OntheRainyRiver
excerpted from The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien
ThisisonestoryI'venevertoldbefore.Nottoanyone.Nottomy parents,nottomybrotherorsister,noteventomywife.Togointoit,I'vealwaysthought,wouldonlycauseembarrassmentforallofus,asuddenneedtobeelsewhere,whichisthenaturalresponsetoaconfession.Evennow,I'lladmit,thestorymakesmesquirm.Formore thantwentyyearsI'vehadtolivewithit,feelingtheshame,tryingto pushitaway,andsobythisactofremembrance,byputtingthefacts downonpaper,I'mhopingtorelieveatleastsomeofthepressureonmy dreams.Still,it'sahardstorytotell.Allofus,Isuppose,liketobelieve thatinamoralemergencywewillbehaveliketheheroesofouryouth,bravelyandforthrightly,withoutthoughtofpersonallossordiscredit.Certainlythatwasmyconvictionbackinthesummerof1968.TimO'Brien:asecrethero.TheLoneRanger[SD1].Ifthestakeseverbecamehigh enough—iftheevilwereevilenough,ifthegoodweregoodenough—Iwouldsimplytapasecretreservoirofcouragethathadbeenaccumulatinginsidemeovertheyears.Courage,Iseemedtothink,comestousinfinitequantities,likeaninheritance,andbybeingfrugal andstashingitawayandlettingitearninterest,westeadilyincreaseourmoral capital in preparationfor that day whenthe account must be drawndown.Itwasacomfortingtheory.Itdispensedwithallthose
bothersomelittleactsofdailycourage;itofferedhopeandgracetothe repetitivecoward;itjustifiedthepastwhileamortizingthefuture.
InJuneof1968,amonthaftergraduatingfromMacalesterCollege,IwasdraftedtofightawarIhated.Iwastwenty-oneyearsold.Young,yes,and politically naive,but even so theAmerican war in Vietnamseemedtomewrong.Certainbloodwasbeingshedforuncertainreasons.Isawnounityofpurpose,noconsensusonmattersof philosophyorhistoryorlaw.Theveryfactswereshroudedinuncertainty:Wasitacivilwar?Awarofnationalliberationorsimple aggression?Whostartedit,andwhen,andwhy?Whatreallyhappened totheUSSMaddoxonthatdarknightintheGulfofTonkin[SD2]?WasHoChi MinhaCommuniststooge,oranationalistsavior,orboth,orneither?WhatabouttheGenevaAccords?WhataboutSEATOandtheColdWar?[SD3]Whataboutdominoes?Americawasdividedontheseandathousand otherissues,andthedebatehadspilledoutacrosstheflooroftheUnited StatesSenateandintothestreets,andsmartmeninpinstripescouldnot agreeoneventhemostfundamentalmattersofpublicpolicy.Theonly certaintythatsummerwasmoralconfusion.Itwasmyviewthen,and stillis,thatyoudon'tmakewarwithoutknowingwhy.Knowledge,of course,isalwaysimperfect,butitseemedtomethatwhenanationgoes towaritmusthavereasonableconfidenceinthejusticeandimperative ofitscause.Youcan'tfixyourmistakes.Oncepeoplearedead,youcan't makethemundead.
Inanycasethoseweremyconvictions,andbackincollegeIhadtakenamodeststandagainstthewar.Nothingradical,nohotheadstuff,just ringingafewdoorbellsforGeneMcCarthy[SD4],composingafewtedious,uninspirededitorialsforthecampusnewspaper.Oddly,though,itwas almostentirelyanintellectualactivity.Ibroughtsomeenergytoit,of course,butitwastheenergythataccompaniesalmostanyabstract endeavor; I feltno personal danger;I felt nosense of animpending crisis inmylife.Stupidly,withakindofsmugremovalthatIcan'tbeginto fathom,Iassumedthattheproblemsofkillinganddyingdidnotfall withinmyspecialprovince.
ThedraftnoticearrivedonJune17,1968.Itwasahumidafternoon,Iremember,cloudyandveryquiet,andI'djustcomeinfromaroundof golf.Mymotherandfatherwerehavinglunchoutinthekitchen.Irememberopeninguptheletter,scanningthefirstfewlines,feelingthe bloodgo thick behind myeyes. I remember asound in my head.It wasn't thinking,justasilenthowl.Amillionthingsallatonce—Iwastoogood
forthiswar.Toosmart,toocompassionate,tooeverything.Itcouldn't happen.Iwasaboveit.Ihadtheworldlicked—PhiBetaKappaand summacumlaudeandpresidentofthestudentbodyandafull-ride scholarshipforgradstudiesatHarvard.Amistake,maybe—afoul-upinthepaperwork.Iwasnosoldier.IhatedBoyScouts.Ihatedcampingout.Ihated dirt andtents and mosquitoes.The sight of bloodmade me queasy,andIcouldn'ttolerateauthority,andIdidn'tknowariflefromaslingshot.Iwasaliberal,forChristsake:Iftheyneededfreshbodies,whynotdraftsomeback-to-the-stone-agehawk?OrsomedumbjingoinhishardhatandBombHanoibutton,oroneofLBJ'sprettydaughters,orWestmoreland'swholehandsomefamily—nephewsandniecesand babygrandson.Thereshouldbealaw,Ithought.Ifyousupportawar,if youthinkit'sworththeprice,that'sfine,butyouhavetoputyourownpreciousfluidsontheline.Youhavetoheadforthefrontandhookup withaninfantryunitandhelpspilltheblood.Andyouhavetobring alongyourwife,oryourkids,oryourlover.Alaw,Ithought.
