History 7-1, 7-2 and 7-3

T 7 O N , I O D r J L T E X T S F O R W R I T E R S

o f b l a c k A r n e r i c a n s r o s e i z e l o c a l e n r r e p r e n e u r i a l o p p o r t u n i t i e s i s c o f a i l

to accept our role as leaclers of our own comrntrnity. Not to dernand

thar each member of the black cc-rmmunity accept individual respon-

s i b i l i t y f o r h e r o r h i s b e h a v i o r - w h e t h e r t h a t b e h a v i o r a s s u l n e s t h e

f o r m o f b l a c k - o n ' b l a c k h o r n i c i d e , g a n g m e r n b e r s v i o l a t i n s t h e s a n c t i t y

of the chtrrch, Lrnprotected sexual acdvity, gangster rap lyrics, what-

e v e r - i s f o r u s t o f u n c t i o n r l e r e l y a s e t h n i c c h e e r l e a d e r s s e l l i n g w o o f

tickers frorn calnpus or sr.rburbs, rather thar-r saying the dilficult things

r h a r m e y b e u n p o p u l a r w i t h o u r f e l l o w s . B e i n g a l e a d e r d o e s n o t n e c e s -

sarily rneen beir-rg loved; loving one's community lneans daring to risk

esrrangelrrer-rr and alienation fi'om ir in che shclrc rttn in order to break

t h e c y c l e o f p o v c r t y a n d d e s p a i r i n w h i c h w e f i n d o u r s e l v e s , o v e r t h e

l o n g r u n . F o r w h a t i s a t s t a k e i s n o t h i n g l e s s t l - r a n r h e s u r v i v a l o f o u r

coLr lltr y, a nd rl-re Afi ican- Atne rican p'teople thetn selves.

T h o s c o f u s o n c a r n p u s c a n a l s o r e a c h o l l t r o r h o s e o f u s l e f t b e h i n d

on rhe streers. l}e historically black colleges and universities and Afro-

Arnerican Srudics .-leparrments ir-r ti-ris cour-rtry can ir-rstitutionalize

s o p h o r n o r e : r n d j u n i o r y e : r r i n r e r n s h i p s f o r c o m m u n i t y d e v e l o p r n e n r

rlrrough orga.nizations such as the Childrens Defense Ftrnd. Together

w e c a n c o m b a t t e e n a g e p r e g n a n c i e s , b l a c k - o n - b l a c k c r i m e , a n d t h e

s p r e a d o f A I D S i r o r n d r u g a b u s e a n d L l l l p r o t e c t e d s e x r , r a l r e l a t i o n s , a n d

c o r r n t e r t h e s p r e a d o f d e s p a i r a n d h o p e l e s s n e s s i n o u r c o u r t n u u i t i e s .

D r . K i n g d i d n o t d i e s o t h a t h a l f o f u s w o u l d r n a k e i t , h a l f o f u s p e r i s h ,

forever rarnishir-rg two centuries of agitation for our equal rights. We,

t h e m e m b c r s o f c h e T a l e n t e d T e n t h , r n L r s t a c c e p r o u r h i s t o r i c a l r e s p o n -

s i b i l i t y a n d l i v e D r . K i n g s c r e c J o t h a t n o n e o F u s i s f r e e u n t i l a l l o f u s a r e

f r e e . A n d r h a r a l l o f u s a r e b r o t h e r s a n d s i s t e r s , a s D r . K i n g s a i d s o l o n g

ago - whire and bl:rck, Protestant and Caclrolic, Ger-rtile and Jew and

M t r s l i r n , r i c h a n d p o o r - e v e n i f w e a r e n o t b r o t h e r s - i n - l a w .

