Farris was not a gregarious individual who readily enjoyed the company of others but the three days in solitary were rough even for him.  Being locked in with only your head could be devastating. Unless you were a uniquely disciplined person without some distractions you were going to run the same loop of events over and over; frames or scenes might vary a bit each showing, you might be a touch more stoic, noble or heroic, you might rationalize, justify or deny but whatever version was played the results would be the same; you would be locked-up, your fate to be determined by others.

Farris kept seeing the letter in his loop; his declaration, always lying on the kitchen counter next to his keys and change.  Each morning as he left for work he either, rushing about, pretended to forget and left it on the stained, gold-flecked Formica or picked it up and with a quick nod of his head like he had just remember its existence and with a stretched grin of renewed intention rushed out the door secure in the knowledge that he would indeed be putting it in the mailbox at the end of the drive.  But each afternoon for  a week, two, three weeks the letter berated him from his car seat as he left work or from the kitchen counter when he returned home, its’ stark, rectangular whiteness growing more dingy and smudged day by day; a fitting metaphor for his spineless resolve.  A vagrant thought of the letter during his busy workday was enough to cause his heart to thump uncharacteristically and an expression on his face, which if anyone noticed, would have caused concern.  Its wording, an erratic marathon of hours, had put substance to a promise he had made only to himself, a promise on which, he admitted, again, only to himself, that he never thought he would have to act.  Farris never doubted that he would mail the letter but he did not know when.  After work he smoked, drank beer, watched TV, read Faulkner, Heinlein, Hemingway or the Atlantic Monthly or rode around with Joe, smoking, drinking beer, listening to whatever Joe chose to play and relishing the night and the warm fog of music and intoxication in the slow, soft ride of Joe’s old Chrysler.  They cruised the back roads riding for hours without feeling the need to speak much less spill their guts.  Joe had his own turmoil which he chose not to share.  Farris knew his friends’ soft spoken voice and gray eyes which blatantly revealed every emotion he felt made him particularly attractive and vulnerable to women.

After three weeks, on a Friday morning, Farris seriously considered the envelope; it had acquired a coffee cup ring on the front and a creased corner in addition to the blighted color.  Perhaps he should type a new envelope and change the date on the letter? No.  He tucked it in his jacket pocket and left for work. Bypassing his own mailbox and driving to a public mail receptacle in front of the post office, he dropped the letter in without ceremony or further trepidation.  A sense of relief, almost joy, encapsulated his being for days and his usual ready smile, always genuine, become even more welcoming. But the elation had to fade and the waiting and anxiety had to return.

Another recurrent image was the egg on the table.  Farris perceived it as a symbolic still-life; a painting or a photo his mind had captured of a real instant of time but its meaning, its’ purpose for appearing now over and over escaped him.  Bright moonlight falling as a luminous shaft through a small window onto an unfinished pine tabletop and in the spot of light a single brown egg in a white chipped saucer replete with modeling of casted shadows and muted natural tones of browns, whites and blacks.  Why was his process seemingly backward; instead of searching for an appropriate symbol to express an emotion or doctrine he sought something, anything worth attaching to an already conceived image.  He saw the egg on the table symbolizing poverty, destitution, hope?  Or maybe it was guilt or remorse depending on who it represented: the prostitute or himself.  On a hot night in St Croix with air so rife with sweetness you could almost scoop it with your hand, Farris and the girl from the bar had climbed a narrow gravel road which switch-backed up a hillside behind the town, the dark, potent beer still ringing his ears.  The girl was black, plank thin and not pretty at all.  The straight shift she wore was faded almost colorless by time and washings; it might have originally been green. There was no overt lust on Farris’ part; he trudged up the hill with her feeling little anticipation.  Two other girls, more attractive and aggressive, had left early with their catch. There had been no one else in the bar the girl could have asked and she obviously needed the little bit of money it would cost—five bewee dollars—less than five American.   Sex had not been his intent; he had only wanted to be off the ship for awhile and drink. The road, lighted by a moon, cinematic in its grandeur, passed a few tiny structures which briefly puzzled Farris until he realized they were houses.  He said nothing.  Her room, perhaps ten by ten was half of one such structure.  Inside she didn’t brother with a light.  The stark white moonlight falling through the window highlighted the brown egg on the white saucer on the small pine table.  He remembered thinking that the egg was probably all the food in her room, her intended breakfast.  Blurry darkness hid all other contents of the room excepting a low cot against a wall no wider than his rack on the ship.  The girl, stooping beside the cot, lifted something up.  Farris had not realized until she had turned with her arms full and was placing it on a quilt on the floor that it was a small child, hardly more than an infant.  Farris tried to recall his initial reaction. It hadn’t been shock or hardly even surprise even though his life experience had been somewhat naïve and sheltered. His ultra-low key acceptance of events and situations had been bewildering even to himself.