Iremembertherageinmystomach.Lateritburneddowntoasmolderingself-pity,thentonumbness.Atdinnerthatnightmyfatheraskedwhatmyplanswere."Nothing,"Isaid."Wait."
Ispentthesummerof1968workinginanArmourmeatpackingplant inmyhometownofWorthington,Minnesota.Theplantspecializedinporkproducts,andforeighthoursadayIstoodonaquarter-mile assemblyline—moreproperly,adisassemblyline—removingbloodclots fromthenecksofdeadpigs.Myjobtitle,Ibelieve,wasDeclotter.Afterslaughter,thehogsweredecapitated,splitdownthelengthofthebelly,priedopen,eviscerated,andstrungupbythehindhocksonahigh conveyerbelt.Thengravitytookover.Bythetimeacarcassreachedmy spotontheline,thefluidshadmostlydrainedout,everythingexceptforthickclotsofbloodintheneckandupperchestcavity.Toremovethe stuff,Iusedakindofwatergun.Themachinewasheavy,maybeeighty pounds,andwassuspendedfromtheceilingbyaheavyrubbercord.Therewassomebouncetoit,anelasticup-and-downgive,andthetrickwastomaneuverthegun withyourwholebody, notliftingwiththearms,justlettingtherubbercorddotheworkforyou.Atoneendwas atrigger;atthemuzzleendwasasmallnozzleandasteelrollerbrush.Asacarcass passedby,you'dleanforwardandswingthegunupagainsttheclotsand squeezethetrigger,allinonemotion,andthebrushwouldwhirland waterwouldcomeshootingoutandyou'dhearaquicksplatteringsound
astheclotsdissolvedintoafineredmist.Itwasnotpleasantwork.Goggleswereanecessity,andarubberapron,butevensoitwaslike standingforeighthoursadayunderalukewarmblood-shower.Atnight I'dgohomesmellingofpig.Itwouldn'tgoaway.Evenafterahotbath,scrubbinghard,thestinkwasalwaysthere—likeoldbacon,orsausage,adensegreasypig-stinkthatsoakeddeepintomyskinandhair.Among otherthings,Iremember,itwastoughgettingdatesthatsummer.Ifelt isolated;Ispentalotoftimealone.Andtherewasalsothatdraftnotice tuckedawayinmywallet.
IntheeveningsI'dsometimesborrowmyfather'scaranddrive aimlesslyaroundtown,feelingsorryformyself,thinkingaboutthewarandthepigfactoryandhowmylifeseemedtobecollapsingtoward slaughter.Ifeltparalyzed.Allaroundmetheoptionsseemedtobe narrowing,asifIwerehurtlingdownahugeblackfunnel,thewhole worldsqueezingintight.Therewasnohappywayout.Thegovernment hadendedmostgraduateschooldeferments;thewaitinglistsforthe NationalGuardandReserveswereimpossiblylong;myhealthwassolid;Ididn'tqualifyforCOstatus—noreligiousgrounds,nohistoryasapacifist.Moreover,Icouldnotclaimtobeopposedtowarasamatterof generalprinciple.Therewereoccasions,Ibelieved,whenanationwas justifiedinusingmilitaryforcetoachieveitsends,tostopaHitlerorsomecomparableevil,andItoldmyselfthatinsuchcircumstancesIwould'vewillinglymarchedofftothebattle.Theproblem,though,was thatadraftboarddidnotletyouchooseyourwar.
Beyondallthis,orattheverycenter,wastherawfactofterror.Idid notwanttodie.Notever.Butcertainlynotthen,notthere,notinawrongwar.DrivingupMainStreet,pastthecourthouseandtheBenFranklinstore,Isometimesfeltthefearspreadinginsidemelikeweeds.Iimaginedmyselfdead.IimaginedmyselfdoingthingsIcouldnotdo—charginganenemyposition,takingaimatanotherhumanbeing.
Atsomepointinmid-JulyIbeganthinkingseriouslyaboutCanada.Theborderlayafewhundredmilesnorth,aneight-hourdrive.Bothmy conscienceandmyinstinctsweretellingmetomakeabreakforit,just takeoff andrun like helland never stop.In thebeginning the ideaseemedpurelyabstract,thewordCanadaprintingitselfoutinmyhead;but afteratime Icouldsee particularshapesand images,the sorry detailsofmyownfuture—ahotelroominWinnipeg,abatteredold suitcase,myfather'seyesasItriedtoexplainmyselfoverthetelephone.
Icouldalmosthearhisvoice,andmymother's.Run,I'dthink.ThenI'd think,Impossible.ThenasecondlaterI'dthink,Run.
Itwasakindofschizophrenia.Amoralsplit.Icouldn'tmakeupmy mind.Ifearedthewar,yes,butIalsofearedexile.Iwasafraidofwalking awayfrommyownlife,myfriendsandmyfamily,mywholehistory,everythingthatmatteredtome.Ifearedlosingtherespectofmyparents.Ifearedthelaw.Ifearedridiculeandcensure.Myhometownwasaconservativelittlespotontheprairie,aplacewheretraditioncounted,anditwaseasytoimaginepeoplesittingaroundatabledownattheold GobblerCafeonMainStreet,coffeecupspoised,theconversationslowly zeroinginontheyoungO'Brienkid,howthedamnedsissyhadtakenoff forCanada.Atnight,whenIcouldn'tsleep,I'dsometimescarryonfierce argumentswiththosepeople.I'dbescreamingatthem,tellingthemhow muchIdetestedtheirblind,thoughtless,automaticacquiescencetoitall,theirsimple-mindedpatriotism,theirpridefulignorance,theirlove-it- or-leave-itplatitudes,howtheyweresendingmeofftofightawarthey didn'tunderstandanddidn'twanttounderstand.Iheldthemresponsible.ByGod,yes,Idid.Allofthem—Iheldthempersonallyand individuallyresponsible—thepolyesteredKiwanisboys,themerchants andfarmers,thepiouschurchgoers,thechattyhousewives,thePTAand theLionsclubandtheVeteransofForeignWarsandthefineupstanding gentryoutatthecountryclub.Theydidn'tknowBaoDaifromthemaninthemoon.Theydidn'tknowhistory.Theydidn'tknowthefirstthing aboutDiem'styranny,orthenatureofVietnamesenationalism,orthe longcolonialismoftheFrench—thiswasalltoodamnedcomplicated,it requiredsomereading—butnomatter,itwasawartostopthe
Communists,plainandsimple,whichwashowtheylikedthings,andyou wereatreasonouspussyifyouhadsecondthoughtsaboutkillingordyingforplainandsimplereasons.