T i m O ' B r i e n

On the Rainy River

T i m O ' B r i e n w a s b o r n i n 1 9 4 6 i n A u s t i n , M i n n e s o t a , t o a n i n s u r a n c e s a l e s m a n a n d a n e l e m e n t a r y s c h o o l t e a c h e r . B o t h o f h i s p a r e n t s w e r e v e t e r ? f l S : h i s f a t h e r h a d b e e n i n t h e N a v y i n l w o J i m a a n d O k i n a w a d u r i n g W o r l d W a r l l , a n d h i s m o t h e r h a d s e r v e d w i t h t h e W A V E S ( W o m e n A c c e p t e d f o r V o l u n t e e r E m e r g e n c y S e r v i c e ) . A s a c h i l d , O ' B r i e n s p e n t t i m e r e a d i n g i n t h e c o u n t y l r b r a r y , l e a r n i n g t o p e r f o r m m a g i c t r i c k s , a n d p l a y i n g b a s e b a l l ( h i s f i r s t p i e c e o f f i c t i o n w a s c a l l e d " T i m m y o f t h e L i t t l e L e a g u e " ) .

O ' B r i e n a t t e n d e d M a c a l e s t e r C o l l e g e i n S a i n t P a u l , M i n n e s o t a , m a j o r i n g i n p o l i t i c a l s c i e n c e . W h e n h e g r a d u a t e d i n 1 9 6 8 , h e h o p e d t o j o i n t h e S t a t e D e p a r t m e n t a s a d i p l o m a t - b u t i n s t e a d , j u s t w e e k s a f t e r g r a d u a t i o n , h e w a s d r a f t e d i n t o t h e A r m y . O ' B r i e n n e a r l y f l e d t o C a n a d a : d u r i n g h i s t r a i n i n g i n F o r t L e w i s , W a s h i n g t o n , h e p l a n n e d t o d e s e r t , b u t h e w e n t o n l y a s f a r a s S e a t t l e b e f o r e t u r n i n g b a c k . I n 1 9 6 9 , a t t h e a g e o f 2 2 , h e w e n t t o Q u a n g N g a i , V i e t n a m , f i r s t a s a r i f l e m a n a n d l a t e r a s a r a d i o t e l e p h o n e o p e r a t o r a n d c l e r k . H e c o m p l e t e d a 1 3 - m o n t h t o u r o f d u t y , e a r n i n g a P u r p l e H e a r t a n d a B r o n z e S t a r .

A f t e r h i s r e t u r n t o t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s i n 1 9 7 0 , O ' B r i e n e n r o l l e d i n H a r v a r d ' s d o c t o r a l p r o g r a m i n g o v e r n m e n t a n d s p e n t h i s s u m m e r s w o r k i n g a s a n i n t e r n f o r t h e W a s h r n g t o n P o s t . H e b e c a m e a f u l l - t i m e n a t i o n a l a f f a i r s r e p o r t e r , c o v e r i n g S e n a t e h e a n n g s a n d p o l i t i c a l e v e n t s . S e v e r a l y e a r s l a t e r , O ' B r i e n l e f t b o t h h i s g r a d u a t e w o r k a n d h i s j o b a t t h e P o s f t o p u r s u e a c a r e e r a s a w r i t e r . l n a m e m o i r , s e v e n n o v e l s , a n d m a n y s h o r t s t o r i e s , O ' B r i e n h a s e x p l o r e d t h e q u e s t i o n o f m o r a l r e s p o n s i b i l i t y : W h o i s r e s p o n s i b l e f o r t h e 5 8 , 0 0 0 A m e r i c a n s o l d i e r s a n d m o r e t h a n a m i l l i o n V i e t n a m e s e p e o p l e k i l l e d i n b a t t l e b e t w e e n 1 9 6 5 a n d 1 9 7 5 ?

" O n t h e R a i n y R i v e r " d e s c r i b e s a y o u n g m a n w h o h a s t o c h o o s e b e t w e e n g o i n g t o V i e t n a m a n d f l e e i n g t o C a n a d a t o e v a d e t h e d r a f t . H e b l a m e s t h e w a r o n e v e r y o n e - t h e p r e s i d e n t , t h e j o i n t c h i e f s o f s t a f f , t h e k n e e - j e r k p a t r i o t s i n h i s h o m e t o w n - b u t u l t i m a t e l v

1 7 I

1 7 2 M o D E L T E X T S F o R w R T T E R S

t a k e s h i s p l a c e a m o n g t h e m , c h o o s i n g t o g o t o w a r . H i s d e c i s i o n precipitates the events of the book, The Things They Carried, just as O ' B r i e n ' s o w n c o n f l i c t e d d e c i s i o n t o g o t o w a r s e t t h e c o u r s e o f h i s l i f e , f i r s t a s a s o l d i e r a n d t h e n a s a w r i t e r .

