One of them went for some help. About ten minutes later a medic arrived and decided to admit me into sick bay. I was taken to the hospital on the base, and heard one of them say that I either had a bad flu or maybe I was getting meningitis. Meningitis and pneumonia were going around and a lot of guys were getting sick.

‘Good,’ I thought. ‘Maybe they’ll just think I’m sick and I can pull this off. Maybe not’—the pain was getting worse by the second. My stomach was killing me. Sweat poured off my face. They put me in a room with a couple of other guys who didn’t look much better than me. A nurse came by and took my temperature. She told me a doctor would be here shortly to look at me. A few minutes later one showed up and checked me out. The nurse came back with some pills for me to take. “Whatcha givin’ me?” I asked her.

“Penicillin,” she said, handing me the pills and saying she’d be around to see me again soon. She was nice. ‘Maybe she liked me,’ I thought. Nobody else around this place seemed to like me. The pills didn’t do shit for me—not that I thought they would. They’re treating me for a flu and I’m trying to kick a jones.

My hands clutched the sheets into a ball and squeezed. I had forgotten how bad it could get. I remembered all the times in the past few years when we ran low on dope and had small-time withdrawals. Those same horrible feelings were alive once again and growing more intense by the minute. I was nauseated. I went to the bathroom and left my stomach in the toilet.

The sweat was pouring off me. No wonder I couldn’t quit in the past. I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over me, but I still felt cold. Every cell cried out for warmth but there was none. How can I sweat and be so cold at the same time? Even my bones ached. My body began to jerk uncontrollably. This was it, the big one, the real thing—cold turkey. A few lines from a poem I learned in jail floated through my mind,

For those who sell me will be dealt

The most severe punishment they’ve ever felt.

Yes, those who use me will borrow and beg,

Then hunt for a vein in their arm or leg.

When the blood rushes up they’ll not think me so mean,

But praise me as kind, then nod into a dream.

The police will come and throw you in jail,

But I can get to you by visit or mail.

You’ll sit in the cell that very first day

Wondering if I’m worth the price that you pay.

You’ll turn, you’ll toss, you’ll vomit and cough—

After days of madness, you might shake me off . . .

Those words were never more real for me than right now, and this was just the beginning. I remembered stories from other junkies I’d known—how they kicked their habits in the slammer with no help and no way out—just plain hell. Now it was my turn. It wasn’t jail but it didn’t feel a whole lot different.

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As the knot in my stomach grew tighter, memories flooded my mind, and the emptiness I’d always felt deep inside grew more and more vast. Scenes from my childhood haunted me with a vengance. I remembered my first drink when I was eleven, then on to reefer, pills, acid, speed. Finally, the real thing—heroin. It made the rest seem like a waste of time. I realized then I’d found the answer to all my problems. But now it was like a floodgate had opened up. Pictures of all the times my dad chased me through the house, screaming at me. Fists flew between him and my older brother. My mom always trying to stop them, with me stuck in the middle of it all. I remembered when he chased my brother into the bathroom. “Come out of there ya little son-of-a-bitch, ya,” my dad hollered.

“No, you’re gonna hurt me,” my brother cried out.

“YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT I’M GONNA HURTCHA. NOW OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” screamed my father with all his fury. My brother wouldn’t open the door, so my dad ran into another room. He came back a few minutes later with a hammer and a screwdriver. “COME OUT, OR I’LL TAKE THE DOOR OFF AND COME IN AND GETCHA, YA LITTLE BASTARD.”

“NO!” yelled my brother. My raging father took the door off the hinges. I was hiding behind the couch watching it all, scared he might see me, too.

Lying here in bed I felt like I was right there again, my father towering over me, his anger piercing my soul, stripping away any happiness that may have still been hiding within me. I was five years old, my brother was twelve.

The nurse came in once again and looked at me. I could see the concern on her face. She sat close by and held my hand. For the first time since I was a kid I cried. No one except my mom had ever held my hand before or looked at me with the caring I could see in her eyes.

