“Hi fellas, welcome home. Glad you made it back OK to the U.S. of A. Can I see your ID?” “Whaaat?” “Yup, something with your age on it. This is the world, you know, and the law says you gotta be 21.” Reilly doesn’t really care about IDs. His sudden zeal in enforcing the law can be attributed only to the suspicion that he is being investigated. Normally he lets anybody drink, underage or not. “Ain’t that a bitch! These kids are sent to Vietnam to kill commies. For a job well done, they’re flown to Bangkok for three-day R&R with opium and heroin at a Thai whorehouse. But here on their way back home to Mom and Dad I can’t even serve them a beer!” A voice from the bar interjects: “Simmer down, sweets, or we’ll have to put splints on your wrists.” Reilly pauses, deflects the friendly taunt with the disarming rise of an eyebrow. “Mark my words, these two soldier boys are gonna be real messed up for the rest of their lives.” Incredible changes have taken place in the two years I have been away in the army. When I return from Germany to my job at the San Francisco Airport, it is the summer of 1967. Flower power, and for me culture shock. As a teenager in Chicago, I had never encountered drugs. Now the’re everywhere: barbiturates, amphetamines, reds, greens, blues, yellows. “Hey, man, wanna go toke up in the car during coffee break?” “What do you mean, Eddie?” “Yeah, well, I got some real good hash in the glove compaftmeht.” ThefS is even a rumor about some of the mechanics on graveyard shift at the hanger smoking pot. In truth, come 3 or 4 a.m., you don’t need * to smoke anything to feel giddy. I once worked that shift for three months in a row; by the time 8 a.m. rolled around, I was a zombie. But around 3:30, watching flight 15’s landing lights emerge from the dark above San Mateo Bridge and descend softly over the hushed San Francisco Bay, I always felt pleasantly lightheaded. From a mile away, you could hear the screech of the tires as the plane touched down, and an instant later, the deafening roar of reverse thrust. The bleary-eyed passengers getting off that late-night sweep across the continent always seemed super-mellow, even '"hen we lost their baggage. Never ran into any nates at that hour. During my two-year military leave, the personnel at the airport has changed dramatically—now there are employees with college backgrounds, women, and blacks. Up until 1965 blacks could only be skycaps and women weren’t assigned to physical jobs; now most of the heavy push-stairs have been replaced by power-driven jetways. Despite appearances, progress toward equality is not very deep. The director of Selective Service has stated publicly that only the poor and • the ignorant need be concerned about the draft. Thanks a lot, m.f., makes me feel great! Fact is, the poorest and most ignorant don’t even wait to be drafted. They enlist. Beats the rat race of working jn a factory, or being unemployed, or aimless, or struggling to barely survive. Bill works at the position to my right on the ticket counter. He hasn’t slept in three days. He has been tak-~ ing LSD, grass, uppers, downers. He Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988 27
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