The Things They Carried (1990) was a finalist for both the Pulitzer P r i z e a n d t h e N a t i o n a l B o o k C r i t i c s C i r c l e A w a r d . O ' B r i e n ' s o t h e r significant books include lf I Die in a Combat Zone, Box Me Up and Ship Me Home (1973), Going after Cacciato (I978), The Nuclear A g e ( I 9 8 5 ) , a n d l n t h e L a k e o f t h e W o o d s ( 1 9 9 4 ) . T i m O ' B r i e n l i v e s i n T e x a s w i t h h i s w i f e a n d s o n . H e t e a c h e s c r e a t i v e w r i t i n g a t T e x a s S t a t e U n i v e r s i t v .

f his is one story I've never rold before. Not to anyone. Not to my

I parents, not to my brother or sister, not even to my wife, To go inro it, I've always thought, would only cause embarrassmenr for all of us, a sudden need to be elsewhere, which is che natural response to a confession. Even now I'll adrnit, the story makes me squirm, For more than twenty years I've had to live wirh ir, feeling rhe shame, rrying ro puslr ft away, and so by this act of remembrance, by putting the facts down on paper, I'm hoping to relieve at least some of the pressure on my dreams. Sdll, it's :r hard story to tell. All of us, I suppose, like to believe that in a moral emergency we will behave like the heroes of our youth, bravely and forthrightly, without thought of personal loss or discredit. Cercainly chac was my conviccion back in the surnmer of 1968. Tim O'Brien: a secret hero. The Lone Ranger. If the stakes ever became high enough - if the evil were evil enough, if the good were good enough - I would simply Ap a secret reservoir of courage that had been accumulat- ing inside me over the years. Courage, I seemed to think, comes to us in 6nite quantities, like an inheritance, and by being frugal and stashing it away and letting it earn interest, we steadily increase our moral capital in p''rsp2l"xtion for that day when the account must be drawn down. It was a comforting tl-reory. It dispensed with all those bothersome little accs of daily courage; it offered hope and grace ro the repetitive coward; it justified the past while amortizing the future.

InJune of 7968,a month afrcr graduating from Macalescer College,I was drafted to 6ght a war I hated' I was twenty-one years old. Young,yes, and politically naive, but even so the American war in Vietnam seemed

O ' B r i e n * O n r h e R a i n y R i v e r I 7 3

ro me wrong. Certain blood was being shed for uncerrain reasons. I saw no uniry of purpose, no consensus on marrers of philosophy or history or law. The very facts were shrouded in uncerrainty: Was ir a civil war? A war of national liberarior-r or simple aggressioni Who started it, and when, and whyi What realLy happened ro rhe llSS Maddox onthat dark night in the Gulf of Tonkini Was Ho Chi Minh a Communisr stooge, or a nationalist savior, or both, or neitheri What abour the Geneva Accordsi What about SEATO and rhe Cold Wari Whar about domi- noesi America was divided on these and a thousand orher issues, and the debate had spilled out across the floor of the United Srares Senate and into the streers, and smarr men in pinsrripes could not agree on even the rnosr fundamental rnacters of public policy. The only cerraincy that summer was moral confusion. It was my view then, and still is, that you don't rnake war without knowing why. Knowledge, of course, is always imperfect, but it seemed ro me thar when a narion goes ro war ir rnust have reasonable confidence in the jr-rstice and imperative of irs cause. You can't fix your misrakes. Once people are dead, you canr make rhern undead.

In any case rhose were my convicrions, and back in college I had taken a modesr srand against rhe war. Norhing radical, no horhead scufl just ringing a few doorbells for Gene McCarrhy, composing a few tedious, uninspired edirorials for che campus newspaper. Oddly, though, it was almosr enrirely an inrellectual acrivity. I broughr some energy ro it, of course, bur ir was rhe energy that accompanies almost any abstract endeavor; I felt no personal danger, I felt no sense of an irnpending crisis in my life. Srupidly, wirh a kind of smug removal that I cant begin to farllom, I assumed rhar rhe problems of killing and dying did not fall wirhin my special province.

