Читать книгу The Most Important Thing - David Gross - Страница 8

It only takes a drop of fuel to launch a determined boy toward destiny. Bradley’s pocket contained the egg sandwich and six dollars and twelve cents. He wore the only shoes he owned. His old blue overalls were clean but patched. On his back Bradley wore the yellow shirt his brother gave him.

Anderson waited at the bus stop kicking rocks. The bus ran late due to the bad weather. When the boys finally saw the bus, their free-flowing noses flamed bright with color. The Greyhound carried the boys away from the dirt road beside Ole Buck Creek. The bouncing old, metal dinosaur ground its gears through the many narrow curves of the mountain road to Jackson, Kentucky. The road was so icy, treacherous, and dark that it took half an hour to travel the twelve miles to Jackson. Jackson was the county seat, with a population of over a thousand. The town’s population barely justified a bus depot. Bradley and Anderson rode through the hills and frozen trees of their past while the boys chatted excitedly about the future.

“I’m going to buy a suit with my first paycheck,” said Anderson.

“What in God’s name for?” asked Bradley. Bradley thought a tie the most uncomfortable garment ever devised. Why would anyone wear an item resembling a hangman’s noose?

“I want a suit and a tie like a real gentleman,” replied Anderson, “Everybody treats you well when you wear a suit. Women treat you well. Other men treat you well. In stores, they wait on you first. It’s not the person, it’s the suit.”

“I am not denying what you say is right, Anderson,” said Bradley, “but don’t personal comfort mean anything? I would rather be comfortable and be treated like everyone else.”

“Bradley, the only reason you say that is you haven’t been treated like a gentleman. When you go to a place where they don’t know you, and you come in wearing a suit, I guarantee you will like it when they hustle to get whatever it is that you want,” argued Anderson.

“Well, all I want is a pair of jeans and a tee shirt,” replied Bradley.

“All right,” said Anderson, “but I’ll be the one dancing with all of the girls in the free world.”

“Why limit yourself to the free world, Anderson?” asked Bradley. “We’ll be going to Germany and maybe Russia. We’ll see plenty of Communist women. Let’s dance with them too. The Army will bring us into contact with women everywhere.”

“I’d dance with a German, but not a Russian,” avowed Anderson.

“Dance with whoever you want, but I’m not putting any limits on anything. If a girl was willing to dance with me, I would dance with her,” affirmed Bradley.

“As long as they have bosoms… . Hey! Bradley, we have finally arrived at Jackson. This trip is going to take all day just to get to Louisville,” grumbled Anderson. The gears ground, indicating the slower speed limit of the town.

“It sure beats walking. It takes all day to walk to Jackson,” said Bradley. This being his first trip to the megalopolis of Louisville.

“Your feet don’t hurt as bad if you ride a horse or a mule,” responded Anderson.

“True, sore feet or sore butt, it’s a matter of choice,” replied Bradley.

“Well, this was one of the best trips that I ever had to Jackson,” said Anderson.

“Me too,” agreed Bradley.

“I hope that we feel that way when we come home,” wished Anderson.

“Two years from now, it will be you and me,” promised Bradley.

“Do you think we will succeed?” asked Anderson.

“Sure, we’re good-looking and smart. You’ll be a general,” replied Bradley.

“Do you think we will fight?” asked Anderson.

“I don’t know. That’s the purpose of an army. It could happen,” said Bradley.

“I don’t want to, but I will do my job,” said Anderson.

“So will I,” said Bradley.

“We’ll make it,” said Anderson.

“Tell you what, Anderson, no matter what happens let’s stick together. Let’s watch each other’s back. I don’t know if we can, but let’s stay in the same company. Let’s make a pact,” said Bradley, holding out his hand. Anderson shook his hand immediately.

“You’re damn right, Bradley; let’s stick together, come hell or high water,” said Anderson.

Both boys solemnly swore.