Iwasbitter,sure.Butitwassomuchmorethanthat.
Theemotionswentfromoutragetoterrortobewildermenttoguiltto sorrowandthenbackagaintooutrage.Ifeltasicknessinsideme.Real disease.
MostofthisI'vetoldbefore,oratleasthintedat,butwhatIhavenevertoldisthefulltruth.HowIcracked.Howatworkonemorning,standing onthepigline,Ifeltsomethingbreakopeninmychest.Idon'tknow whatitwas.I'llneverknow.Butitwasreal,Iknowthatmuch,itwasaphysicalrupture—acracking-leaking-poppingfeeling.Irememberdroppingmywatergun.Quickly,almostwithoutthought,Itookoffmy
apronandwalkedoutoftheplantanddrovehome.Itwasmidmorning,Iremember,andthehousewasempty.Downinmychesttherewasstill thatleakingsensation,somethingverywarmandpreciousspillingout,andIwascoveredwithbloodandhog-stink,andforalongwhileIjust concentratedonholdingmyselftogether.Iremembertakingahot shower.Irememberpackingasuitcaseandcarryingitouttothekitchen,standingverystillforafewminutes,lookingcarefullyatthefamiliarobjectsallaroundme.Theoldchrometoaster,thetelephone,thepinkandwhiteFormicaonthekitchencounters.Theroomwasfullofbright sunshine.Everythingsparkled.Myhouse,Ithought.Mylife.I'mnotsure howlongIstoodthere,butlaterIscribbledoutashortnotetomy parents.
Whatitsaid,exactly,Idon'trecallnow.Somethingvague.Takingoff,willcall,loveTim.
Idrovenorth.
It'sablurnow,asitwasthen,andallIrememberisasenseofhigh velocityandthefeelofthesteeringwheelinmyhands.Iwasridingonadrenaline.Agiddyfeeling,inaway,excepttherewasthedreamyedge ofimpossibilitytoit—likerunningadead-endmaze—nowayout—it couldn'tcometoahappyconclusionandyetIwasdoingitanyway becauseitwasallIcouldthinkoftodo.Itwaspureflight,fastand mindless.Ihadnoplan.Justhittheborderathighspeedandcrash throughandkeeponrunning.NearduskIpassedthroughBemidji,thenturnednortheasttowardInternationalFalls.Ispentthenightinthecarbehindaclosed-downgasstationahalfmilefromtheborder.Inthe morning,aftergassingup,IheadedstraightwestalongtheRainyRiver,whichseparatesMinnesotafromCanada,andwhichformeseparated onelifefromanother.Thelandwasmostlywilderness.HereandthereIpassedamotelorbaitshop,butotherwisethecountryunfoldedingreat sweepsofpineandbirchandsumac.ThoughitwasstillAugust,theairalreadyhadthesmellofOctober,footballseason,pilesofyellow-red leaves,everythingcrispandclean.Irememberahugebluesky.Offtomy rightwastheRainyRiver,wideasalakeinplaces,andbeyondtheRainy RiverwasCanada.
ForawhileIjustdrove,notaimingatanything,theninthelate morningIbeganlookingforaplacetolielowforadayortwo.Iwas exhausted,andscaredsick,andaroundnoonIpulledintoanoldfishing resortcalledtheTipTopLodge.Actuallyitwasnotalodgeatall,just
eightorninetinyyellowcabinsclusteredonapeninsulathatjutted northwardintotheRainyRiver.Theplacewasinsorryshape.Therewas adangerouswoodendock,anoldminnowtank,aflimsytarpaperboathousealongtheshore.
Themainbuilding,whichstoodinaclusterofpinesonhighground,seemedtoleanheavilytooneside,likeacripple,theroofsaggingtoward Canada.Briefly,Ithoughtaboutturningaround,justgivingup,butthenIgotoutofthecarandwalkeduptothefrontporch.
Themanwhoopenedthedoorthatdayistheheroofmylife.HowdoIsaythiswithoutsoundingsappy?Blurtitout—themansavedme.He offeredexactlywhatIneeded,withoutquestions,withoutanywordsat all.Hetookmein.Hewasthereatthecriticaltime—asilent,watchful presence.Sixdayslater,whenitended,Iwasunabletofindaproperway tothankhim,andIneverhave,andso,ifnothingelse,thisstory representsasmallgestureofgratitudetwentyyearsoverdue.