I pulled the blanket down and showed her my tracks, hoping she would understand. She sat back for a moment, and then with even more compassion in her eyes let me know that she understood what I was going through. “Please don’t let them know,” I whispered. “I gotta beat this thing. You can help me.”

“What can I do?” she asked.

“Just stay with me as long as you can. I gotta do the rest,” I told her. My body jerked. The pain reached into every cell of my cold, aching bones. My gut felt like it was coming apart. I needed dope. I needed it now!

She held my hand tighter; she was really trying. It hurt so bad inside I almost passed out. At that moment an old familiar sound floated into my mind, a sound I’d learned to repeat silently to myself a few years ago. It came to me and started almost humming to me in the background. The pain seemed to lessen—my body felt a little warmer—something was different. I settled down some, stopped tossing and turning so badly. The pain was still intense but bearable as long as the sound was there in the background. It was soothing, magical almost, the way it seemed to ease the pain.

My nurse had to go. I nodded goodbye. She smiled a sad smile for me and said she’d be back as soon as she could. I kept repeating the sound silently to myself, over and over, slower and slower, until it sort of took on a life of its own. Then it seemed to just go all by itself. Whenever the pain got to be too much, I came back to that sound, and it eased up enough so I could stand it. Every once in awhile I’d throw up and the fever would take over, but somehow with the sound floating in the background I could handle it.

I lay in bed thinking about the sound, wondering if it meant something. My mom got her sound in the city a few years ago. She never went back to the loony bin after that. She got off all the medications they had her on and she started doing pretty good after she learned this meditation stuff. She told me she’d pay for it if I’d learn. I figured, what the hell. It seemed to help her, but I could just never get into it like she did. I was about sixteen when the instructor whispered the sound to me. At times, when I was low on smack, I would say it to myself as I was coming down. It helped me get back into a nod when I repeated it over in my mind. It brought my high back, kept my head up a little longer. Now it was keeping the pain away, helping me to stay cool and hang in there. When the feelings got too intense I’d tell myself, “Bite the bullet, man—you can do it!” Then the same voice that had spoken to me before said, “Don’t fight it, just feel it.” It sounded stupid, but I tried it and it helped.

My nurse, Mary, showed up again, and this time she brought me ice wrapped in a cloth. She put it on my head. It felt good. I’d been burning up. One minute I was hot, the next minute I was cold. Hot, cold, hot, cold. She held my hand again and I nodded with appreciation. My stomach would tighten, so I’d say the sound and it would back off a bit. I hung in there as best I could, using the sound instead of fighting the pain. My body kept flailing around. It was like there was something inside all my muscles that wanted out. They’d tighten up and my body would scrunch up like a ball, and then all of a sudden they would stretch out full force with a jerk.

That night, Mary brought me a sedative so I could sleep. I needed it. I was exhausted. The pain was too much to sleep. Thank God she was there to help. I finally crashed for a couple of hours.

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When I woke the next morning she was holding my hand again. I tried to smile at her, but the knot in my stomach quickly let me know it wasn’t over yet and I threw up. I started saying the sound to myself. Once again the pain backed off, like magic. I never thought I could do it. Without the small sound there would be no way.

“How’s this one doing, Nurse Phillips?” asked the doctor as he stepped into the room and picked up my chart.

“I think he’s going to be all right, Dr. Vannoy. He’s doing a little better today,” she told him.

“He has to be one of the skinniest recruits I’ve ever seen. Put him on an IV and get some nourishment into that body of his before he melts through the bed.” Mary did as the doctor asked and hooked me up. I actually felt a little better after the IV started to do its thing. I kept my sound going and just felt whatever came up. It hurt like hell but I was doing it.

More memories came rushing in. I was fifteen, I had just stolen my first gun, and I was drunk. It was just a little .22 derringer but at close range it would do the job. About three o’clock in the morning I crept into my parents’ room. I pulled a chair up next to my dad’s side of the bed and took out the gun. The disgusting son-of-a bitch was snoring away as usual. At first I put the barrel of the gun up to his temple, but I realized the bullet might pass through and hit my mom on the other side, or splatter blood all over her. So I aimed it again, this time putting it about an inch from his eye.