The draft notice arrived onJune 17,1968.Ir was a humid afrernoon, I remembea cloudy and very quiec, and Id jusr conle in from a round of golf. My mother and farher were having lunch our in the kitchen. I remember opening up the letter, scanning the firsr few lines, feeling rhe blood go rhick behind my eyes. I remember a sound in my head. It wasnt rhinking, jusr a silenr horvl. A million rhings all ar once - I was rco good for rl-ris war. Too sffrarc, too compassionate, too everything. It couldn't happen. I was above it. I had the world dicked - Phi Bera Kappa and summa cum laude and president of rhe srudenr body and a Full-ride scholarship for grad studies at Harvard. A mistake, maybe - a

1 , 7 4 M o D E L T E X T s F o R w R r r E R S

foul-up in the paperwork. I was no soldier. I haced Boy Scouts. I hated camping out. I hated dirt and tents and mosquiroes. The sight of blood made me queasy, and I couldn'r tolerare authority, and I didn't know a rifle from a slingshot. I was a liber,tl, for Christ sake: If rhey needed fresh bodies, wl-ry not draft some back-to-rhe-srone-age hawki Or some dumb jingo in his hard har and Bornb Hanoi burron, or one of LBJs pretty daughrers, or Wesrmoreland's whole handsome family - neph- ews and nieces and baby grandson. There should be a law I thought. If you support awar, if you think ir's worth rhe price, rhat's fine, bur you have to Put your own precious fluids on rhe line. You have to head for the front and hook up with an infantry unir ar-rd help spill the blood. A'd you have ro bring along your wife, or ),our kids, or your lover. A l a w , I t h o u g h r .

s I remember rhe rage in my sromach. Later ir burned down to a snroldering self-pity, rhen to numbness. Ar dinner rhat nighr my father asked what my plans were.

"Norhing," I said. " Wait."

I spcnr rhe surnmer of i968 u'orking in an Armour rnear-packing plant ir-r rny homero'uvn of Worrhington, Minnesora. The planr specialized in pork products, and for eighr hours a day I srood on a quarrer-mile assembly line - more properly, a disassembly line - removing blood clots frorn the necks of dead pigs. Myjob rirle, I believe, was Declotter. After slaughrer, rhe hogs were de.:apitated, splir down the length of the belly, pried open, eviscerated, and srrlrng up by rhe hind hocks on a high conveyer belr. Then gravity rook over. By che rime a carcass reached my spot on the line, che fuids had rnostly drained ouc, everyrhing excepr for thick clots of blood in rhe neck and upper chest cavity. Tor.,nou. the stuf{, I used a kind of water gun. The machine was heavy, maybe eighry pounds, and was suspended from the ceiling by a heavy rubber cord. There was some bounce ro it, an elasric up-and-down give, and the rrick was ro maneuver rhe gun with your whole body, noc lifting with the anns, jusr lerrir-rg rhe rubber cord. do the work for you. At one cnd was a tigger; ar rhe muzzle end was a small nozzle and a steel roller brush. As a carcass passed by, youd lean forward and swing the gun up againsr rhe clors and squeeze the tigger, all in one morion, and rhe brush would whirl and water would come shooring our and youd hear a quick splarering sound as rhetlots dissolved into a fine red misr.

It was nor pleasanr work. Goggles were a necessicy, and a rubber apron, but even so it was like srandi.g for eighr hours ̂ i^yunder a l,rk"warm blood-shower. At nighr Id go home sleiling of pig.It wouldn'r go away. Even after a hot barh, scrubbins hard, rh" srink *i,

"l-"y, ,h..I _ like

old bacon, or sausage, a dense greas/ pig-srink thar soaked deep into rny ski'and hair. Arno.g ocher rhings, I rernernbec ir was tough g.rrirrg dates rhar summer. I felr isolared; I spent a lor of cime alone. A"; rhere was also char drafr norice tucked away in my wallet.