EvenaftertwodecadesIcanclosemyeyesandreturntothatporchat theTipTopLodge.Icanseetheoldguystaringatme.ElroyBerdahl:eighty-oneyearsold,skinnyandshrunkenandmostlybald.Heworeaflannelshirtandbrownworkpants.Inonehand,Iremember,hecarried agreenapple,asmallparingknifeintheother.Hiseyeshadthebluish graycolorofarazorblade,thesamepolishedshine,andashepeeredup atmeIfeltastrangesharpness,almostpainful,acuttingsensation,asif hisgazeweresomehowslicingmeopen.Inpart,nodoubt,itwasmyownsenseofguilt,butevensoI'mabsolutelycertainthattheoldmantookonelookandwentrighttotheheartofthings—akidintrouble.WhenIaskedforaroom,Elroymadealittleclickingsoundwithhistongue.He nodded,ledmeouttooneofthecabins,anddroppedakeyinmyhand.Iremembersmilingathim.IalsorememberwishingIhadn't.Theold manshookhisheadasiftotellmeitwasn'tworththebother.
"Dinneratfive-thirty,"hesaid."Youeatfish?""Anything,"Isaid.
Elroygruntedandsaid,"I'llbet."
WespentsixdaystogetherattheTipTopLodge.Justthetwoofus.Touristseasonwasover,andtherewerenoboatsontheriver,andthe wildernessseemedtowithdrawintoagreatpermanentstillness.OverthosesixdaysElroyBerdahlandItookmostofourmealstogether.Inthemorningswesometimeswentoutonlonghikesintothewoods,and atnightweplayedScrabbleorlistenedtorecordsorsatreadinginfront
ofhisbigstonefireplace.AttimesIfelttheawkwardnessofanintruder,butElroyacceptedmeintohisquietroutinewithoutfussorceremony.Hetookmypresenceforgranted,thesamewayhemight'veshelteredastraycat—nowastedsighsorpity—andtherewasneveranytalkaboutit.Justtheopposite.WhatIremembermorethananythingistheman's willful,almostferocioussilence.Inallthattimetogether,allthosehours,heneveraskedtheobviousquestions:WhywasIthere?Whyalone?Why sopreoccupied?IfElroywascuriousaboutanyofthis,hewascareful nevertoputitintowords.
Myhunch,though,isthathealreadyknew.Atleastthebasics.Afterall,itwas1968,andguyswereburningdraftcards,andCanadawasjust aboatrideaway.ElroyBerdahlwasnohick.Hisbedroom,Iremember,wasclutteredwithbooksandnewspapers.HekilledmeattheScrabble board,barelyconcentrating,andonthoseoccasionswhenspeechwas necessaryhehadawayofcompressinglargethoughtsintosmall,cryptic packetsoflanguage.Oneevening,justatsunset,hepointedupatanowl circlingovertheviolet-lightedforesttothewest."Hey,O'Brien,"hesaid."There'sJesus."Themanwassharp—hedidn'tmissmuch.Thoserazoreyes.Nowandthenhe'dcatchmestaringoutattheriver,atthefarshore,andIcouldalmosthearthetumblersclickinginhishead.Maybe I'mwrong,butIdoubtit.
Onethingforcertain,heknewIwasindesperatetrouble.Andhe knewIcouldn'ttalkaboutit.Thewrongword—oreventherightword—andIwould'vedisappeared.Iwaswiredandjittery.Myskinfelttoo tight.AftersupperoneeveningIvomitedandwentbacktomycabinand laydownforafewmomentsandthenvomitedagain;anothertime,inthemiddleoftheafternoon,Ibegansweatingandcouldn'tshutitoff.Iwentthroughwholedaysfeelingdizzywithsorrow.Icouldn'tsleep;Icouldn'tliestill.AtnightI'dtossaroundinbed,halfawake,half dreaming,imagininghowI'dsneakdowntothebeachandquietlypush oneoftheoldman'sboatsoutintotheriverandstartpaddlingmyway towardCanada.ThereweretimeswhenIthoughtI'dgoneoffthepsychic edge.Icouldn'ttellupfromdown,Iwasjustfalling,andlateinthenight I'dlietherewatchingweirdpicturesspinthroughmyhead.Getting chasedbytheBorderPatrol—helicoptersandsearchlightsandbarking dogs—I'dbecrashingthroughthewoods,I'dbedownonmyhandsand knees—peopleshoutingoutmyname—thelawclosinginonallsides—myhometowndraftboardandtheFBIandtheRoyalCanadianMounted Police.Itallseemedcrazyandimpossible.Twenty-oneyearsold,anordinarykidwithalltheordinarydreamsandambitions,andallI
wantedwastolivethelifeIwasbornto—amainstreamlife—Iloved baseballandhamburgersandcherryCokes—andnowIwasoffonthe marginsofexile,leavingmycountryforever,anditseemedsoimpossible andterribleandsad.
I'mnotsurehowImadeitthroughthosesixdays.MostofitIcan't remember.Ontwoorthreeafternoons,topasssometime,IhelpedElroy gettheplacereadyforwinter,sweepingdownthecabinsandhaulingintheboats,littlechoresthatkeptmybodymoving.Thedayswerecooland bright.Thenightswereverydark.Onemorningtheoldmanshowedme howtosplitandstackfirewood,andforseveralhourswejustworkedinsilenceoutbehindhishouse.Atonepoint,Iremember,Elroyputdownhismaulandlookedatmeforalongtime,hislipsdrawnasifframingadifficultquestion,butthenheshookhisheadandwentbacktowork.The man'sself-controlwasamazing.Heneverpried.Heneverputmeinapositionthatrequiredliesordenials.Toanextent,Isuppose,his reticencewastypicalofthatpartofMinnesota,whereprivacystillheld value,andevenifI'dbeenwalkingaroundwithsomehorribledeformity
—fourarmsandthreeheads—I'msuretheoldmanwould'vetalked abouteverythingexceptthoseextraarmsandheads.Simplepoliteness waspartofit.Butevenmorethanthat,Ithink,themanunderstoodthat wordswereinsufficient.Theproblemhadgonebeyonddiscussion.