This had been his ticket to get off deck force.  During maneuvers off the coast of Florida, small boats were returning Marines to the ship after practiced landings.  Although the weather was beautiful, there was a gentle swell and one of the boats, rising along-side, fell against the ship crushing the foot of a Marine who was halfway up the cargo net ladder.  Farris had happened to be near and when Doc, the First Class Corpsman, asked for help he had knelt to assist him.  There was little Doc could do but give the Marine a morphine shot and stabilize the foot with an inflatable airbag.  A Navy copter already involved in the operations, landed on the deck and flew him directly ashore.  Doc had recently lost his striker to corps-school and offered the job to Farris the next day.  He readily accepted; anything to get off deck force.

The war, as it had for years, continually lurked on the edge of consciousness, the monster in the closet, the thing that waited for a few moments when your mind quieted and you where alone, a child again: it menaced, terrified, influenced every decision and could possibly obliterate you from existence.  Farris had grown to consider the war a horrid folly but had not joined in protest, feeling powerless during the chaos of the sixties.  After graduating high school and leaving college after only two semesters he had joined the Navy Reserve more to quiet his parents’ pleadings than for any thought of self preservation; he had been, after all, indestructible.  After receiving an ‘early out’ along with thousands of other sailors in 68 he was told he would not have to attend the monthly reserve training sessions as he had for a year prior to entering active duty.  He had returned to school but floundered about unable to muster enthusiasm or a vision.  Teaching had initially interested him but he couldn’t muster passion.  Even the early classroom observations and tutoring classes, thought the kids were delightful, didn’t spark the initiative and excitement he had anticipated.  He was lackadaisical and cognition of the fact nagged him.  Farris had a phrase he had often repeated to himself the last few years: “I have no passion.  I have no passion.”  It had become a mantra; as if by repeatedly acknowledging this deficiency then the same might magically be bestowed.  Lust and angst he had, yes, but they were not the same as a passion.

Then 1970 and Kent State and Farris changed.  Anger replaced his sad acceptance of the war.  He marched, sat-in and screamed in protest.  UGA closed for three days and he went home and there was a nasty exchange with his brother who had gotten into the National Guard.  Their parents listened in stunned silence, their faces drooping with sadness at both their sons’ sudden display of rancor.  That was the day he had sworn to himself that he would not associate with the military again; a safe promise screamed to himself only in his head that, for some reason, still gave him satisfaction.   It wasn’t the military; (he reluctantly acknowledged its necessity), which Farris disparaged but the sometimes arrogant, deeply flawed men that held the true power in the country.  Those men, the hidden power wielders, could hardly be attacked directly, only their obvious machinations and their tangible manifestations resisted.  A few months later the letter from his reserve unit arrived informing him that he would now be required to attend monthly unit meetings and training sessions until the end of his six year obligation.  Farris could not but smile in bewilderment at the quirks of fate that tested people.  He would now be tested on that promise made only to himself.  If he reneged he would have to live with it an entire lifetime.

. The Charleston Brig’s version of solitary was five individual cells fronted by a wide passageway with metal doors at either end.  The painted block masonry opposite the cells was an exterior wall with small, high, frosted windows admitting light but no view.  You were not permitted to sit or lie on your rack during the day.  There was a toilet, a sink and a straight back metal chair in Battleship Gray on which you could sit; no personal items, nothing to read.  All was open to view from the passageway and at night the lights were dimmed but not extinguished.  Through the door to the right were the admin offices and the door to the left opened to the brig itself.

On Farris’ third day in solitary a Lieutenant Commander accompanied by the First Class who had checked the solitary cells on a regular basis stopped in front of his cell.  Farris rose from the chair and approached the officer at the bars.  Farris stood straight and respectfully but not at rigid attention.

“Good morning, Mr. Waters.’

“Good morning, Sir.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Sir”

Their conversation seemed to be exhausted but the officer continued looking at Farris.  Farris tried to maintain a pleasant expression without smiling.  The officer’s expression seemed to be less condescension and more of bemusement. To Farris it appeared to say, “I don’t understand.  Please explain.” The officer’s line-etched face and eyes, a lively pale blue set in deep crows feet lined sockets,  looked to be those of a ship’s captain and completely out of place in a desk job such as this.  Farris assumed him to be the brig commander.

