So, the year was 1967, and I had been kicked out of high school. As I said in my previous diary entry, I did some work on the farm and spent a lot of time hiking through the woods. But sometimes I would drive up to Joplin and buy a dime bag and get high by the dam on Shoal Creek. Nobody was ever there, which, of course, is why I went there. The dam isn't very tall, but apparently, it's still dangerous. The Corps of Engineers posted a warning sign that showed a fellow—I guess it was a fellow because he wasn't wearing a dress—caught on the downside of the dam and rolling over and over like a log in the water, so he couldn't get out. I studied that sign and thought, "Well, shit. That's me." I even wrote down what the sign said, "Danger! Hazardous recirculating currents below this dam can trap and drown a victim."
Yep, they sure can.
When you're miserable, there's nothing like a sticky bud and a cold beer; at least, they were a comfort to me then. I took a couple puffs before licking my fingers and snuffing out the joint, and then I watched the water falling over the dam. There I was, caught in the hazardous recirculating currents of my mental state and rolling like a log when suddenly and unbidden, the orange glow of that long ago fishing trip on the Buffalo River rose in my memory, and I knew what I had to do: I had to go back to Arkansas. Therein, I believed, lay my redemption. So, I drove back to Stella and packed some clothes in a duffel bag and told my folks, "Good-bye". Mom hugged me and asked for an explanation I couldn't give her. Then Pap shook my hand, gave me twenty bucks, and wished me luck. In the dying light of a July twilight I set off hitchhiking down Highway A.
I hadn't gone far when Tommy Jackson's dad, Tom, Sr., gave me a ride all the way to Cassville—in fact, even further south to Roaring River State Park. We talked about that long ago fishing trip, and he said he wished he could've been there, but his work kept him away too much. "Life is full of regrets," he said.
He talked about Tommy's plan to go to the university in Springfield and said he hoped Tommy could avoid the war by keeping his grades up. I said maybe Tommy could major in something like PE or English. Then Mr. Jackson was silent until he asked me if I wanted a cigarette. Of course, I said, "Yes, sir."
He looked at me and said, "Janet hates the smell of smoke. She'd raise hell if she found out I was smoking in the car." So, we rolled down the windows and the moist evening air rushed in. Then he reached over my legs to the glove box and took out a half pack of Pall Malls. He tapped a cigarette out for me and put another between his lips, but he couldn't light it because the wind kept blowing out the lighter.
"Would you light this thing for me?" he asked. He handed me the cigarette.
"Sure." I lit it and handed it back to him.
Then Mr. Jackson asked, "So, what do you plan to do, Otis?"
"Who knows? Figure things out, I guess."
"What do you mean—'figure things out'?"
"You know, figure out why one man gets to tell another man to do something he doesn't want to do and shouldn't want to do; figure out how the government can frame things, so it's more moral to kill people than it is not to. I thought the government worked for us, not the other way around. But that's not the way it is. Those motherfu—sorry—those politicians think they're God Almighty."
"Nothing to be sorry for. I feel like you do about Washington." He twisted his mouth sideways and blew smoke toward the window. "Anything else you need to figure out?"
"No, sir. Except maybe how to make enough money, so I don't starve. That's always a concern."
"Do you need money? I have some money I could give you."
I glanced sideways at him, and he looked different somehow; his jaw was tight, and his eyes were set dead ahead on the road. He tossed his cigarette out the window. It was maybe half smoked.
"No, sir. Pap gave me some money when I left. I'm good."
"How good are you?" His voice had a tone. "Are you a good boy?"
Oh, shit, I thought. Now I know why this son of a bitch is on the road so much. I hesitated and then said, "Mr. Jackson, I do appreciate the ride. But I don't like the tenor of this conversation. It's just a feeling I have, and I mean no offense and maybe I'm wrong. But I'm not as lost as you seem to think I am."
"What do you mean, Otis?" He said that in a weird, almost mechanical voice. God, I hate that kind of voice—like a sodomizer with a hypodermic needle talking to a new recruit. (Here is a truth the government wants us never to know: War is sodomy by another name.)
"Nothing. Just forget it," I said. But I could tell he got my message because he leaned back from the steering wheel.
Anyhow, we stopped in Wheaton for a burger at Debbie's Diner, and Mr. Jackson paid for my meal and got me a chocolate shake to go. We talked about stuff that didn't matter, and things didn't seem so weird after that. About an hour later, he dropped me off at Roaring River and gave me five bucks and the rest of the cigarettes. I asked Mr. Jackson to tell Tommy good-bye for me, and he said, "I'm not sure how our misunderstanding came about back there, but I swear that's all it was—a misunderstanding. No need for you to say anything to Tommy."
"No worries, Mr. Jackson. Be safe." He drove off down Highway 112.
I unrolled my sleeping bag on one of the picnic tables beneath a pavilion and smoked another cigarette. As I say, this all happened in '67, and no one hassled me then. Nowadays, some park ranger asshole would surely run me off, but they let me spend the night.
Why does one man get to tell another man what to do? I still haven't figured it out.