I sat there thinking about the hell he had created for all of us, how every moment in his presence was full of tension, insanity. We never knew when he was going to blow up and take a swing at me or my brother. Anything could set him off. Even something good could send him into a rage and all hell would break loose. So now it was my turn. Now I had the upper hand. This bullet would go right through his brain—kill the fucker for good. Maybe my mom would be OK then. No one to drive her into the nuthouse anymore. She wasn’t the crazy one, he was!

Each time I went to pull the trigger something held me back. I stuck it under his chin and tried again. I put it up to his nose. I told him how much I hated his miserable ass and how I could never be happy until he was dead. Sure, they’d lock me away, but at least my mom and my brother could live and be OK once this scumbag was gone. Why couldn’t I shoot the bastard? Something was holding me back. It was like my finger froze every time I tried to pull the trigger. I wanted to so bad, but I just couldn’t do it. I finally got up and left.

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Memories I had buried flashed before me. Was it the sound or the withdrawal that brought them back? I drifted off for a few minutes at a time, and then my body would jerk and I would realize how much pain I was in. So I did my best to just feel it, let it go, and come back to the sound. Still, every once in awhile a sharp pain would bolt through me uncontrollably and my body would almost leap off the bed.

Mary would sit back and stare for a minute or two, then hold my hand again. At one point she even sang to me. That was nice. It reminded me of my aunt who sang to me and my two cousins when I stayed with them. My aunt filled in for my mom when Mom was taking one of her breaks. I must have been about two or three years old back then.

Nighttime was setting in again and Mary came by with another sedative. Thank God! It really helped me last night.

Next morning, the third day of this shit started and dragged on—hot, cold, tossing, turning, spasms, the room closing in on me, stomach in knots, throwing up, sweats. Even with the sound it was still hell. But I had to do it. I couldn’t go back now. I’d die for sure if I went back. The sound was my only chance. I was keeping it going every waking moment.

It was a fitful, tossing-and-turning attempt at sleep. Once I fell asleep I couldn’t say my sound, and my body would jolt me awake with a jerk, muscles spasming out of control. I’d do my best to feel it and then go back to the sound again. Within a few minutes I’d mellow out some and fall back to sleep.

On the fourth day my body hurt. Every muscle ached from all the clenching and jolting. My stomach felt like I had drunk a quart of Drano. The thought of getting through even one more day of this seemed impossible. I went to the bathroom to get sick again, and just as I was about to open the door this guy came out smelling like reefer. I told him I needed a joint. He looked at me like I was nuts or something.

“Come on, man, you stink of reefer. I’m goin’ cold turkey. I need help.” This time he paused and checked out the hallway. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint.

“Good luck, man!” he said as he handed it to me. I went into the bathroom, lit the stick, took a long, deep drag, and held it down. Then another. Within minutes I copped a decent buzz. It eased the pain, gave me a lift, soothed the jones.

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I saved part of the joint for later. Even a little dope, no matter how tame, made a difference. I knew I’d never get off drugs—smack, maybe—but getting high was my life. I went back to my bed and lay down. I began my sound and it played over and over in my mind.

The day dragged on, more of the same. It felt like it would never end. Where before the fix had been my savior, now it was the sound. It continued to mellow me out when things got too intense.

Once again the past flashed through my mind. The fighting, the arguing that never seemed to stop. I saw myself at three, watching my dad screaming at my brother. My mom was caught in the middle. I was holding onto my dad’s pants leg with one hand and hitting him with the other. He knocked me to the ground. I was helpless, powerless to stop it. All I could do was cry.

My stomach was killing me. Maybe this is what all junkies had to go through when they kicked—tortured moments—reliving all the pain they were trying to escape.

They kept me on the IV as much as possible, although twice the needle ripped a hole in my arm because I was jerking around uncontrollably. Mary always seemed to be close by when I needed her. She was great. The day dragged on. She dosed me again that night with tranquilizers.