“Just a rebel without a cause?”

The phrase, spoken softly as a question but meant as a statement caught Farris off guard but no response was necessary.  He had always kept any doubts or misgivings he felt to himself and never tried to express or justify his actions to any of the few people that knew what he was doing.  He had smiled meekly accepting incredulous or questioning looks not in a condensing manner but more with a look of—I hold certain beliefs. They nurture me—I am content.  He had always thought of smugness as having a repulsive connation—but perhaps not as long as you were not a vocal evangelist for your cause. As the Commander and First Class walked to the next cell the thought ran through Farris’s mind that perhaps the officer’s seafaring appearance came from the golf course rather than the sea.

The following day he was released into the general population with the other, maybe, thirty inmates and quickly fell into the boring daily routine of cleaning and busy work much like life on board ship except there was absolutely no privacy and you could not go ashore at night and drink beer.  At least, there were no watches to stand.  The brig consisted of a combined mess, head and dorm which held rows of metal cots in the spaces’ center and along the wall metal lockers polished to unnatural brightness.  The head ran the dorms’ length on the same side as the passageway which contained the solitary cells.  The head’s tiled floors and walls which sparkled from constant scrubbing and polishing were closed off from the dorm excepting a large central opening through which the sinks were visible from the cots but the toilets, sinks and showers were all open to view from the barred end in direct line with the solitary cells passageway. After muster and lights out sliding doors of bars were closed securing the dorm and head from the mess and the rest of the building.  The other inmates were generally a benign lot, most in for AOL, insubordination or the like.  One guy with a constant smirky grin sat on a chair in the mess area day after day shining a thirty gallon shitcan with metal polish.  Obviously he was trying for an out.  Everyone ignored him.

On his tenth day in the brig Farris was forced to confront the consequences of his actions. On the morning of that day he was escorted by a chaser to see his appointed lawyer.  A lawyer meant a court martial; what had he expected?    Farris felt his actions to be generally more considered and angst ridden than most his age but he knew he had pushed the thought of possible punishments further and further to the back of his mind telling himself that if he was truly sincere in his intentions that the consequences shouldn’t be considered.  In the  letter to his reserve post commander which he had reciting over and over in his mind the three days in solitary he had written he was willing “to accept the consequences of my actions” without allowing their consideration to deter him.  A gift or bane of youth?  Sweet bane of youth!  His lawyer, an Ensign, hardly older than Farris seemed nervous and strangely deferential toward him.  He asked if this was related to the war and when Farris answered in the affirmative he averted his eyes and mumbled something about he also having concerns.  When Farris did not respond, he asked,

”Are you aware of the charge against you?

“No”

He handed Farris a sheet of paper.  The charge was one he had not considered.  Desertion.  The word stunned him but little showed on his face.  He had thought maybe AOL.  No, he suddenly realized he hadn’t seriously considered what the charge would be despite the fact months had passed since he mailed the letter.  The Navy’s first response had been a letter from the unit commander stating that despite Farris’ feelings and reasons for not wanting to return to monthly meetings he “…was in no position to unilaterally terminate a contractual obligation to the United Sates government.” Farris had not responded; there was nothing further to say as far as he was concerned.  Weeks later a phone call at his work came from the Reserve Unit Commander telling him he was being ordered to report to an LST at Little Creek for two weeks of involuntary active duty.

“I’m sorry but I can not do that.”

“This is not a choice you can make.”

“Yes sir, it is.”

“You need to reconsider.  Come by and sign the orders.”

“No sir.”

Farris heard a sigh and the commander hung up.  Several days later Connie, the receptionist, rang his desk; he had visitors up front.   A chief petty officer in his khakis and three other enlisted men in their whites stood uneasily in the lobby.  Farris approached them with his heart pounding thinking he was as prepared as he would every be to leave.  But the chief asked if there was a place they could talk.  Farris led them into the small conference room just off the lobby and they sat around the polished oak table.  The chief read the orders to Farris and asked him to sign them as an acknowledgement.  Farris hesitated but realized the other sailors were there as witnesses if he refused to sign.  Nothing was to be gained by not signing; he had made his point and caused disruption in the system.