DuringthatlongsummerI'dbeenoverandoverthevariousarguments,alltheprosandcons,anditwasnolongeraquestionthatcouldbe decidedbyanactofpurereason.Intellecthadcomeupagainstemotion.Myconsciencetoldmetorun,butsomeirrationalandpowerfulforce wasresisting,likeaweightpushingmetowardthewar.Whatitcame downto,stupidly,wasasenseofshame.Hot,stupidshame.Ididnot wantpeopletothinkbadlyofme.Notmyparents,notmybrotherand sister,noteventhefolksdownattheGobblerCafe.Iwasashamedtobe thereattheTipTopLodge.Iwasashamedofmyconscience,ashamedto bedoingtherightthing.
SomeofthisElroymust'veunderstood.Notthedetails,ofcourse,but theplainfactofcrisis.
Althoughtheoldmanneverconfrontedmeaboutit,therewasone occasionwhenhecameclosetoforcingthewholethingoutintothe open.Itwasearlyevening,andwe'djustfinishedsupper,andovercoffee anddessertIaskedhimaboutmybill,howmuchIowedsofar.Foralongwhiletheoldmansquinteddownatthetablecloth.
"Well,thebasicrate,"hesaid,"isfiftybucksanight.Notcounting meals.Thismakesfournights,right?"
Inodded.Ihadthreehundredandtwelvedollarsinmywallet.
Elroykepthiseyesonthetablecloth."Nowthat'sanon-seasonprice.Tobefair,Isupposeweshouldknockitdownapegortwo."Heleaned backinhischair."What'sareasonablenumber,youfigure?"
"Idon'tknow,"Isaid."Forty?"
"Forty'sgood.Fortyanight.Thenwetackonfood—sayanotherhundred?Twohundredsixtytotal?"
"Iguess."
Heraisedhiseyebrows."Toomuch?"
"No,that'sfair.It'sfine.Tomorrow,though...IthinkI'dbettertakeoff tomorrow."
Elroyshruggedandbeganclearingthetable.Foratimehefussedwith thedishes,whistlingtohimselfasifthesubjecthadbeensettled.Afterasecondheslappedhishandstogether.
"Youknowwhatweforgot?"hesaid."Weforgotwages.Thoseoddjobs youdone.Whatwehavetodo,wehavetofigureoutwhatyourtime's worth.Yourlastjob—howmuchdidyoupullinanhour?"
"Notenough,"Isaid."Abadone?"
"Yes.Prettybad."
Slowlythen,withoutintendinganylongsermon,Itoldhimaboutmy daysatthepigplant.Itbeganasastraightrecitationofthefacts,but beforeIcouldstopmyselfIwastalkingaboutthebloodclotsandthe watergunandhowthesmellhadsoakedintomyskinandhowIcouldn't washitaway.Iwentonforalongtime.Itoldhimaboutwildhogs squealinginmydreams,thesoundsofbutchery,slaughterhousesounds,andhowI'dsometimeswakeupwiththatgreasypig-stinkinmythroat.
WhenIwasfinished,Elroynoddedatme.
"Well,tobehonest,"hesaid,"whenyoufirstshoweduphere,Iwonderedaboutallthat.Thearoma,Imean.Smelledlikeyouwasawful damnedfondofporkchops."Theoldmanalmostsmiled.Hemadeasnufflingsound,thensatdownwithapencilandapieceofpaper."So what'dthiscrudjobpay?Tenbucksanhour?Fifteen?"
"Less."
Elroyshookhishead."Let'smakeitfifteen.Youputintwenty-five hourshere,easy.That'sthreehundredseventy-fivebuckstotalwages.Wesubtractthetwohundredsixtyforfoodandlodging,Istilloweyouahundredandfifteen."
Hetookfourfiftiesoutofhisshirtpocketandlaidthemonthetable."Calliteven,"hesaid.
"No."
"Pickitup.Getyourselfahaircut."
Themoneylayonthetablefortherestoftheevening.Itwasstillthere whenIwentbacktomycabin.Inthemorning,though,Ifoundanenvelopetackedtomydoor.Insidewerethefourfiftiesandatwo-word notethatsaid
EMERGENCYFUND.
Themanknew.
Lookingbackaftertwentyyears,Isometimeswonderiftheeventsof thatsummerdidn'thappeninsomeotherdimension,aplacewhereyourlifeexistsbeforeyou'velivedit,andwhereitgoesafterward.Noneofit everseemedreal.DuringmytimeattheTipTopLodgeIhadthefeeling thatI'dslippedoutofmyownskin,hoveringafewfeetawaywhilesome pooryo-yowithmynameandfacetriedtomakehiswaytowardafuture hedidn't understand and didn'twant. Even now I cansee myself as Iwas then.It'slikewatchinganoldhomemovie:I'myoungandtanandfit.I'vegothair—lotsofit.Idon'tsmokeordrink.I'mwearingfadedblue jeansandawhitepoloshirt.IcanseemyselfsittingonElroyBerdahl's docknearduskoneevening,theskyabrightshimmeringpink,andI'mfinishingupalettertomyparentsthattellswhatI'mabouttodoand whyI'mdoingitandhowsorryIamthatI'dneverfoundthecourageto talktothemaboutit.Iaskthemnottobeangry.Itrytoexplainsomeof myfeelings,buttherearen'tenoughwords,andsoIjustsaythatit'sathingthathastobedone.AttheendoftheletterItalkaboutthe vacationsweusedtotakeupinthisnorthcountry,ataplacecalled WhitefishLake,andhowthesceneryhereremindsmeofthosegood times.ItellthemI'mfine.ItellthemI'llwriteagainfromWinnipegorMontrealorwhereverIendup.