The fifth day, I woke up and felt better. The pain had eased. The jerking was almost gone and the knots in my stomach had loosened up some. I’d done it. I’d broken through. It would get easier from here. By the end of the day I actually felt a sense of peace. That unquenchable desire to hit up was gone. Yeah, it would be nice to shoot but I didn’t need to. It was different, a huge relief.

Memories flooded my mind that day like they did the days before, but I used the sound to keep them at bay. By that night I was doing pretty good. I was keeping some of my food and drink down. My body quit flopping all over the place like a fish out of water, and I could carry on a conversation without losing it. I’d made it and never wanted to go through that again. No fucking way.

That night I slept deeply and woke the next morning feeling much better. Wow, what a difference it was to wake and not have to stick a spike in my arm. Mary brought me a plate full of bacon and eggs. For the first time in a long while, maybe in years, I was really hungry. My appetite had returned. My stomach still hurt but it felt good to put some food in it. It was like eating for the first time. I could actually taste the food. It was delicious. Mary brought me seconds. My mind cleared—my body relaxed. The next day I was released and sent back to my barracks about midday. Thank God the other guys were already gone on maneuvers, and I could just rest and eat until I got back some strength. But would I be strong enough for what they were going to put me through tomorrow?

I felt a certain sense of freedom now that I’d kicked my habit. I still wanted to get high but didn’t need it the way I did before. The hole in my gut had always been the driving force that had kept me on smack in the past. Would it be again? I wondered.

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Now I had to deal with the army and that whacko drill sergeant. Could I live up to their demands? Could I keep up? I guessed if I’d gone this far, I could go the whole way. It was a new chance. Could I really change? I went to bed that night and felt better about getting up for roll call the next day. In some bizarre way I even looked forward to it.

Bam, bam, bam! “Rack out troops! Get your lazy asses out of bed and let’s go.” I hopped out of bed, put my gear on, and went out to the lot. I stayed in the back of the group, hoping the drill sergeant wouldn’t see me. It was obvious he didn’t like me too much. Even in the short time I’d been there, I could see he was always picking on the weaker guys—the fat or skinny ones, the ones who were having a hard time.

We started out marching. The other guys had gotten better while I was gone. I needed to catch up somehow, especially to keep that drill sergeant off my butt. I was still weak and tired, but after what I’d been through I knew I could do just about anything. I still slipped a bit here and there but finally caught up with the other guys and got the rhythm down. I was doing better. I was gonna make it.

“You will become Airborne Rangers! You will learn to fight! Who’s that slacker back there?” yelled Sergeant Daniels. I thought he was talking about me but he jumped all over some fat guy who’d fallen. “All right, everyone get down and give me twenty.”

That was the deal around here. If one guy got out of line, let the troops down, everyone paid for it—a quick way to make enemies. Unfortunately, I was one of the ones who fell behind, causing a lot of push-ups for the other guys, and they didn’t like it. I didn’t have the strength to keep up yet. I was definitely eating better, feeling stronger, but I knew it was gonna take time.

“What’s this Airborne Ranger crap? We gonna be jumpin outta planes or some stupid shit like that?” I asked the guy next to me.

“Naw. That’s for the guys in the infantry,” he answered. “We’re their support.”

As the days went on the harassment got worse. The sergeant found something wrong with everyone. He reminded me of my dad, always bitching about something, always fucking with our heads. I stayed out of his way. I knew if he got me pissed off enough I’d do something about it, and he wasn’t worth spending the rest of my days in jail. So I decided to let it go. After all, he was just doing his job.

I was eating much better and had actually put on some weight, which felt good. I’d pop a ’lude a couple times a day, which made the gut-wrenching emptiness that constantly plagued me more bearable. I met a pretty cool head named Trace, from another barracks, who’d been drafted. Trace had a sizable stash of pot, so we could keep a good buzz on at night after we were done tramping around all day. Smoking some dope before going to bed helped me sleep at night.

