​Confession
Spring, 1967

               It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things
               men did or felt they had to do. – The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien

Fear overwhelmed me,
though it was cryptic,
weight covering the skin,
and when panic rose with unexpected velocity
I’d tear through the Yellow Pages,
look for a psychiatrist,
call the number,
and explain to the receptionist
that I was going to Viet Nam,
I was petrified,
losing my mind.
And the receptionist was always sweet and compassionate,
and would have me make an appointment,
which was not why I called.
I wanted immediate relief
right there on the phone,
but then the fear would subside,
and I’d never show up.

2

I’d play solitaire on my bed deep into night.
The rules were simple:
Win, don’t die in Nam.
Lose. Die.
I’d play over and over until I won.
Then I’d change the rules.
You have to win two in a row not to die.

3

There was lots of screaming
in the halls of East Hartford High School.
I’d be nodding in some interminable class
when a primordial sob would kill my reverie.
And everyone knew what it meant.
Somebody’s girlfriend torn down by the news — 
another dead boy,
the kids in the class staring wide-eyed at each other.
And in the oppressive stillness
I’d feel the adrenaline,
which still shames me;
it felt good, that knowledge
of someone else’s death.
It was a rush
in some reprehensible, degrading way,
And when I dreamed of being shot,
it was never painful or frightening in the soft
framework of sleep.
What was upsetting only happened when I woke:
thoughts of leaving my girl for an eternity
paralyzed me,
but I was aware of the depth of my spinelessness,
and could not have cared less.
I’d pretend my dreams scared me,
talk about how I was afraid of death,
but it wasn’t true.
What did I know about dying in a war?
And besides, my fear was more egotistical,
the juvenile, fostered fear
of leaving the safety
of the small things I thought I knew.

4

I never told Suzanne that I loved her.
She wasn’t my girlfriend,
and Jimmy was my best friend.
Even after a sniper’s round plowed through Jimmy’s neck,
and he was KIA his third week in Nam,
I never said to Suzanne
Do you know that I love you?
although I did hug her as she wept,
and told her everything would be all right,
though what I was really thinking
was how exciting it was to be holding her
behind the Ten Pin Bowling Alley,
a brown paper bag skittering across the parking lot,
its mouth wide,
breathing in the filthy, drab air.
Later I drove in circles around Mammoth Mart,
trying to cry for my friend who was dead,
for his girlfriend who was shattered,
but I couldn’t,
not about that.
What I did was cry for myself because I’d be leaving.
I didn’t want to leave.
I wanted to stay in East Hartford
and have the war go away.
I was 18 years old,
pretending to know about love,
about war,
about the ways people die.

5

At Fort Dix one night
I cried in my rack,
but that wasn’t real either.
They were forced tears,
and on July 4, 1967,
I made my two bunk mates
sit up consoling me,
though the only thing wrong was that
I wanted their attention.
I learned to Brass-O my belt buckle into a gold mirror,
spit-shine my boots until my index finger was a raisin,
and starch my uniform so it stood at attention waiting for me.
I memorized the book of General Orders
and shouted them into Lt. Pfiefer’s face — 
“Sir, my third General Order is
To report all violations of orders I am instructed to enforce, Sir!”
—not because I gave a damn about the General Orders
but because if I got named the Colonel’s Orderly,
I could go home for 72 hours.
But when that happened
home was alien and sad
and my girlfriend and I either fought or made up
in the woods near North End Park,
weighed down by something
I couldn’t put my finger on.
And at Dix there was James Clark,
who I helped beat because he never changed his underwear.
A bunch of guys had warned him
but he said he didn’t care,
and so one night we threw him a blanket party
and I kicked as hard as I could,
even though I liked James very much,
and comforted him the very next day,
telling him that the guys who had done this
should be court-martialed,
and that I didn’t give a good goddam
about his underwear.

6

On Wednesday nights the USO
would bus girls in from Camden
to dance with the troops,
and I’d meet Mary and we’d talk and kiss,
but Camden was farther away than Phnom Penh,
and there were no sad good-byes,
no promises to call or write;
there was only the subtle passing of fall,
the temperature dropping,
the days darkening,
and Mary eventually settling into the past,
a fragment of memory, tiny, enduring, and vague.

7

At Port Authority once
I was sitting on a bench
working on a crossword puzzle,
and waiting for a train,
when an old man wobbled stumbling out of a bathroom,
bloody and begging for help;
I glanced up from my puzzle for a moment,
then casually returned to 23 across,
telling myself Something like
this happens all the time in New York.
No biggie.
Mind your business.
And coming home on a Greyhound bus one night,
I sat two seats behind the driver.
I could see the speedometer.
We were doing 110,
which shocked me.
I’ll never forget.
I pretended to be asleep,
and the fat man next to me
also pretended to sleep, I think,
because he was leaning all his weight against me,
stroking my thigh,
and I let him.

8

Prior to ’67, when things really heated up,
the National Guard and the Army Reserves
were the first choices for lots of guys.
Get into one of those
and it was no Nam for you.
Six months stateside, then home,
living the safe life,
denying the booby traps
and the sticky flames of napalm.
A meeting a month,
a party of weekend warriors.
Two weeks in the summer,
playing army during the day,
drinking all night.
But the Guard and the Reserves slammed shut.
That was it. Trapped.
No way out except Canada, jail,
or the labor-intensive C.O.
But I never went to Viet Nam.
The unconscionable blindness of Fortune intervened
in the person of Master Sergeant James Stanizzi,
my father’s brother.
My father called in a blood favor,
and Master Sergeant Stanizzi infiltrated
the offices of the State Armory,
manipulated the file folders,
and the next morning I was on my way to Fort Dix,
a private in the “closed” Army National Guard.

And the collateral damage?
A boy my age, who would have been inducted
into the Guard next
was notified that, unfortunately, the Guard was full
and that he’d be on his way to the jungle.
At St. Mary’s Elementary School they’d taught us
that Confession meant absolution and healing,
that after your penance,
after you’d made amends for your wrongdoings,
you’d feel a sense of perfect well-being and peace.
My penance has been to carry that boy
with me always,
carry that boy whose folder got moved,
that boy whose name I never knew,
carry him and keep him alive
for as long as I live.