. When we were pullin' twelve hour shifts it was six days on and three days off. Eight hour shifts turned to nine on and three off. When we were off, we were off. Simple as that. No one messed with our time off.
     Since I was the gate guard my duty consisted of frisking work details as they passed in and out, issuing weapons, no frills shotguns loaded with double ought buckshot, to the tower guards, and lettin' those with the right of entry, enter. More on the special duties later.

More Changes

     Duty with the field boys mostly involved bein' loaned out. Why I ended up at Fort DeRussy on Waikiki beach the very first weekend was and is a mystery. Like gettin' hand-me-downs from your cousin in the big city.
     I could see workin' for the Schofield MPs but DeRussy was run by Fort Shafter down near Honolulu and was the R and R center for married soldiers. That is if their wives would still talk to them. Yeah there are a whole lot of military bases on Oahu. Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines. Hawaii runs on tourists and guys with short hair.
     Simple duty. I'm dressed up in my fancy duds. Ribbons on chest, white gloves and and .45 caliber pistol on my hip. Don't know why I had the gun seein' as how I didn't know what I was doin' and wouldn't have pulled the gun out for any reason I could think of. Hah! Lucky for me all I had to do was stand in the PX's lot, look official and direct the shoppers to open parking spots. Easy duty.
     There was only one no-no concerning where a car could be parked. Don't even frickin' think about pullin' into the spot marked No Parking. That seemed to be no problem at all. Seein' as how it was a Saturday, everyone was understandin' and in a good mood. Well, nearly everyone.
     Unless some Navy Chief Petty Officer whose ego was bein' drivin' by a drink too many and a car full of visitors he was out to impress, happened to show up. Total asshole.
     At least I was smart enough to not make a big deal of refusing to let him park in the forbidden spot. I said he couldn't. And he said he could. Went around two or three orbits with no change in the weather. So he finally tells me to f*** myself and parks where he shouldn't. Goes in with his guests.
     I saunter over to my truck and its radio. Call the Desk Sergeant and he sends the Man down. I hold the car 'til he shows up. All I wanted out of the situation was for the day to be over and my ass not in a sling.
     When the Chief came out I figured he knew the wind had changed. And proceeded to let the Lieutenant know how much I've abused his innocent butt. The three of us headed up to the Provost Marshall's Office at Shafter. I was still sweatin' bullets.
     Once there I said my piece. Officially let 'em know the actual truth. And the Man said I could go and not to worry. When I left, the Chief was startin' to look a little concerned. Me, I was a happy camper.

Big Changes

     And it came to pass... wait a second, that's way too biblical. Well, to me it was almost biblical. Less than a week after buying the car I showed up at Schofield to find orders waitin' on me. Good orders. Save the day, my ass is out of the infantry, orders. Don't really know how or why but I was transferred to the MPs.
     Back in Vietnam a whole platoon of us were transferred and trained as MPs. At Schofield only one of us ended up as a cop. The reason mighta been my shiny boots when I showed up for duty roundin' up AWOLs in Dong Tam. Mighta been my luck in the inspection. Mighta been Davy Heath. Mighta been a total crap shoot, luck of the draw kinda thing. An enlisted man never gets to find out those answers any more than why he was born left or right handed. Actually we all know the truth behind that. When a baby first scratches its butt, the hand he/she uses be the one. Forever and ever. Amen.
     Not a one of those things passed through my mind when I skipped out the door. Didn't even head to the supply room and grab my second duffel stuffed with Vietnam outfits. Who needed that kinda crap anyhow? No more bein' confined to the Company area one week each month. No more pointless war games.
     Took a couple days before I came to realize my new Platoon Sergeant was always pissed off at the world. Mostly 'cause he was always hung over. The Lieutenant who ran the show never seemed to be around so it was us EMs bein' told what to do by a small pack of cadre who couldn't make it in the real world of Military Police. You see, we were a field MP outfit. Mostly our duty was directing traffic during the war games and bein' loaned out to the real MPs for stuff they didn't much want to do. I'll get to what that was later.
     But no matter, the crap we had to put up with as field MPs, the duty was a whole lot better than bein' a grunt.
     Each day of the workweek I got to drive through Honolulu, up the valley between the Ko'olaus and the Wainais and had the Pacific Ocean in the rearview mirror. Out of the side window I watched the sugar cane turn into pineapple as I went uphill. Not bad for a flatlander who did most everything wrong since he entered the Army. All the while in the back of my brain there was this little voice. Been haunting me one way or the other for forty-three years. Keeps tellin' me how lucky I was. Supposed to have been in the 101st Airborne not in Hawaii.
     There's this image of Death, you know, the guy with the boney fingers and scythe, he's checkin' his list one day and comes upon my name. S'pose to be checked off way back when. But, you see, it was the late 60s, and the man in black was stoned out of his gourd through most of March '69 and part of April. Didn't get me to the plane on time. Yeah, he worked his fleshless ass off tryin' to catch up with his cadaver makin' but was in such a hurry he missed me completely. Ol' Death, he's smart enough to not make a big deal out of the screwup. After all he's only Death, not some big shot god. Could get his ass in a wringer with the big boys. So he kept his mouth shut.
     So there I am, drivin' uphill in the land of the pineapple, smokin' a cigarette and listenin' to Creedence on the radio. The gettin' there was a good ride 'cause the gettin' back to the little apartment made it all worthwhile. The in-between, not so hot.
     It was with the field MPs that I honed my skills of tactical incompetence. Got 'er done when asked or ordered but not too fast or with anything approaching skill. Make the NCOs pay in frustration. Most of all I tried not to be seen. Like standin' in front of a rhino. They don't see good, so if you don't move they're not sure if you're still there.  They know you were there but ain't so sure you still are. Then their little brain bags the whole affair and forgets the whole matter.
     A lot like workin' for a twenty year Staff Sergeant. One rocker after two decades meant he's never gonna get the second one. Frustration, depression, and finally resignation that he's not goin' anywhere. At least anywhere where the liquor costs more.