About a week after kicking junk I was resting on my bunk in my room at the barracks. Two guys came out of nowhere and pulled me out of my bed. “You better get it together, asshole. If we have to do one more push-up ’cause of you slacking off we’re gonna beat the shit out of you. You got that?” one of them said, looking like a real hard-on, his face about three inches from mine.

“Yeah, sure. I get it.” My knee connected with his balls before he had a clue what hit him. The other guy stood there with his mouth gaping as his buddy hit the floor. He backed off as soon as he felt the tip of my stiletto against his throat ready to carve out his Adam’s apple. I applied just enough pressure to let him know I was not playing games.

“Still got a problem, asshole?” His buddy started to come to and this time I kicked him in the face just to make sure he knew the first one wasn’t just a lucky shot. My street skills always came through at times like this—once you’ve got them, they’re always there. It was pure reflex. On the streets there was no time to think. I let them go. Told them I’d get serious if they came back. Assholes! Just because I quit dope didn’t mean I was a pussy.

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Some days I played sick and hung out in bed trying to regain my strength. Other days I’d go to roll call then drop behind or hide out along the way. Most of the time they never caught on, but one day the sergeant found out and put me on Kitchen Police for two days straight, scrubbing floors for almost twenty hours a day at the mess hall. I was more tired than when we ran five miles with a full pack but mostly I was bored. I wanted to kill that sergeant for putting me on KP.

A few days later everyone’s dream came true. One of the guys from another company lost it. The mess hall sergeant pushed him just a little too far. The guy was doing KP and his sergeant just wouldn’t let up on him. When the sarge turned around, the guy picked up a meat cleaver and lopped his head right off his shoulders. It was amazing how much nicer all the sergeants were to us during the next few days. But it didn’t last long. Within a week they were back to their usual asshole selves, treating us like shit again.

A couple of weeks later I realized how much I was still slacking. I was doing better but it was such a struggle. One night I told Trace how hard it was for me to keep up with all the running and pushing, the physical exertion. “I think I can help you out. Check this out,” he said, pulling a small jar of pills out of his pocket. “Black beauties—speed.”

“Yeah, I know what they are.”

“Take a couple of these every morning and you’ll be passing those other guys up like they’re standing still,” he said.

Hmm. I remember when I got into speed for awhile. Took lots of black beauties, shot a bunch of meth—really kept me going. Maybe he’s got something there.

“How much?” I asked him.

“A buck a hit.”

“Give me a half-dozen. I’ll try ’em out.” We finished smoking a doob and I went back to crash.

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First thing next morning I popped two of the pills. Within fifteen minutes I could feel the beauties kicking in. All right! I felt up—really up. Let’s cruise.

We went to the lot and I took my normal spot at the back of the crowd. My push-ups still weren’t cutting it, but I was actually getting better, stronger. I could do about ten half-ass push-ups at this point. This morning I did even more. The speed was working. We ran five miles to the rifle range and for the first time I did OK. I wasn’t nearly as beat when we got there and I only fell once.

About a week later, the pills weren’t working anymore. I’d pretty much quit eating. My body was starting to waste away again and the speed was messing with me in a serious way. I wasn’t sleeping, had no appetite and felt sick a lot. I had to let it go. Back to just smoking pot before bed. I even had a few beers one night with some guys at the pool hall on the base.

Shooting pool was a way to make some extra cash since I was pretty good with a cue stick. The “slow roller” they called me. I took a long time to shoot and never smashed the cue like the other guys did. I sank almost every ball I went after. I was no competition for a real hustler but most of these guys had never played pool before. As long as I didn’t show off, and blew a few shots once in awhile, I could make some easy cash. In fact, it started to pay off enough that I would spend most of my spare time hustling the midwestern farm boys to pay for reefer and the delicious hashish some guys were bringing back from Germany.

A month had gone by since I landed in boot camp, and I’d been off smack for three weeks. That afternoon the sarge told us we’d be getting a special leave for two days, starting Friday, and we could go home if we lived close enough. Home was just a little more than an hour and a half away, so it seemed like a good chance to break the monotony of the base and go see my dog. I called my mom. She said that she and my dad would be out of town for the weekend. ‘Good thing,’ I thought.

