were as good as dead meat.
While I researched the Selective Service policies and the draft classification process, I discovered I could not be drafted while I had an appeal in process. I immediately applied for the sole support deferment, claiming my daughter and Rachael would be without money if I went to war. Both parents wrote letters to President Nixon, stating they would not support my family if I were drafted and sent to Vietnam.
The sole support process bought me a couple months, but I was still “1A” going into December of 1969.
Around that time, the government announced a birthday lottery to be held on Dec. 1, 1969. Its purpose was to determine the order in which men, born between 1944 and 1950, would be called to report for induction into the military. They put all birth dates in a drum, and pulled birth dates one-by-one, so guys with a given date knew the relative sequence in which they would be drafted.
I waited and took my chances, secure in the knowledge that Canada was still an option. The lottery number for my birthday was 249, which meant all males whose birthday numbers were 248 and lower would get drafted before me. No one was sure how far into the birthday chain the draft would reach, so my number didn’t make me feel totally secure. As it turned out, 195 was the highest number drafted in my lottery.
Although my lottery number kept me away from the draft, I hadn’t lost my compassion for the U.S. troops in Vietnam, nor had I forgot the families and friends of those killed, wounded or captured. To me, fighting in Vietnam was like alcoholism: Only one person’s life was threatened, but all those people who knew him shared the emotional pain, grief, and the misery.
My daily reminder of the war was the body counts which were reported on the TV nightly news where the kill ratio showed more VC dead than U.S. troops. The TV clips of battles depicted the war as a horror, no matter who was winning. The death numbers supported the military reports that stated our strategies were working and we were winning.
Eye-witnesses confirmed that the practice of counting one dead VC multiple times which told a much different conclusion of our strategy than had the kill ratio been accurate. History has documented the hidden agendas that ran the war, and the lies used to defend the government war strategies.
The draft was a monkey on my shoulder but, with me, there was a connection to others who opposed the war and the draft that was used to feed the war-machine. Often, when we were getting high, the conversation would turn to the war and a discussion would ensue against the government and the atrocities we knew about. My opinions kept me away from people who were supporters of the war.
Books, movies, TV, current affairs, and music never let the war slip from my view or that of a generation. The peace symbol and the “V” hand symbol became synonymous with our generation in general, and with the Vietnam War, in particular.
~ ~ ~
I excelled at programming and kept getting the standard raises; however, I became frustrated and approached my manager.
“I would like to be transferred to a development job where I can use my new skills and be more creative,” I said. “I have worked on the maintenance of old programs for a year and need to be challenged.” He seemed pleased I had initiated the transfer request and, within a couple of days, I was moved into a development team.
In my new job, I sat next to a guy who had long hair. I assumed all guys who had shoulder length hair smoked pot, and this guy was no exception.
“Hi, I’m John. Do you live around here?” I asked.
“I’m Jason. I live off the Turnpike Exit 11, how about you?” He said.
“I live 2 exits farther east,” I answered. “Since we both go home in the same direction, do you want to stop for a beer after work some night?” I asked.
“No, I’m not into alcohol. Do you get high?” he asked conversationally.
I almost fell out of my chair, as I was expecting a little more small talk before we got to the subject of my real concern.
“Sure,” I said, keeping the conversation moving in the direction I thought would lead me to a joint, and possibly a new dealer.
“Why don’t you come over to my place tomorrow night? We can talk for a while. Here are the directions,” he said as he scribbled down a couple street names and turns. I was excited for the rest of the work day.
When I got home, I told Rachael I set up a meeting with a guy from work who was probably a dealer. She said good, maybe because she wanted to get high, but probably because she wanted me to find some dope so I could calm down. Our daughter was about one year old at the time and, since Rachael had not smoked cigarettes or pot since becoming pregnant, she was ready to have a little fun.
I agonized for the next 24 hours waiting to share a joint with Jason.
~ ~ ~
It was a warm spring evening as he led me up the stairs to a partially refurbished attic. We sat on the floor in front of a small window with bright sunlight pouring over us, and he pulled out a small garbage bag that looked to contain a few ounces. We were high after the first joint, and laughed about the people at work. As the sun was setting, he rolled another number that finished us off.
I wasn’t sure how long we smoked, but I sensed it was time to leave. In a casual way, I asked about dealers who would be open to selling me some pot. I desperately wanted to score, so I asked if I could buy some of his weed. He explained he wasn’t a dealer, but said he’d pass the word that I was looking to buy. He explained that whenever he found good stuff, he would buy a pound to smoke and party with friends. Then, he offered to give me a small baggie to hold me over until a new score presented itself. He wouldn’t take any money, but eye-balled the amount of pot in the baggie.
“You owe me this much whenever you score.” He said, and I went home excited.
“Jason is a cool guy, you will like him,” I told Rachael. “He looks like a solid pot connection with multiple dealers. He gave me a lid from his personal stash and wouldn’t take any money. We have an agreement that I will pay him with pot when I score.”
A few days after that night with Jason, he introduced me to a couple of guys in the sub-culture within the company’s world of drugs. I made friends with each of them and, for the next few years, Jason and I kept each other on top of what drugs were around.
Aside from getting high, I played basketball with Jason and his friends. They all lived in the same neighborhood all of their lives. They had been living the same life, year after year, even though they were in their 20s. At least Jason and his best friend had graduated from college before they returned to their old lives.
We were from different backgrounds and didn’t share the same lifestyles. Since I left home, I had graduated from two different colleges and moved my family twice in the first couple years of my career. For me, life was all about change.
After about a year, I only hung around them to score, and we all knew my motive. Jason and I remained friends, but our differences had escalated since I moved again and he hung out with his high school buddies. Although I felt uneasy being around a couple of his old friends, I sucked it up for obvious reasons.
My marijuana addiction and the need for acceptance by those guys began to cloud my judgment.
It’s a fairly standard rule for scoring drugs, that you not get high before trying new stuff. Otherwise, it’s difficult to judge the quality of what was for sale.
One night, I broke that rule while I was at Jason’s waiting for a deal to go down. We had been waiting for a couple of hours, and I was a little antsy doing nothing. A friend of his began sharing a joint with his son who looked about six years old. Everybody thought it was funny, but I felt self-righteous and needed a smoke to get mellow.
Even after I’d smoked awhile, I was still pissed at that father for giving his son marijuana at such an early age. I thought he was being completely irresponsible, and I couldn’t stand to watch the little kid get stoned. There was nothing I could do to stop it,