Life on Oahu

     Didn't ever think I'd write that title back in the early years of my life. But then, I'm a little like Winnie the Pooh who was a bear of little brain. Also have to say that the reason I don't write all that often has to do with my fishing blog which doesn't spend a lot of time on fishin'. Little brain again. Not able to do two things at once.
     Don't remember for sure whether it was the first or second night that Lois noticed the little critters. But she did. Bein' like Winnie the Pooh I kinda hoped they were little pink pigs and they'd be my friend. But they weren't and didn't seem all that friendly. Neither of us had ever seen cockroaches before seein' as how we were from the northland. Guess we have 'em here. But bein' from frugal stock, both our growin' up thermostats never got set much higher than sixty in wintertime. Roaches seem to like it warm all year around. Like in Hawaii. In paradise they come free with the admission price.
     So we sat there and stared at 'em. And they stared back. Guess they weren't used to white people. Besides the roaches, we shared our apartment building with a variety of Asian people. A lot of people lived in that tiny building. Doubt any of 'em had less money than us. Also doubt they could scrape up enough cash to live across the canal in Waikiki. But she was mostly a quiet, respectful place to live. Our first home together. We were very happy.
     It's a funny thing about roaches that they're tolerable. Hard to like, but tolerable. They also get you to buy a variety of products that are supposed to kill them. Most don't. And the ones that really do cause genetic defects or at least cancer. Neither of which were to be taken seriously by a couple of people in their early twenties like the two of us.
     Ridin' the bus to Schofield sucked. An hour each way. Add that to a twelve hour duty day and we didn't have much time together. So, a car was first in line of things to buy. Came even before a mattress. By the way, at first our furniture consisted of a small portable TV, bed linens and a box. Yup, that was it. It was us, the floor and the roaches.
     Shoppin' on foot for a car in a city of three hundred thousand was something I hadn't given enough thought. That's an understatement. Feet just don't move far and fast enough. Don't remember why but I knew the general whereabouts of a few dealers. They didn't seem all that far away. Turned out they weren't but more than three miles as the seagull flies.
     The first few didn't have squat in our price range. Finally one did. And it was a Buick, a small Buick. Six years old and looked older. Figurin' beauty was only skin deep I took a fancy to it. Also there was the matter of Ward and Wally Cleaver. You know, the Cleavers of Leave It to Beaver. Seemed Wally wanted to buy a car from Lumpy. It looked pretty, went vroom vroom and even had oversized dice hangin' from the rear view mirror. Ward, Wally's dad, looked it over and said something to the effect of, "Whatta you got, your head up your ass or something? The car's a total pile of shit."
     So they go off car shoppin'. Find an old beater that looks to be ready for the crusher. Ward checks it over. Turns out it's as mechanically sound as the American dollar back in 1958. Wally buys the car for a song and lives happily ever after.
     So that's what I'm thinkin' as I look at the Buick. Didn't look near as bad as Wally's pride and joy. But I knew in my heart of hearts it was still a gem. Shoulda listened to what was below that heart that was jumpin' up and down yellin', "It's Lumpy's car! It's Lumpy's car!"
     But I was all hot to be done with car buyin' and figured the Buick would last us. After all, how many miles could you put on a car in ten months when it's only ninety miles around the whole island? Answer was nearly twenty thousand. But I didn't have a clue, eh.
     So I walked home and got Lois. No way was I gonna buy anything without her approval.
     We returned. Kicked tires. She was skeptical even though Lois came from a Buick family.
     In the meantime someone had traded in a Ford Falcon convertible. Same age. Less miles. Needed a brake job and woulda cost a hundred fifty bucks more. And it was a stick. Lois didn't as yet drive a stick. The man said they'd do a brake job on the car and it'd be ready in a day or two. Oh me, oh my.
     Can't say for sure what made up my mind. Lois was leanin' toward the Ford. I bought the Buick. Probably shoulda bought the Ford.
     Over the months the Buick slowly fell apart. Tires, starter, battery. She liked to over heat. But mostly it ran. Got me to work and us to the beach. 'Til the last coupla months. But that's a story I'll get to when the time comes.