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.