Onmylastfullday,thesixthday,theoldmantookmeoutfishingontheRainyRiver.Theafternoonwassunnyandcold.Astiffbreezecame
infromthenorth,andIrememberhowthelittlefourteen-footboat madesharprockingmotionsaswepushedofffromthedock.Thecurrent wasfast.Allaroundus,Iremember,therewasavastnesstotheworld,anunpeopledrawness,justthetreesandtheskyandthewaterreaching outtowardnowhere.TheairhadthebrittlescentofOctober.
FortenorfifteenminutesElroyheldacourseupstream,theriverchoppyandsilver-gray,thenheturnedstraightnorthandputtheengine onfullthrottle.Ifeltthebowliftbeneathme.Irememberthewindinmy ears,thesoundoftheoldoutboardEvinrude.ForatimeIdidn'tpay attentiontoanything,justfeelingthecoldsprayagainstmyface,but thenitoccurredtomethatatsomepointwemust'vepassedinto Canadianwaters,acrossthatdottedlinebetweentwodifferentworlds,andIrememberasuddentightnessinmychestasIlookedupand watchedthefarshorecomeatme.Thiswasn'tadaydream.Itwas tangibleandreal.Aswecameintowardland,Elroycuttheengine,lettingtheboatfishtaillightlyabouttwentyyardsoffshore.Theoldmandidn'tlookatmeorspeak.Bendingdown,heopeneduphistackleboxandbusiedhimselfwithabobberandapieceofwireleader,hummingto himself,hiseyesdown.
Itstruckmethenthathemust'veplannedit.I'llneverbecertain,of course,butIthinkhemeanttobringmeupagainsttherealities,toguide meacrosstheriverandtotakemetotheedgeandtostandakindofvigil asIchosealifeformyself.
Irememberstaringattheoldman,thenatmyhands,thenatCanada.
Theshorelinewasdensewithbrushandtimber.Icouldseetinyred berriesonthebushes.Icouldseeasquirrelupinoneofthebirchtrees,abigcrowlookingatmefromaboulderalongtheriver.Thatclose—twentyyards—andIcouldseethedelicatelatticeworkoftheleaves,the textureofthesoil,thebrownedneedlesbeneaththepines,the configurationsofgeologyandhumanhistory.Twentyyards.Icould've doneit.Icould'vejumpedandstartedswimmingformylife.Insideme,inmychest,Ifeltaterriblesqueezingpressure.Evennow,asIwritethis,Icanstillfeelthattightness.AndIwantyoutofeelit—thewindcoming offtheriver,thewaves,thesilence,thewoodedfrontier.You'reatthe bowofaboatontheRainyRiver.You'retwenty-oneyearsold,you're scared,andthere'sahardsqueezingpressureinyourchest.
Whatwouldyoudo?
Wouldyoujump?Wouldyoufeelpityforyourself?Wouldyouthinkaboutyourfamilyandyourchildhoodandyourdreamsandallyou're
leavingbehind?Wouldithurt?Woulditfeellikedying?Wouldyoucry,asIdid?
Itriedtoswallowitback.Itriedtosmile,exceptIwascrying.
Now,perhaps,youcanunderstandwhyI'venevertoldthisstory before.It'snotjusttheembarrassmentoftears.That'spartofit,no doubt,butwhatembarrassesmemuchmore,andalwayswill,isthe paralysisthattookmyheart.Amoralfreeze:Icouldn'tdecide,Icouldn't act,Icouldn'tcomportmyselfwithevenapretenseofmodesthumandignity.
AllIcoulddowascry.Quietly,notbawling,justthechest-chokes.
AttherearoftheboatElroyBerdahlpretendednottonotice.Heheld afishingrodinhishands,hisheadbowedtohidehiseyes.Hekept hummingasoft,monotonouslittletune.Everywhere,itseemed,inthe treesandwaterandsky,agreatworldwidesadnesscamepressingdownonme,acrushingsorrow,sorrowlikeIhadneverknownitbefore.And whatwassosad,Irealized,wasthatCanadahadbecomeapitiful fantasy.Sillyandhopeless.Itwasnolongerapossibility.Rightthen,withtheshoresoclose,IunderstoodthatIwouldnotdowhatIshould do.Iwouldnotswimawayfrommyhometownandmycountryandmy life.Iwouldnotbebrave.Thatoldimageofmyselfasahero,asamanof conscienceandcourage,allthatwasjustathreadbarepipedream.BobbingthereontheRainyRiver,lookingbackattheMinnesotashore,Ifeltasuddenswellofhelplessnesscomeoverme,adrowningsensation,asifIhadtoppledoverboardandwasbeingsweptawaybythesilverwaves.Chunksofmyownhistoryflashedby.Isawaseven-year-oldboy inawhitecowboyhatandaLoneRangermaskandapairofholstered six-shooters;Isawatwelve-year-oldLittleLeagueshortstoppivotingto turnadoubleplay;Isawasixteen-year-oldkiddeckedoutforhisfirst prom,lookingspiffyinawhitetuxandablackbowtie,hishaircutshort andflat,hisshoesfreshlypolished.Mywholelifeseemedtospilloutinto theriver,swirlingawayfromme,everythingIhadeverbeenoreverwantedtobe.Icouldn'tgetmybreath;Icouldn'tstayafloat;Icouldn't tellwhichwaytoswim.Ahallucination,Isuppose,butitwasasrealas anythingIwouldeverfeel.Isawmyparentscallingtomefromthefarshoreline.Isawmybrotherandsister,allthetownsfolk,themayorand theentireChamberofCommerceandallmyoldteachersandgirlfriends andhighschoolbuddies.Likesomeweirdsportingevent:everybody screamingfromthesidelines,rootingmeon—aloudstadiumroar.Hotdogs and popcorn—stadium smells, stadium heat. A squad of