I hopped a bus the next day and arrived a short while later. My black lab, Tory, jumped all over me, happy to see me. I took a walk down to the local hangout and met a few of my old buddies. They laughed at my crewcut, and then asked me if I wanted to get high—shoot a few bags.

“Nah, I’m off that shit, you guys.”

They kept telling me how good it was. We smoked a joint together and I loosened up a bit. I watched as they got off. I saw the looks on their faces as they caught a rush. I knew the feeling. ‘Ahh, what the hell,’ I thought. ‘What’s one hit gonna do? I’ve been clean for almost a month now. I can handle one hit.’

“All right, Pass the spike.”

I noticed their smiles. They looked just like I used to when I talked some poor suckers into their first free bag of junk. “Just try it once, pal, just once. It can’t hurtcha,” I’d say to them. And if they went for it, I had an excellent chance of making a new steady customer.

They passed me the spike and I got off. Incredible. I quickly fell into a deep silent nod with dreams like never before. I went home that night and drifted off into the sweetest sleep. When I woke the next morning, I could feel my body craving more. Aww, what the hell, one more hit wouldn’t hook me. I had to go back to the base that afternoon anyway.

I called Stan and he brought some dope over. I went up to my room and took my retired set of works out from behind the wall, and went into my dad’s closet and got out one of his belts to tie up with. We got off. I was maxed. We nodded for a few hours and then it was time for me to head back to the base. I grabbed my stuff and walked to the bus stop.

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When I arrived at Ft. Dix, I realized what I’d done. My body was dragging, tired, nervous. The new energy I’d been feeling was gone with just a few hits from my past. I had fucked up royally and I knew it. I had to take a few ’ludes just to stay mellow.

That night someone came to tell me my mom had called and that it was important for me to call home. I found a phone and dialed. My mom answered, “Oh, hi, Eric.”

“Hey, mom, I got your message. Is everything OK?”

“You came home over the weekend, didn’t you, Eric?”

“Uh, yeah, Mom, why’s that?”

“Well, when we got home, we found this drug stuff laying around and one of daddy’s belts tied in a noose. We didn’t know what it was at first, so we called Detective Fiorino from across the street to come over.” ‘Oh shit,’ I thought. “He said it was a drug needle and asked us where you were. We told him we thought you had been home, but weren’t sure, so that’s why we called.” I couldn’t believe it. Was I that out of it that I left my works laying around? ‘You fucking asshole, you,’ I cursed myself. ‘Think fast, jerk-off!’

“Oh, huh, yeah . . . well . . . um . . . one of my old friends stopped in while I was there and I guess he must have shot some dope when I wasn’t paying attention or something, Ma.”

“Well Detective Fiorino said he might have the blood analyzed, and if it’s yours, he will have to arrest you if you come back home again,” she said with a sadness in her voice. That son-of-a-bitch. He’s been after my ass for years. He set me up for a reefer bust and then pulled out a shotgun I had stolen in a B & E one time and had sold to a fence. My prints were all over it. He had wanted information but I wouldn’t give him any. He’d threatened to lock me up but then just hit me with the pot rap and didn’t push the stolen gun shit any further. Probably was saving it for a bigger bust down the road.

“No problem, Ma. I got everything under control. I quit the drug stuff when I joined the army. I’m doin’ good. You should see me. I’ve put on almost ten pounds. I’m keeping up with these guys here, doin’ just fine. Tell Fiorino he ain’t got nothin’ on me.” I knew he couldn’t get a blood sample. He didn’t have a warrant to search the house, so even though the works were covered with my prints, I didn’t think he could use it to prosecute me. But just to be sure, I decided to steer clear of him for awhile.

“Sorry ’bout that, Ma. I won’t ever let that guy into the house again. Gotta go!”