In rhe evenings Id somerimes borrow my farher's car and d,rive aimlessly around rown, feeling sorry fo, *y.eli rhinking about the war and the pig factory and how rny life seemed ro be collapring toward slaughter. I felr paralyzed. All around me the oprions seemed ro be narrowing, as if I were hurrling down a huse black funnel, rhe whole world_ squeezing in righr. Tlrere was no h"ppy way our. The govern- ment had ended mosr graduare school defermenrs; the wairing iirt, fo, rhe National Guard and Reserves were impossibly long; my health was solid; I didn't qualify for co srarus - no religious grounds, no hisrory as a pacifrst. Moreover, I could nor claim ro be c-rpposed, ro war as a matcer of general principle.

-fhere were occasions, i believed , when a

nation was jusrified in using nrilitary force to achieve irs end,s, ro srop a Hitler or some comparable evil, and I told myself thar in such circum- stances I would've willingly marched off to rhe battle. The problem, though, was thar a draft board did not let you choose your war.

Beyond all this, or ar rhe very cenrer, was the raw fact of terror. I did nor wanr ro die. Not evcr. But certainly nor rhen, not there, nor in a wrong war. Driving r-rp Main srreer, pasr rhe courrhouse and che Ben Franklin srore, I somecirnes felr rh" i"a. spreading inside me like weeds. I irnagined myself dead. I imagined myself doing things I could not do - charging an enemy position, caking aim at another human being.

Ar some point in mid-July I beuan thinking seriously about Canada. 1o f}e border lay a few hundred miles norrh, an eight-hour drive. Boch my conscience and my insri'crs were telling ffre

-ro make a break for

it, just rake off and run like hell and never srop. In the beginning rhe idea seemed purely absrract, the word canada printing ir."f o,rr ii -y head; bur after a rime I could see parricula. shap"s orrdl-"g"s, rhe ror.y details of rny own future - a horel room in ivinnip eg, a-battered old suitcase, rny fbrher's eyes as I rried ro explain myself ou., ,h. relephone.

O ' B r i c n o O n r h e R a i n y R i v e r I 7 5

. , - l

f 7 6 M o D E L T E X T S F o R w R r r E R S

I could almost hear his voice, and my morhers. Run, Id think. Then Id think, Impossible. Then a second later Id think, Run.

It was a kind of schizophrenia. A moral split. I couldn't make up my mind. Ifeared the war, yes, but I also feared exile. I was afraid of walking away from my own Iife, my friends and my family, my whole history, everything chat matcered to me. I feared losing the respecr of my parents. I feared the law. I feared ridicule and censure. My home- town was a conservative little spot on the prairie , aplace where tradition counted, and it was easy to imagine people sitting around a rable down at the old Gobbler Caft on Main Streer, coffee cups poised, the conver- sation slowly zerorng in on the young O'Brien kid, how rhe damned sissy had taken off for Canada. At night, when I couldn't sleep, Id sometime s carry on 6erce arguments with those people. I d be scream- ing at them, telling them how much I detested their blind, thoughtless, automatic acquiescence to it aIl, their simple minded patriotism, their prideful ignorance, their love-it-or-Ieave-it pladrudes, how they were sending me offto 6ght awar they didn't undersrand and didn't wanr ro understand.I held them responsible. By God, yes, I did. AIlof rhem - I held them personally and individually responsible - the polyestered Kiwanis boys, the merchants and farmers, the pious churchgoers, the chatty housewives, the PTA and the Lions club and the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the 6ne upstanding gentry our ar rhe country club. Th.y didnt know Bao Dai from the man in the moon. Th"y didn't know history. Th"y didn't know the 6rst thing about Diem's tyranny, or the nature of Vietnamese nationalism, or the long colonialisrn of the French - this was all too damned compli car.ed, it required some read- irg - but no matter, it was a war to stop the Communisrs, plain and simple, which was how rhey liked things, and you were a rreasonous pussy if you had second thoughts abour killing or dying for plain and simple reasons.

I was bitter, sure. But it was so much more than thar. The emotions went from outrage to terror to bewilderment to guilt to sorrow and then back again to outrage. I felt a sickness inside me. Real disease.

