Back on the street, I hailed the trolleybus. I climbed aboard, and for a moment I thought I’d never gotten off. There, across the aisle, were those legs again. The girl I’d sat next to before! She smiled at me. It was almost an invitation to introduce myself and sit beside her, but I stayed where I was and lamely thanked her again for her help. My damned shyness and Yankee reserve … I’d never get rid of it. Afraid to make a move and be refused. That would hurt too much.
The bus driver turned when he stopped again. “You two chasing each other around? Too hot for that. Go find a shady spot.”
Even with this assist, I remained tongue-tied, but managed a shy smile in her direction.
Finally, she got off. Her arm brushed mine. I watched her walk across the sidewalk to a store window, then turn and smile. I grinned back as the bus moved off. The driver shot me a sour glance. I got off at the next stop and walked hurriedly back toward the girl. I was going to throw all caution to the winds. It was just too damn lonesome in this town.
Then I noticed a passing bus. My hopes evaporated. There she was again, smiling and waving. I waved back, trying to communicate to her to get off, but she didn’t pick up the vibrations.
“Damn it,” I said out loud.
I WENT TO THE LIBRARY FOR some guidance, and decided to look up some information on Adak and Kodiak. I immediately ruled out Adak. Not a tree on the island. But, Kodiak … that held promise. I wondered what the fishing was like.
On my way back to the hotel, I passed a Girlie Show, all lit up and glittery with revealing posters beneath the marquee. Girls in flesh-colored G-strings and hammocks of fishnet supporting their heavy breasts seemed to squirm right out of the pictures. Their mouths were drawn into “Os” and their eyes were big and round. I hesitated for a moment, then walked on.
Back at the hotel room, I took a bath. As I toweled myself off, the roll of blubber around my middle was emphasized in the full mirror on the door. How did that accumulate so fast? It wasn’t that long ago when my stomach was drumhead tight and the muscles showed.
You’re going to seed, I thought as I jutted my chin and shaved critically.
Don’t blame Seattle, I answered. It’s not as unfriendly as you think. There’s things to do, but you’re holding on to your wallet. I rinsed off the blade.
But my wallet’s my security blanket until I get to Alaska, I thought, splashing my face with a spicy lotion. All right, then, I told my reflection, so stop bitching about Seattle.
The next morning, I returned to Pier 91. The smell of the sick bay was familiar to me from my Marine days. So were the needles the corpsman jabbed me with. I saw on the screen of my mind the long line snaking into the tent, the marines emerging from the other end of it, holding their arms, grimacing, and shouting for the benefit of us waiting to be punctured. “Look out for the hook!” “It’s a square needle!” “Jesus, that butcher struck bone.” An occasional trickle of blood down an upper arm made believers out of us. Some boys even fainted in the tent before the needle touched them.
I felt the swollen pressure of the rubber tubing around my bicep as the doctor squeezed the ball and watched the gauge.
“How’s it look?” I asked.
“See that you don’t get too heavy,” he said. That did it. Removal of the lard would have top priority.
After filling out forms in duplicate and triplicate, after swearing not to overthrow the government and swearing solemnly that I never had been or was presently affiliated with a Communist or Fascist Party, after indicating my preference for Kodiak, I was told to report again in two days. Okay, then, two days to be a tourist—to see Seattle with new eyes.
I spent the rest of the day in a waterfront aquarium and finally in a theater, where I saw The Wild North, a movie about a desperate man in some of Canada’s roughest mountains.
Cars sizzled along the street in a steady rain, their lights glistening on the pavement. People hugged close to the buildings as they hurried along the walks. The rain felt good hitting me in the face. Just for a change of pace, I stopped in a bar to have a few drinks. I sat at the bar with a young, homesick soldier. He was drinking beer because there nothing else to do. The place was full of people with nothing else to do. Women were waiting to be picked up. I didn’t want that kind of trouble.
“Don’t stay in here too long,” I said to the soldier. “They’ll keep looking better and better.”
Usually I walked upstairs to my room instead of bothering the clerk to take me up in the elevator. Tonight, I was later than usual. I noticed the handle to the closed door leading upstairs was missing. Was this a precaution against unwanted guests? The only way up was the elevator.
When I opened my room door, I found a note had been slid under it. Lonesome? it read. You don’t have to be, you know. There was a number to call. Now, who had put it here? I hesitated, then slowly tore up the note and tossed the pieces into the wastebasket.
I brushed the curtain back and looked down on the street. There were lots of lonesome people in this world.
I hoped Kodiak was the paradise I heard it was. I intended to work hard, play hard, and save my money. When I saw my family again, I’d be richer, both in money and experience.
July 16, 1952
Dear Dad, Molly, & Mrs. Millet:
This is only going to be a short letter. I took off without my Marine Corps discharge. Everytime I go away, although I check and recheck my gear, I always manage to overlook something. Because I will probably need it when I get to where I am going, would you please send my discharge to me by the fastest way possible? I think you will find it in one of the trunks at your place…. Mail it to:
GEORGIAN HOTEL
ROOM 307
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON.
I went over to the Naval District Headquarters and inquired about Civil Service jobs in Alaska, and much to my satisfaction, found a few laboring jobs open…. The woman at the desk told me I had the job as long as my physical did not in any way reject me. I have to sign a one-year contract and as far as I know, I will be in Kodiak, Alaska. The pay is just under $2.00 per hour.
Please hurry along my discharge. Hoping all is well.
Love to all,
Sam
I HAD BEEN EATING IN THE Sportsman’s Cafe. The food was excellent, and I enjoyed sitting at the counter and watching the chef do his job. I have always been fascinated by people doing things well. Harry Mae, the chef, had many orders going at the same time. His movements were flowing, and he wasted none of them. He was tall with sunken cheeks, deep-set eyes, and features like Abraham Lincoln.
This particular evening was slow when he placed the steak platter in front of me. It must have been obvious to him how I savored the brown-crusted, red pieces of beef.
“How’s the steak, bud?” he asked, leaning on the counter.
“Best ever. You can cook my grub anytime.”
He dumped more salad on my platter. Then he got a piece of pie and a cup of coffee and came around to sit beside me. We sounded each other out. I was enjoying his company and hoping that