This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.

Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 6

On August the 16th, 1966 and having missed Allen Ginsberg's, Peter Orlovsky's, and Andy Warhol's Kreeping Kreplachs press conference at the Village Gate, I returned to New York from Paris via Montreal with a multitude of regrets in my heart. My two Moroccans, who had been more than just friends, had seen me off at Orly airport, telling me not to be sad, because love between men was meaningless, if it existed at all.

They were students, and had befriended me, while I'd been working obsessively, earning my PhD at the age of 21, and doing little else, which had been an effort that made me one of the youngest to have ever accomplished that feat at the University of Paris. Then I'd returned, only to discover that the structure of all rational things political in the United States had seriously started to deteriorate. The House Committee on Un-American Activities was still investigating suspected communists. Hearings, which had started on the day I'd returned home were investigating Americans who had been aiding the Viet Cong.

Even the House Committee on Un-American Activities was following the fad of the day. It was no longer enough to be a commie like Eugene Dennis and support the Industrial Workers of the World. No, nowadays, you had to be a Maoist and support the fucking Viet Cong. Apparently the House Committee members now wore frilly paisley shirts and bell-bottom hip-huggers.

After my return, I had been attending various, sporadic anti-war demonstrations and actions here in Manhattan, and had heard about an interesting idea, which proposed letting yourself be drafted and working against the war effort from within the military. Covert sedition, they called it. So, by the time I'd had to report for my suitability tests at the Army Building on Whitehall Street, that had become my plan of action.

It was late in the morning of December 7th, 1966 when I came home from an overnight stay at my best friend's house over in Brooklyn and the ominous envelope was waiting for me on the dining table. The glass-topped, dark-brown, highly polished, lacquered Chinoiserie table was our family's mail drop. All out-going letters were placed on the edge closest to the door to our apartment, and all in-coming post was on the edge closest to the living room. This was structured, like everything in our home; my parents were both teachers. Neither was home yet for lunch.

Since I'd already passed my physical and Army aptitude test over a month ago, the letter could only be one thing. I sat at the table and deliberated what to do.

They hadn't wasted any time, either. Almost the moment I'd arrived back with my fresh degree in French and Cantonese, they'd served me with the notice to get my physical and take some rinky-dink batteries of test. It seems that my most recent memories of home were registering for the draft, then leaving for Paris and returning to be drafted.

I got a glass of ice cubes and poured some of my mom's lychee wine, swirled and swigged. Mom never liked to see me help myself to alcohol. She worried that I'd become a child alcoholic, but she seemed to forget that the drinking age was 18 in New York and that I was way beyond that. But good old Bernice would worry, no matter what I did.

Now, with all the courage lychee wine could provide, I opened the envelope. And sure enough, there it was: SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM, ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION. And they'd even printed this shit on yellow paper, since, I'd bet, they expected me to piss on it. Then I looked at the stamp on the right from my draft board. I remembered that nasty bitch, who'd given me so much grief when I applied for permission to go to France for college.

"Aren't you still in high school?" Her tone was approaching but not yet condescending.

"No, I graduated two years early. I would be a Junior in college, if I were to stay here."

"And American colleges aren't good enough for you." She sneered in fluent, nasal Bronxonian English and glared over her rhinestone studded, wing tipped glasses to drive her point home.

"It's better to study French and Cantonese in France." I was trying for rational. And I was also trying not to reveal my true reason for wanting to go to France to study French. I was ashamed that I was trying to avoid Dad. He was the head of the French Department at City College, Harvard of the Proletariat, as some referred to it. How could I study advanced French, when my own father was the head of department and would be my professor? But she didn't pick up on the French part.

"Why not study Cantonese in Canton?" Again glaring up from her blue-grey Underwood typewriter, and more than likely referring to the city in Ohio.

"Why not? And you, of course, would give me permission to go to China?" I chuckled silently, since the State Department prohibited any US citizen to even glance in the direction of the People's Republic.

She turned beet red. "Not in this lifetime, Buster." She pursed her lips, knowing full well that she'd been found out. She had no idea what Cantonese was.

"And I might not give you permission to visit France, either, if you don't stop being so smart." This time, she was glaring through her rhinestone-rimmed glasses at her defenseless typewriter. But she did, however, fill out the SSS form, and she signed it, in triplicate.

I was certain that she'd been the one who'd carefully placed this ink-image of her official rubber stamp into the top right-hand corner of my draft notice just above my selective service number. I just knew she'd filled out this SSS Form 252 with the very same 11-point Courier provided by her blue-grey Underwood. But it was probably the same typeface that all government typewriters had.

I took another swig of my lychee wine, before reading further. And this was where I started to giggle. "The President of the United States, To Benton Ju-Long Loughery", and our home address and then: "Greeting:". As if LBJ even knew I existed and was going to come by for dinner, as soon as Bernice and William got home from work. What a pile.