“I will sign as an acknowledgement that I received the orders but I will not be going to the ship.  How long will it be before they pick me up?”

“Probably a month,” the chief replied, “it’s still a week before you are due to report.”

It was six months and a few days.  The phrase, “hurry up and wait,” was commonly used and certainly idiomatic of the military.  One of the guys, Jack, with whom he shared a bench in the back of the van from Atlanta to Charleston, had been gone seven years.  He had gone on leave and not returned on time.  Fate had intervened when his service record had ended up behind a filing cabinet where it was hidden for years and apparently, without a service record, he did not exist. Jack had married and fathered two children in that time.  Remaining in his hometown, he sold furniture at a local store. “I knew they would come someday,” he repeated several times during the trip.  His anguish was evident in his whole manner: posture, speech and especially his face which contorted and flinched with each vagrant thought even when he and the other prisoners in the van were silent. How could he have endured for so long and carried on with his life?  Farris could not fathom the murk of such an existence.  His own life virtually went on hold the day he dropped the letter in the box. There were no delusions of possibly escaping unscathed.  Farris didn’t share his story, only saying he was also AOL.

“How long could I get?” Farris asked the lawyer.

“A year, two or longer, I don’t know.  Yours is probably a unique situation.  We seem to have no extenuating circumstance.  You will need to get people to write letters on your behalf; doctors, lawyers, teachers, business professionals…..”

The young Ensign talked on but when Farris left his office he could remember nothing he had said but the need for the letters; letters he could not or would not produce.  He had no connections, no mentors, not even a pastor.  Mr. Green, the owner of the printing company where he worked in the art department would certainly write a good reference but Farris would not ask.  He would never even consider asking his parents.  Both were hardly literate having quite school at an early age to work alongside their brothers and sisters in the farm fields of northern Alabama.  They would only assume blame for his behavior and be abjectly apologetic.  The first letter he received from his mother opened with, “I don’t know where we went wrong.” He had crumpled the letter after reading the first line.  To them, he had become so deluded they could not even allow him to assume responsibility for his own actions.  His behavior was an embarrassment they would never understand. Attempting to downplay the severity of what he was doing he told them he was only going to Charleston for a hearing but realized afterwards they had received a letter from the Navy informing them that Farris Waters, “the prisoner” would be cared for and treated in a respectful manner and providing them contact information.  He had come across the form letter while cleaning the supply room in the brig offices.

Out of the blue, on his fourteenth day, without explanation, Farris was released from the brig to restricted barracks.  The only question asked; would he run?  No.  It was done and he was gone within the hour.  A chaser took him to the barracks where he met the chief in charge.  Rules were simple: muster four times a day at the southwest stairwell, work details assigned each morning, an hour for lunch and no leaving the base unless you had a weekend pass. Farris had not heard from his lawyer again and dreaded their next meeting when he would have to explain his lack of letters.  The days dragged on, allowing Farris to further sharpen his mopping and cleaning skills.  One kid from Chattanooga, whom he had met on the long van ride from Atlanta, was on his hall.  He had bypassed the Brig by lying about turning himself in or maybe he had lied about running and being chased by the chasers.  Farris wondered if he too could have avoided the Brig.  Chris seemed more an adolescent than a young man; short, pink, baby-faced with a wave of black hair he was constantly smoothing back from his forehead, having avoided the burr cut required at the Brig.  He talked incessantly of the drug trips he had taken and bragged he had scored a hit an hour after arriving at the barracks.  He came up to Farris and said, “I’m tripping now!” and flipped the pages of a magazine rapidly.  “I’m seeing all these colors!” Farris avoided him.