It was cold as a snowman’s birthday as the bus rolled into the Jackson Greyhound Depot. The numb hands of the bus station clock pointed to seven twenty in the morning. The drab bus station looked obsolete, like every thing else in Jackson. In the way station, a few sleepy transients loafed around the large room, anticipating the exodus from Breathitt County.

As the day passed, the bus stations grew larger and the buses more crowded. Each bus station differed, but each was the same. First came Jackson, then Lexington, and finally Louisville, with many nameless stops in between. The weary bus riders varied. Some of the passengers visited family; some searched for a better life. All of the passengers tugged at layers of clothing due to the cold. The travelers carried bundles and suitcases. The boys kept their own counsel, preferring the safety of their junta of two. The boys usually waited patiently on the bus as it stopped at every little town between Jackson and Louisville, but with each creaking, bumping moment boredom prevailed. Upon arrival into each town, the boys explored the bus stations. Many of the bus riders in the station lounged at the lunch counter, drinking coffee, eating hamburgers, and smoking cigarettes. Waitresses with personality slung hash. Babies cried. Businessmen read the newspaper. After a few leg stretching moments, the boys returned to the bus.

As the time and miles past, Bradley and Anderson devoured the food that they had brought from home. The boys didn’t eat the lunch counter hamburgers, conserving their modest resources. In the early afternoon, the great metal Greyhound deposited the riders into the vast metropolis of Louisville.

An Army representative wearing stripes surveyed the crowded bus station. He immediately spotted Anderson and Bradley and five other recruits. The sergeant identified the new men in the crowd with uncanny precision. Most of the boys arrived at Fort Knox, called “The School of Hard Knox” by the natives, directly from civilian life. The sergeant spotted the wide-eyed gawkers in hayseed attire easily.

The boys dressed in clothes all of the colors of the rainbow, so they were called “Rainbows.” Of all the poorly treated privates of the School of Hard Knox, the Rainbow was the lowest, receiving the worst treatment. The Rainbows were freethinkers; the Army had no use for freethinking. With seven Rainbows behind him, the sergeant led the way to a truck, ignoring all questions and comments. Seven individuals sat in the back of a truck, dressed in their brightly colored civilian attire. Soon, they would uniformly wear Army olive.

The recruits immediately began their transformation at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Fort Knox is famous for the gold depository of the United States. Tons of gold bars are stored at Fort Knox. Rest assured that the soldiers didn’t see any gold.

While lining up and signing up, however;the Army offered $10,000 in life insurance to the soldier. Bradley named his mother beneficiary. Ten thousand dollars represented a lifetime of labor. Frankly, Bradley didn’t feel his life worth $10,000. Yet if something happened to him, mother wouldn’t have to worry.

Bradley marveled at the size and organization of the processing center. The immediate ritual of forms confirmed that it was a government institution interacting with the recruit. Then the medics, nurses, and doctors ensured the government got a good buy. Bradley stood in the nude in a row of other guys, when Anderson, fully clothed, passed. Anderson’s shoulders stooped as he carried his gripsack in hand. He failed his physical. From the expression on Anderson’s face, Bradley sensed that Anderson felt as low as the only mule in a cavalry parade.

“I guess I won’t be getting that new suit, Bradley. They are sending me home,” said the watery-eyed Anderson. Anderson’s 4-F classification prevented him from serving in the Army.

“Why?” asked the stunned Bradley. The moment he said this he guessed why, and was embarrassed that he had asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Anderson.

“Dang! I’m sorry, Anderson. The Army is missing out on one good soldier,” whispered Bradley. After a moment, Anderson lifted his head and looked Bradley in the eye.

“So long, Bradley. You were right, you know, I would have been a good soldier,” said the brokenhearted Anderson. The boys shook hands and the miserable Anderson Combs slunk away droopy-mouthed. His military career lasted an hour and a half. It was a career filled with disappointment, void of fancy clothes, ending without one Samba. No one would be watching Bradley’s back. Anderson slunk away from the School of Hard Knox, and with him vanished the last token of Bradley’s old Kentucky home.