cheerleadersdidcartwheelsalongthebanksoftheRainyRiver;theyhad megaphonesandpompomsandsmoothbrownthighs.Thecrowd swayedleftandright.Amarchingbandplayedfightsongs.Allmyaunts anduncleswerethere,andAbrahamLincoln,andSaintGeorge,andanine-year-oldgirlnamedLindawhohaddiedofabraintumorbackinfifthgrade,andseveralmembersoftheUnitedStatesSenate,andablind poetscribblingnotes,andLBJ,andHuckFinn,andAbbieHoffman,and allthedeadsoldiersbackfromthegrave,andthemanythousandswho werelatertodie—villagerswithterribleburns,littlekidswithoutarmsorlegs—yes,andtheJointChiefsofStaffwerethere,andacoupleofpopes,andafirstlieutenantnamedJimmyCross,andthelastsurvivingveteranoftheAmericanCivilWar,andJaneFondadressedupasBarbarella,and anoldmansprawledbesideapigpen,andmygrandfather,andGary Cooper,andakind-facedwomancarryinganumbrellaandacopyof Plato'sRepublic,andamillionferociouscitizenswavingflagsofallshapesandcolors—peopleinhardhats,peopleinheadbands—theywere allwhoopingandchantingandurgingmetowardoneshoreortheother.Isawfacesfrommydistantpastanddistantfuture.Mywifewasthere.Myunborndaughterwavedatme,andmytwosonshoppedupand down,andadrillsergeantnamedBlytonsneeredandshotupafingerandshookhishead.Therewasachoirinbrightpurplerobes.Therewas acabbiefromtheBronx.TherewasaslimyoungmanIwouldoneday killwithahandgrenadealongaredclaytrailoutsidethevillageofMy Khe.
Thelittlealuminumboatrockedsoftlybeneathme.Therewasthe windandthesky.
Itriedtowillmyselfoverboard.
Igrippedtheedgeoftheboatandleanedforwardandthought,Now.Ididtry.Itjustwasn'tpossible.
Allthoseeyesonme—thetown,thewholeuniverse—andIcouldn't risktheembarrassment.Itwasasiftherewereanaudiencetomylife,thatswirloffacesalongtheriver,andinmyheadIcouldhearpeople screamingatme.Traitor!theyyelled.Turncoat!Pussy!Ifeltmyself blush.Icouldn'ttolerateit.Icouldn'tendurethemockery,orthe disgrace,orthepatrioticridicule.Eveninmyimagination,theshorejust twentyyardsaway,Icouldn'tmakemyselfbebrave.Ithadnothingtodo withmorality.Embarrassment,that'sallitwas.
AndrightthenIsubmitted.
Iwouldgotothewar—Iwouldkillandmaybedie—becauseIwas embarrassednotto.
Thatwasthesadthing.AndsoIsatinthebowoftheboatandcried.Itwasloudnow.Loud,hardcrying.
ElroyBerdahlremainedquiet.Hekeptfishing.Heworkedhisline withthetipsofhisfingers,patiently,squintingoutathisredandwhite bobberontheRainyRiver.Hiseyeswereflatandimpassive.Hedidn't speak.Hewassimplythere,liketheriverandthelate-summersun.And yetbyhispresence,hismutewatchfulness,hemadeitreal.Hewasthe trueaudience.Hewasawitness,likeGod,orlikethegods,wholookoninabsolutesilenceasweliveourlives,aswemakeourchoicesorfailto makethem.
"Ain'tbiting,"hesaid.
Thenafteratimetheoldmanpulledinhislineandturnedtheboat backtowardMinnesota.
Idon'tremembersayinggoodbye.Thatlastnightwehaddinnertogether,andIwenttobedearly,andinthemorningElroyfixed breakfastforme.WhenItoldhimI'dbeleaving,theoldmannoddedas ifhealreadyknew.Helookeddownatthetableandsmiled.
Atsomepointlaterinthemorningit'spossiblethatweshookhands—Ijustdon'tremember—butIdoknowthatbythetimeI'dfinishedpacking theoldmanhaddisappeared.Aroundnoon,whenItookmysuitcaseout tothecar,Inoticedthathisoldblackpickuptruckwasnolongerparked infrontofthehouse.Iwentinsideandwaitedforawhile,butIfeltabonecertaintythathewouldn'tbeback.Inaway,Ithought,itwas appropriate.Iwashedupthebreakfastdishes,lefthistwohundred dollarsonthekitchencounter,gotintothecar,anddrovesouthtoward home.
Thedaywascloudy.Ipassedthroughtownswithfamiliarnames,throughthepineforestsanddowntotheprairie,andthentoVietnam,whereIwasasoldier,andthenhomeagain.Isurvived,butit'snotahappyending.Iwasacoward.Iwenttothewar.
1. Short Answer Exercise: Please respond to the following using complete sentences.
Prompt: / Your Answer:- Describe the narrator.
- Where does the narrator work? Describe his job and the effects it has on him. What is this experience a metaphor for?
- How does the narrator feel about the Vietnam War and those who decided to enlist?
- When the narrator receives his draft card, what does he do? Why does he do this?
- Who is Elroy Berdhal?
- How does Elroy treat the narrator? Does Elroy know the real reason why the narrator is there?
- Why does Berdhal take the narrator out fishing? What does this say about Berdhal?
- When the narrator is in the boat, he has a decision to make. What is his decision?
- Why does the narrator make this decision? What will this decision mean for the narrator?
- How does the narrator feel about himself after making this decision? Why does he feel this way?