In the mess hall, on his twenty-first day, Farris was eating lunch with one of the guys on his work detail.  In the middle of a whispered rant against the chief who had denied him a weekend pass, Bull stopped talking and gazed over Farris’s right shoulder at the mess hall entrance.  His eyes soften and tracked someone as they made their way up the center of the mess toward the serving line.  Farris was intrigued by Bull’s expression but did not turn to look.  Must be a woman, he thought.  The tenor of the mess changed perceptibly, the noise level dropped and many people followed the new arrival with their eyes.  A procession passed to his right into his field of vision.  Two marines, one in the lead and one in the rear, marched a single-file column of five sailors up the aisle. They walked slowly, almost ceremonially, the arms of the sailors to their sides, their heads up but eyes downcast, looking neither to the left nor to the right. “Hard timers.” Bull whispered.  Even out of context of the processional, the individual sailors would have stood out: their dungarees and chambray shirts, void of ratings, though spotless, were tattered and faded far beyond what any commander would have allowed, all were deeply tanned excepting the white crown of their burred heads, their demeanor spoke of complete demoralization.  There were no furtive glances at their surroundings.  You almost expected a hearse to follow.  Individually and as a unit they moved as automatons in unison as if attached through their chests and souls by a rod of subjugation.  They passed through the serving line, received their trays, sat and hurriedly ate without speaking or looking away from the table top.  They were gone in less than ten minuets.  The “Hard timers” were not from the Brig where Farris had been, there had to be another facility on base.  Farris became aware of his clinched jaws and rapid nasal breathing.  Could he accept the possibility that he could become one of those demeaned ghost and what permanent effect could it have on him?  He reminded himself, he was quiet and respectful by nature; that would be half the battle.  Vanity or pride was not an issue; hadn’t he swabbed “Fish” Fincher’s nasty anal warts for six consecutive days, without protest, while Doc conveniently had other things to do or laughed at himself and the three other seamen wading in the acres of trash at Little Creek’s landfill for two days after that dumbass, Lieutenant Raymond, threw a secret message into his shitcan.  He though of contacting his lawyer but decided to wait them out and not show any of the anxiety that constantly gnawed at his resolve.  Within two days, Farris had psyched himself up to the point that he could almost view his undetermined fate as an adventure, however threatening it might become.

On Farris’ thirtieth day, at morning muster, the Second Class Bosun, who unofficially ran the barracks, told him to go see the chief, who rarely showed up for anything.

“Sit.  You can leave this morning.  Here’s your paperwork.  Take it and report in to your nearest Reserve Unit and start going to your meetings.  Sign this.”

Farris, dumbfounded, reached for the envelope.

“Sign it.”

The chief, obviously irritated, and needing a drink at eight in the morning, indicated the top sheet with a thump of his knuckles.  The orders stated that he had completed thirty days of involuntary active duty and was released to a reserve unit where he was to serve monthly until completion of his six year obligation.  Farris picked a pen from the desk top and started to sign but hesitated.

“I don’t understand, I was to be court marshaled for desertion.”

“Look, Waters!  You’ve got six months left to go on your six years. It would be months before they would pick you up again if you caused more trouble.  You would be out by then.  You’re not worth the effort.  Turn your orders in to your dammed Reserve Unit and forget about ‘em!  Now sign it so I can get the fuck out of here.”

The chief’s hands trembled and his cloudy eyes begged for seclusion. Farris signed and headed for the door.

“Waters, you can stay another night if you need to.  Turn your sheets in to

stores before you leave.”

“I’ll be leaving now.  I’ll take a bus.  Thanks, chief.”

As smelly and confining as a bus was, Farris liked them in a way: you didn’t have to fight to stay awake as when driving and once you got a window seat the scenery was always interesting, at least, to his eyes, even the most seamy side streets where the bus stations tended to be; there was always dilapidated gas stations, tantalizing, unintentional juxtapositions of common objects and colors, deserted building entrances with weathered signs speaking of past grandeur or a lonely, wistful face peering up into the windows as if begging for a ride away from how they lived.  Farris snapped a mental image of each, storing them for future reference. Most of all, the smell of diesel and the minute vibration and hum of changing gears soothed him.  The ship.  The diesel smell and hum of the bus took him back to the ship.  Should he feel guilty, considering what he had just been through, for a touch of nostalgia for his old ship?

The chief was right, they wouldn’t imprison him now and they had had their chance.  He had accomplished his promise to himself with no fanfare, no accolades; none wanted, but there was, he had to admit, a touch of disappointment, even anger at the Navy’s decision not to carry out the court martial.  It would not have been public and he surely would not have boasted of it, but where was the feeling of success, of victory?  The passion, so longed for, so desired was spent like his weekly check, on survival and little else; none left for seed, to savory, no remnant of exaltation remained, but he knew he would never, every regret what he had done; it was who he was.

Far into the night, Farris woke as the bus stopped to let an elderly man off on Hwy 41.  Out of no where, he thought of the egg on the table in the surreal moonlight and realized that it was not a metaphor for anything; it simply represented that experience, a memento.  Snapshots were an attempt to order, to clarify, and make sense of it all.  A letter resting on the kitchen counter next to his keys and change….a mundane image, but one that would appear to him periodically, he was sure.   Someday, other snapshots, representing consequences, might be attached to these.

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