Chickenhawk: Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

John, my clothing room partner, and I were having early dinner at three. I’d had Baker put us on the list because John and I liked coming back to the clothing room and having coffee during the four o’clock count. It allowed us to think we were special not to be counted in the dorms. I filled out an “out-count” form every morning, which Baker signed, with our names and four others who worked in the back, including Jed Wilson, a new guy who was helping Timmy in the shoe room. During the count, John and I brewed instant Bustelo espresso and sat back in our swivel chairs in the issue room and bullshitted while we monitored the count’s progress on the loudspeakers. We talked about our crimes, our families. John had a brand-new son and showed me his picture often. After count, we managed the complaint window for an hour, told people they couldn’t have anything, and then we’d be off. It was pleasant.

John was in for smuggling marijuana, too. On his last trip he got caught in a storm, got beached at night, miles from his drop-off point. After a frantic night of getting a truck, unloading the pot, he set a fire to scuttle the boat. But the boat didn’t burn and sink like he’d planned and the police were able to trace him. Pot residue in the boat convicted him. John was appealing his case. The government only had a few ounces of pot as evidence, a misdemeanor, but the feds had calculated that the boat was carrying two tons, based on the size of the boat. John was outraged because he’d only had half that. Anyway, he had made successful trips, and I’ll never forget his description of how he felt after his first trip.

“I almost didn’t make it, Bob.’’ John was smiling, shaking his head. You could tell by the happy twist of his mouth and the shine of his eyes that he really loved smuggling. “Shit, I really didn’t know what I was doing. I was lost half the time. But I got the stuff here. Delivered it to my partner. A week later he comes by my place, plops down a grocery bag on my coffee table. I look inside. Money. Bales of it.

“A few days later, I’m driving down U.S. 1 on my way to Fort Lauderdale. I’m driving a brand-new Mustang convertible that I bought with cash. The top is down. Jimmy Buffet is playing my favorite song on the tape player. I’m smoking some very nice weed, not the stuff I brought in. The sun is shining. I have over a hundred thousand dollars in a canvas tool bag in the trunk of the car. I am free.” He sighed. “Life can be good.”

Jed Wilson was sitting at our table in the mess hall telling John and me that he thought drugs were the ruination of America.

John said, “Jed, they put you in here for smuggling cocaine. Where do you get off?”

“Sure, I smuggled it, but I never once used it,” Jed said. “It was strictly business with me.”

John and I rolled our eyes.

“The truth,” Jed said, smacking his fist against his sternum. “God strike me fucking dead.”

John nodded. “You ever smoke any pot?”

“None of that, neither. Send you straight to hell.”

“Do you drink or anything?” John said.

Jed shook his head and said, “None of that. You want to know a legal way to get stoned that won’t send you to hell?” Jed leaned close to us.

“What’s that?” John said.

Jed smiled. I saw something black in his mouth, like his lower gum was dead or something. “Simple and legal,” Jed said. “You take a piece of fishing leader—you know, that clear kind? And you stick it into a cigarette. That’s it. Smoke that. That’ll fuck you up.”

John and I looked at each other.

I said, “Jed, that shit can kill you.”

“Better’n going to hell,” Jed said. “I been doin’ it for years.” He smiled and I saw the crescent of black stuff peeking over his lower lip again.

“Jed,” I said, “you got something in your mouth? Besides food?”

Jed nodded and finished chewing a mouthful of chicken. He swallowed and said, “Yeah. My chew.”

“Tobacco? You mean you keep that shit in your mouth while you eat?” John said.

“Sure. Where else am I going to put it?”

“That’s disgusting, Jed,” I said.

Jed smiled, encouraged. “I sleep with it, too.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Works great. I wake up feeling nervous? I just take a couple chaws and stash my chew back inside my lip. Sleep like a baby.”

“God,” I said. “What does your wife think of that? Like when you try to kiss her.”

“Her?” Jed said, looking sheepish. “Hell, Clarice won’t let me chew when I’m home.”

CHAPTER 30

Two good things happened on my first anniversary in Eglin. In August 1984, I got my first furlough, and Chickenhawk became a New York Times paperback best-seller.

Patience came to the prison Saturday morning. I’d changed into my set of civilian clothes kept in the administration building and was waiting for her outside. I saw some staff coming to work and started worrying, wondering if they’d think I was trying to escape. I was dressed like a civilian and armed with a letter that said I could walk around like a civilian until eleven o’clock Sunday night. But they could change their minds, couldn’t they?