It was time for lights out. Morning would come soon and I needed to recover from my little journey into the past. I now knew how easy it would be for me to get sucked back into my old world, swept away into the heroin trap that had had such a hold on me for the past three years. The thought of going cold turkey again chilled me to the bone. I was finally given a chance at life. Not that the army was fun, but maybe all that stuff about a career and a house and all was somehow possible. I’d gone this far. I had to at least try.

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The next two weeks were the same. Busting our hump. We were now carrying a full pack on our marches to the rifle range. It must have weighed forty or fifty pounds. I’d fall down at least once every mile. Some of the other guys would kick me as they passed, or call me a loser, a slacker. I’d give ’em the finger and force myself to get up and keep pushing. I couldn’t quit now. Only a few more weeks to go and I’d be out of boot camp, out of New Jersey, and hopefully on my way to a better life. I just had to hang in there a little longer. I had run out of Quaaludes by now but still got pretty stoned every night with Trace. It sure was better than being straight, and it helped me keep it together.

We spent the remaining days stabbing dummies with bayonets, shooting paper targets of enemy soldiers out in a field, marching, doing push-ups and KP, and being pushed to our physical and mental limits. I checked into sick bay every now and then when it got to be too much. I knew the drill sergeant would be glad to get rid of me. He hated my white ass.

Then one day they started to add some strange shit to the daily schedule, lecturing us about how great the United States was for protecting little countries from the “evils of communism.” No matter how much they seemed to explain, I still couldn’t get it. They told us about Vietnam and how if we let the commies take it, they’d be landing on our beaches next. But in just a few more days it wouldn’t matter—I’d be out of this hole and off to wherever to become a cook. Maybe they’d treat me a little better than they had in this place.

So far I’d gotten what I wanted. I beat the jones, put on close to twenty pounds, and felt pretty good. I could run. I was healthier than I’d been since I was a kid. And I realized that the empty feeling, the aloneness inside, was just a part of me, something I’d have to live with. Tums helped my stomach, and staying stoned on pot, alcohol, pills, or whatever I could get my hands on, eased the feeling and didn’t leave me as strung out as smack. I knew I’d stay high for the rest of my life—there was never a question about that. It was the only way to keep the thoughts that drove me crazy, and the feelings that wrenched my gut, at bay. But it couldn’t be junk. There is no life if you’re hooked on junk.

The last day of boot camp finally came. It was time to leave this place behind and it felt good. We were done with this bullshit and now I could start living a more peaceful life. We had our graduation that morning, and as soon as it was over we received our orders. I was to report to Ft. Lee in Richmond, Virginia. Thank God, I’m gonna get out of New Jersey. I was given three days to get there. I decided to hang out in the little town of Ft. Dix at the edge of the base. I knew what would happen if I went home and hooked up with the guys. And, if I don’t go home to see them, why bother going at all? There’s nothing else there for me. Plus, that stupid dick, Fiorino, would be scoping me out and maybe trying to bust me. Who needs it? I’ll send my dog a postcard from Virginia.

I spent two days hustling some cash shooting pool, chugging a few bottles of wine, and getting maxed out on some wicked hashish a GI smuggled in from Germany. A couple of tokes and I was whacked.

The third morning I took a bus into Newark, then caught another one to Virginia. I arrived that night and got a cab to the base. There was a bunk waiting for me. The decor wasn’t much different than back at Ft. Dix, but at least there wasn’t anyone getting in my face—yet.

The next day I was given instructions where to report to learn my new trade, my MOS, as the army called it. It was a lot like the vocational school I went to for a short time just before quitting high school. But instead of electrical saws, drills, and tools, there were ovens, big mixing bowls, huge gas grills, and all the utensils needed to whip up some serious tubs of food.

Cooking school was boring but at least they treated us decently, and I actually learned my way around the kitchen. I also got hooked up with a bunch of black dudes from Virginia who had some pretty good drugs. Pills of all kinds were available, along with pot, speed, and tubes of morphine the army supplied for the troops in Vietnam. They looked like tubes of glue with needles sticking out the ends. I only did them a couple of times, when I felt really bummed out.

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