But here was where it got less funny, even after having had a good helping of lychee wine: You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States, and to report at Whitehall Examining and Entrance Station, 39 Whitehall in Manhattan, New York on 10 January 1967 at 7 AM. Now, if that wouldn't have royally fucked up Christmas, had I given a shit. And not for the first time, I was glad to be an Atheist Buddhist.

And here was where I had to laugh again: IMPORTANT NOTICE, (Read Each Paragraph Carefully), IF YOU HAVE HAD PREVIOUS MILITARY SERVICE; OR ARE NOW A MEMBER OF THE NATIONAL GUARD OR A RESERVE COMPONENT OF THE ARMED FORCES; BRING EVIDENCE WITH YOU. IF YOU WEAR GLASSES, BRING THEM. IF MARRIED, BRING PROOF OF YOUR MARRIAGE. IF YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL OR MENTAL CONDITION WHICH, IN YOUR OPINION, MAY DISQUALIFY YOU FOR SERVICE IN THE ARMED FORCES, BRING A PHYSICIAN'S CERTIFICATE DESCRIBING THAT CONDITION, IF NOT ALREADY FURNISHED TO YOUR LOCAL BOARD.

I was still laughing and toying with the idea of wiring my psychiatrist in Paris and asking him to forward my file regarding the extensive consultations concerning my lack of social skills due to having to hide my homosexuality from my parents, when the door opened. Then I wondered if the US Army would even believe a French psychiatrist. After all, the predominant mood in the United States was Francophobe.

"Smells like you're having fun. Is Lonnie with you?" Dad quipped while hanging up his topcoat and Fedora on the rack next to the door. He came over and took a whiff of my glass and a sip. "Think I'll have one, too." When he saw what I was reading, his tone went serious. "Can I make you another? Why don't I mix 'em with vodka?"

"Yeah, a lychee and vodka would be nice." I started to laugh again when I read: Valid documents are required to substantiate dependency claims in order to receive basic allowance for quarters. Be sure to take the following with you when reporting to the induction station. The documents will be returned to you. (a) FOR LAWFUL WIFE OR LEGITIMATE CHILD UNDER 21 YEARS OF AGE…

"What's funny?" He set down the drink on a cork coaster, not even admonishing me for not having used one earlier.

I took a sip, and almost coughed. It was that strong. "The army wants to see proof of all my legitimate children under the age of 21."

Dad did cough, after snorting booze through his nose in an attempt to suppress a laugh. "Yeah, let's see. You turned what, 22 on October first? And they think you could have a kid who's 20?"

"That would have made me the horniest toddler in lower Manhattan." I giggled; the vodka was taking effect, and I was being deliberately butch, since I was still hiding my Queer side from the folks.

"Probably in any of the five boroughs, I'd say." He laughed more sophisticatedly, but I could tell that he was drinking on an empty stomach. "What are you going to do?"

"Not sure." I felt my stomach tighten. "Any suggestions?"

"You could always go back to France. But your mother would want you nearer. It nearly killed her, when you were away in Paris." When he registered my less than enthusiastic expression, he continued. "And there are Nancy and Roger in Montreal. But since they're not Canadians, I don't think that they could sponsor you." He leaned closer. His voice was soft, and his breath smelled vaguely of alcohol. "And your mother has connections in Vancouver."

"Are you talking about 致 公 堂?" I was sure he was referring to the connection his brother-in-law, my mother's brother, or my mother, for that matter, was said to have to the influential Chinese Freemasons, which was a misnomer. The Chinese had borrowed the name and symbols from Freemasonry, a white-man's secret society, to make the Chinese secret societies more palatable to the white-man's taste. Despite all the effort, it still didn't keep them safe from the NYPD's busting their illegal rounds of Mahjong, as opposed to the illegal Mahjong games hosted by the various Jewish community centers, which never got raided.

"I wouldn't know," He smiled ironically. "after all, I'm lo faun."

I didn't buy his story of not knowing because he was Caucasian. He was, in spite of everything, married to a woman, my mother, whose parents were of the Han people, originally from Guangdong, and he was active in the community, as much as an outsider could be. I patted Dad's hand. "I don't think that I want to get all that involved with them, just yet."

Dad cleared his throat. "Well, you could always be an associate member."

"Yeah, maybe." That was one possibility I hadn't thought about. "So, what would happen to you and your job, if I skipped off to Canada?" I was seriously concerned about my inconveniencing my parents. Because of the way I'd been brought up, family had always been sacrosanct to me, and I thought that it always would be.

He chuckled. "I have tenure. And I'm very sure that all those old commies at City College couldn't care less." He laughed again and finished his drink.

"You think that I should talk to Uncle Fred?" I got up to clear away the glasses and start lunch before Mom got home.

He grinned while chewing on a piece of ice. "It couldn't be any worse than your other option, right now."