Most of rhis I've rold before, or ar least hint ed ar, bur what I have never told is the full rrurh. How I cracked. How at work one morn- ing, standing on the pig line, I felr somerhing break open in my chest. I don't know what it was. I'll neVer know. Bur it was real, I know rhar much, it was a physical ruprure - a cracking-leaking-popping feeling. I

C ) ' l J r i e n * O n t h e l l . a i n y R i v e r 1 7 7

remember dropping my wacer gun. Quickly, ahnosr wirhout rhougl-rt, I took offmy apron and walked our of rhe planr and drove home. Ir *", midrnorr-ri'g I remember, and the house was empry. Down in my chest there was srill rhat leaking sensarion, somerh ingvery warln and precious spilling out, and I was .ou.r"d wirh blood ;rnd hog-stink,

",ld for a

long while I just concentrated on holding myself rogetl-rer. I rernernber taking a hor shower. I remernber packing a suitcase and carrying ir our to the kitchen, standing very srill for a few rninures, looking carefully at the familiar objects all around rne. The old chrome roasrer, rhe tele- phone, the pink and whire Forrnica on rhe kitchen counrers. The room was full of brighr sunshine. Everything sparkled. My hor_rse, I thoughr. My life. I'm nor sure how long I srood rhere, bur later I scribbled our a short note to my parenrs.

whar ir said, exactIy,I don'r recall now. Somerhing vaglre. Taking oll will call, love Tirn.

I drove north. 15 It's a blur now as ir was then, and all I rer'ernber is a sense of high

velocity and rhe feel of rhe steering wheel in n-ry hands. I was ri.ling on adrenaline. A giddy feeling, in a way, excepr rhere was rhc drcamy edge of impossibiliry ro ir-like runnir-rg a dead-enc-l rnaze-no way out - ir couldn'r come to a happy conclusion and yet I was doing it anyway because it was all I could rhink of ro do. Ir was pure llighr, fast and mindless. I had no plan. Jusr hir rhe border at high .p""d and crash rhrough and keep on running. Near dusk I passed rhrough Bemidji, then rurned northeast toward L-rternarional Falls. I .p..rr rt" night in the car behind a closed-down ges starion a half mile from rfie border. In rhe morning, afrer gassing'p, I headed srraighr west along the Rainy River, which separares Minnesora frorn Canada, and which for me separated or-re life from another. The l:rnd was mosrly wilderness. Here and there I passed a morel or bait shop, but otherwise rhe counrry unfolded in great sweeps of pine and birch and sumac.

'lhough ir -a.,

still August, the air already had the smell of Ocrober, foorb"il season, piles of yellow-red leaves, everyrhing crisp and clean. I rernernber a huge blue sky. off ro rny righr was the Rainy River, wide as a lake in places, and beyond rhe Rainy fuver was Canada.

For a while I just drove, noc airning ar anything, rhen in rhe lare morning I begar-r looking for a place to lie low for a day or rwo. I was

-d

O ' B r i e n m O n r h e R a i n y R i v e r 7 7 9 I 7 B M o D E L T E X T S F o R w R I T E R S

exhausted, and scared sick, and around noon I pulled inro an old fish- ing resort called the Tip Top Lodge. Actually it was nor a lodge ar all, just eight or nine tir-ry yellow cabins ch-rsrered on a peninsula thar-jutted northward into the Rainy River. The place was in sorry shape. There was a dangerous wooden dock, an old minnow rank, a flimsy tar paper boarhouse along the shore. The main building, wl-rich srood in a clus- ter of pir-res on high ground, seemed ro lean l'teavily ro one side, like a cripple, rhe roof sagging roward Canada. Briefly, I rhoughr abour rurn- ing around, jusr giving up, buc rhen I gor our oi rhe car and walked up to the fronr porch.

The man who opened the door rhar day is che hero of my life. How do I say rhis withour sounding sappyi Blurr ir our - rhe man saved, me. He ollered exactly what I needed, wirhour questions, withour any words at all. He took me in. He was there ar rhe crirical cime - a silent, watchful Presence. Six days larer, when ir ended, I was r-rnable ro find a proper way ro rhank hirn, and I never have, and so, if norhing else, tfiis story represents a small gesrure of gracicude twenty years overdue.