2. Paraphrasing Exercise: Paraphrase the following sentences in your own words.
Original Sentences: / Your Paraphrasing:Courage,Iseemedtothink,comestousinfinitequantities,likeaninheritance,andbybeingfrugal andstashingitawayandlettingitearninterest,westeadilyincreaseourmoral capital in preparationfor that day whenthe account must be drawndown.
. . . itseemedtomethatwhenanationgoes towaritmusthavereasonableconfidenceinthejusticeandimperative ofitscause.
Ifeltparalyzed.Allaroundmetheoptionsseemedtobe narrowing,asifIwerehurtlingdownahugeblackfunnel,thewhole worldsqueezingintight.
Beyondallthis,orattheverycenter,wastherawfactofterror.Idid notwanttodie.Notever.Butcertainlynotthen,notthere,notinawrongwar.
Itwasakindofschizophrenia.Amoralsplit.Icouldn'tmakeupmy mind.Ifearedthewar,yes,butIalsofearedexile.
ForawhileIjustdrove,notaimingatanything,theninthelate morningIbeganlookingforaplacetolielowforadayortwo.
Themanwhoopenedthedoorthatdayistheheroofmylife.HowdoIsaythiswithoutsoundingsappy?
AttimesIfelttheawkwardnessofanintruder,butElroyacceptedmeintohisquietroutinewithoutfussorceremony.
. . .heknewIwasindesperatetrouble.Andhe knewIcouldn'ttalkaboutit.Thewrongword—oreventherightword—andIwould'vedisappeared.
Myconsciencetoldmetorun,butsomeirrationalandpowerfulforce wasresisting,likeaweightpushingmetowardthewar.
And whatwassosad,Irealized,wasthatCanadahadbecomeapitiful fantasy.Sillyandhopeless.Itwasnolongerapossibility.
3. Vocabulary Exercise: Write a new sentence using each of the following words and phrases.
Word: / Your Original Sentence:acquiescence
cryptic
eviscerated
frugal
impassive
imperative
platitudes
reticence
tangible
tedious
Supplementary Materials:
- James Fallows Memoir
[Washington Monthlycontributing editor James Fallows]
In the fall of 1969, I was beginning my final year in college. As the months went by, the rock on which I had unthinkingly anchored my hopes—the certainty that the war in Vietnam would be over before I could possibly fight—began to crumble. It shattered altogether on Thanksgiving weekend when, while riding back to Boston from a visit with my relatives, I heard that the draft lottery had been held and my birthdate had come up number 45. I recognized for the first time that, inflexibly, I must either be drafted or consciously find a way to prevent it.
In the atmosphere of that time, each possible choice came equipped with barbs. To answer the call was unthinkable, not only because, in my heart, I was desperately afraid of being killed, but also because, among my friends, it was axiomatic that one should not be “complicit” in the immoral war effort. Draft resistance, the course chosen by a few noble heroes of the movement, meant going to prison or leaving the country. With much the same intensity with which I wanted to stay alive, I did not want those things either. What I wanted was to go to graduate school, to get married, and to enjoy those bright prospects I had been taught that life owed me.
I learned quickly enough that there was only one way to get what I wanted. A physical deferment would restore things to the happy state I had known during four undergraduate years.
Like many of my friends whose numbers had come up wrong in the lottery, I set about securing my salvation. When I was not participating in antiwar rallies, I was poring over the Army’s code of physical regulations. During the winter and early spring, seminars were held in the college common rooms. There, sympathetic medical students helped us search for disqualifying conditions that we, in our many years of good health, might have overlooked. My only real possibility was beating the height and weight regulations. My normal weight was close to the cutoff point for an “underweight” disqualification, and, with a diligence born of panic, I made sure I would have a margin. I was six feet one inch tall at the time. On the morning of the draft physical I weighed 120 pounds.
Before sunrise that morning I rode the subway to the Cambridge city hall, where we had been told to gather for shipment to the examination at the Boston Navy Yard. The examinations were administered on a rotating basis, one or two days each month for each of the draft boards in the area. Virtually everyone who showed up on Cambridge day at the Navy Yard was a student from Harvard or MIT.
Most of us trod quietly through the paces, waiting for the moment of confrontation when the final examiner would give his verdict. I had stepped on the scales at the very beginning of the examination. Desperate at seeing the orderly write down 122 pounds, I hopped back on and made sure that he lowered it to 120. I walked in a trance through the rest of the examination, until the final meeting with the fatherly physician who ruled on marginal cases such as mine. I stood there in socks and underwear, arms wrapped around me in the chilly building. I knew as I looked at the doctor’s face that he understood exactly what I was doing.
“Have you ever contemplated suicide?” he asked after he finished looking over my chart. My eyes darted up to his. “Oh, suicide—yes, I’ve been feeling very unstable and unreliable recently.” He looked at me, staring until I returned my eyes to the ground. He wrote “unqualified” on my folder, turned on his heel, and left. I was overcome by a wave of relief, which for the first time revealed to me how great my terror had been, and by the beginning of the sense of shame which remains with me to this day.
It was, initially, a generalized shame at having gotten away with my deception, but it came into sharper focus later in the day. Even as the last of the Cambridge contingent was throwing its urine and deliberately failing its color-blindness tests, buses from the next board began to arrive. These bore the boys from Chelsea, thick, dark-haired young men, the white proles of Boston. Most of them were younger than us, since they had just left high school, and it had clearly never occurred to them that there might be a way around the draft. They walked through the examination lines like so many cattle off to slaughter. I tried to avoid noticing, but the results were inescapable. While perhaps four out of five of my friends from Harvard were being deferred, just the opposite was happening to the Chelsea boys.
We returned to Cambridge that afternoon, not in government buses but as free individuals, liberated and victorious. The talk was high-spirited, but there was something close to the surface that none of us wanted to mention. We knew now who would be killed.