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| A car and books |
President Johnson had just announced he was sending more than 100,000 troops to Southeast Asia to join the 185,000 troops already there. It was the first major escalation of the war. When Aaron Alvarez told his parents he’d signed the papers to join the army, he saw tears begin to form in the corner of his mother’s eyes. She struggled to find the right words. “You’re not even nineteen, yet. It’s dangerous, right now, with everything going on.” He could tell she was trying to be strong, but the pain on her face was evident. She asked, “Why?”
His dad lowered the newspaper and sat back quietly on the couch. Deep wrinkles formed across his forehead, a look of disgust. “We didn’t sacrifice and pay for Catholic school for you to go join the army. What about college?”
"I can start college on the G.I. Bill, after..."
Aaron didn’t recall much else about the conversation, other than saying something about wanting independence, making his own decisions, and needing adventure, not sitting, bored, four more years in a classroom. Neither of his parents had gone to college, so they really couldn’t argue the point. His dad, a WWII combat veteran, responded, “In the army? Make your own decisions?” He shook his head. “Stupid. You’re just a kid. You don’t know nothing about it.”
A month passed. He saved up money working a part-time job at a clothing store, cleaning up after closing time. His friends decided to have one last drinking party. One of the guys got his older brother-in-law to buy three six-packs of Schlitz. They ended up at a local park. It was late. Most of the lights were out. They drank and talked, mostly about girlfriends, cars, and all the partying they’d done that summer. It was all coming to an end.
Sal Torres and Kenny Woodhouse had both joined the Marines, the same day Aaron joined the army, kind of a pact. Sal and Kenny came from broken homes, so to their mothers, their decision to join was more about one less kid in the house, one less mouth to feed, one less kid running the streets.
Aaron had been a good student in school, the only Catholic school kid in the bunch, so the guys figured he was going to college. He volunteered for jump school, to be a paratrooper like his dad and uncles, glamorous and exciting.
None of his other friends thought any of it glamorous, not the military or the war. When Carlos "Charley" Montoya, lead singer for the group Fantastic Plastic heard, he said, "Dumb, brother, a dumb move you ask me." The rest had bunk jobs, but "Hey," one had said, "work is work."
In 1966, the country didn’t even know much about the Vietnam, either. Like everybody else, Aaron and his friends had seen the images of soldiers, smoke, and the sounds of war on the television news, but it was all far away, distant, nothing to do with them.
Kenny said he wanted to join before he got drafted. Sal said he joined because there were too many kids at home. Aaron’s best friend, Tommy Figueroa said he’d wait for them to come and get him, no use pushing it. Maybe the whole thing would blow over by then.
At the end of the night, they were pretty “toasted.” Before they jumped into the cars, Tommy said, “I hope the damn thing starts. He slipped into the driver seat of his, silver ’57 Chevy Bel-Air, held his hand up outside the window, his fingers crossed. He turned the key and pumped the accelerator. The ignition turned, too many times, until finally the engine caught, sputtered, coughed, and died. He tried again. The same thing. After that, there was nothing, just the ignition turning then a clicking sound. “Damn, battery,” Tommy said. “You guys are gonna have to push it, so I can pop the clutch.”
Paul Castro, the only "cholo" in the group who acted the part but didn't like fighting, had been a friend since elementary school, said, “Naw. Ay. That’s too hard. Let’s get it in the street. I’ll push it with my car.”
A few minutes later both cars were on the street. Paul pulled his car slowly up to Tommy’s, but the bumpers didn’t meet. Paul had lowered his ’62 Galaxie, so his front bumper was a few inches lower than Tommy’s back bumper. All of them were pretty drunk by this point and not thinking clearly. It was all a joke.
Tommy said, “I know. Two of you get up on my trunk and make the bumpers level. That should work.”
Without much enthusiasm, Aaron and Billy Marquez volunteered. They both jumped up on the trunk, and sure enough the bumper dropped just enough to meet Paul’s bumper. Paul said, “Cool. I’ll get you up to about 15 MPH and let up on the gas. That should do it, fast enough get to pop the clutch and get it going, Tommy.”
Tommy kept laughing. “All right, solid, got it,” he said.
Once Billy was up on the trunk, he said, “Dang, it's slippery up here.” Billy had started every year on the high school varsity basketball team. He was taller than the others.
Aaron had started thinking a little more clearly. He hopped up onto the trunk, hooked the soles of his shoes into the heavy metal bumper, and said, “Tommy, don't go messing around. When you pop the clutch, don’t peel out. Get it started and slow down, or we’ll slip off.”
Billy reached behind him, stretching his long arm, and with one hand, he grabbed onto the back window frame, to stabilize himself. He said, “Get hold of the back window frame, Aaron.”
Aaron reached back with his left arm, his weak arm. He pitched with his right hand. His fingers barely reached the back window frame. He took a hold with his fingertips, not too securely. He was still drunk enough not to worry about it.
The cars began to move. Aaron stretched back for a better grip but nearly lost his balance. His fingers were too short. He leaned back on the hood, moving his shoes, to get them squarely on the back bumper. Paul got both cars up to a good clip, the bumpers clanking. Aaron could feel the wind blowing his hair. Someone let out a yell, like a mariachi. When he hit 15 MPH, Paul let up on the accelerator. Aaron could feel himself slipping. He leaned back, as far as he could, waiting for the jolt, his free hand looking for something to grab. Nothing.
Tommy hit the clutch and accelerator simultaneously. He laughed like a maniac. The engine caught. The headers roared, but instead of slowing down, Tommy punched it, laughing even more. Aaron didn’t want to punk-out and call out for Tommy to slow down. Desperately, he hung on. Billy, his hand secure, smiled, the wind tousling his hair. Aaron began slipping. He stiffened his legs, but it was no use. He didn’t want to hit the street head-first, so he decided to jump, angling toward the curb.
He landed on his feet, the asphalt moving beneath him. He fell backwards, the back of his head hitting the street. Like a flash, a quick bright light, a thought shot through his brain. Paul’s heavy Ford Galaxie was coming up from behind. Instinctively, he turned his body toward the curb and ended up on his stomach. He covered his head with his arms and waited for the tires to pounce. Paul’s right front tire pinched the edge of his left leg. He lay still, his mind spinning, not sure if he was dead or not.
The cars stopped. His friends, laughing, came running to him. Only Paul looked worried. “You, okay, Aaron?”
Aaron stood, slowly, and brushed himself off. Lucky, he was wearing a long-sleeve Pendleton. Nobody noticed the torn material or the burns on his arms. He looked into Tommy’s eyes, always the jokester, never taking anything seriously. Aaron didn’t say anything. He didn’t want them to know how close he’d come. It was all a big, stupid joke.
They drove Aaron home and promised to see each other in a couple of months. He could feel his jittery knees as he entered his parents' home through the back door.
The next morning, Aaron packed his bag, taking only what the army instructed on the printed sheet of paper they'd given him. Before leaving for work, his dad had woken him up and told him to stay safe, to do what he was told, and he’d be fine. His dad kissed him on the cheek. He’d never done that.
A little before 9:00 A.M., his mom kissed his forehead and dropped him off at the Induction Center in Downtown Los Angeles. She asked, “Mi’jo, you want me to park and come in?”
“No, Mom, thanks. They told me to come alone. I'll call when I get a chance.”
She smiled, her eyes sad. "Okay."
He said, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be alright, really.”
He stepped to the sidewalk. She drove off. The back of his arms still burned. There was a slight throbbing at the side of his leg. He rubbed it and walked up the sidewalk to where a crowd of guys about his own age had formed.
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