Even after two decades I can close my eyes and return ro that porch at che Tip Top Lodge. I can see che old guy sraring ar me. Elroy Berdahl: eighry-one years old, skinny and shrunken and rnosrly bald. He wore a Ilannel shirt and brown work pants.In one hand,I remernber, he carried, a green apple, a small paring knife in the other. His eyes had the bluish gray color of a razor blade, the sarne polished shine, and as he peered up at me I felt a strange sharpness, almost painful, a curting sensarion, as if his gaze were somehow slicing me open. In parr, no doubr, ir was my own sense of guilt, but even so I'm absolutely certain rhar rhe old man took one look and went right to the hearr of rhings - a kid in rrouble. When I asked for a room, Elroy made a little clicking sound wich his rongue. He nodded, led me our ro one of the cabins, and dropped a key in my hand. I rernember smiling ar him. I also remember wishing I hadn't. The old man shook his head as if to tell rne ir wasn'r worrh rhe bother.

20 "Dinner ar five-thi rryi' he said."you ear fishi" 'Anything,"

I said. Elroy grur-rred and said, "Illbet!'

we spenr six days rogerher ar rlre Tip Top Lodge. Jusr rhe rwo of us. Tourist season was over, and there were no boars on the river, and the

wilderness seemed to withdraw into a great permanent stillness. Over those six days Elroy Berdahl and I took most of our meals togecher. In

the rnornings we sornetimes went out on long hikes into the woods, and

at night we played Scrabble or listened to records or sat reading in front

of his big scone fireplace. At times I felt the awkwardness of an incruder,

buc Elroy accepted me into his quiet routine without fuss or ceremony.

He took my presence for granted, the same way he might've sheltered a stray ca(. - no wasted sighs or pity - and there was never any talk

about it.Jusr the opposite. Whar I remember morc than anything is the

man's willful, almosr ferocious silence.In all that time together, all those

hours, he never asked the obvious questions: Why was I therei Why

alonei Why so preoccupiedi If Elroy was curious about any of this, he

was careful never to put it into words. My hunch, though, is that he already knew. At least the basics. After

all, it was 1968, and guys were burning draft cards, and Canada was just

a boar ride away. Elroy Berdahl was no hick. His bedroom, I remember,

was cluttered with books and newspapers. He killed me at the Scrabble

board, barely concentrating, and on those occasions when speech was

necessary he had a way of compressing Iarge thoughts into small , cryp-

tic packets of language. One evening, just at sunset, he pointed up at an

owl circling over rhe violer-lighted forest to the west. "H"y, O'Brien," he said."There'sJesus." 25

The man was sharp - he didn't miss much. Those razor eyes. Now

and then hecl catch me staring out at the river, at the far shore, and I

could almosr hear rhe tumblers clicking in his head. Maybe I'm wrong,

but I doubt it.

One thing for certain, he knew I was in desperate trouble. And he

knew I couldn't talk about it. The wrong word even the right

word - and I would've disappeared. I was wired and jittery. My skin

felt too tight. After supper one evening I vomited and went back to my

cabin and lay down for a few moments and then vomited again; another

time, in the middle of the afternoon,I began sweating and couldn'r shut

it ofl. I went through whole days feeling dizzy with sorrow. I couldn't

sleep; I couldn'r lie srill. At night I d ross around in bed, half awake,

half dreaming, imagining how Id sneak down ro the beach and quietly

push one of the old man's boats our into the river and starr paddling my

way toward Canada. There were times when I thoughr Id gone offthe

psychic edge. I couldn't tellup from down, I was just falling and late in

t 8 0 M o D E L T E X T S F o R w R r r E R S

the night Id, lie there watching weird pictr-rres spin rhrough nry l-read. Getting chased by the Border Patrol- hclicopters and searchlighcs and barking dogs - IA be crashing through rhe woods, I d be down on rny hands and knees - people shoutins our my name - rhe law clos- ing in on all sides - my hornetown draft board and the FBI and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. it all seemed t^zy and irnpossible. Twenty-one years old, an ordinary kid with all the ordinary dreams and ambitions, an.1 all I wanted was to live the life I was borr-r ro - a main- stream lfe- I loved baseball and harnburgcrs and cherry Cokes - and now I was offon the margins of exile,leaving my counrry forever,and it seemed so impossible and terrible and sad.

Iin not sure how I rnade it rhrough those six days. Mosr of ir I can'c remember, On two or three afternoons, to pass some time, I helped Elroy get the place ready for winter, sweeping down the cabins and hauling in rhe boats, lirrle chores rhar kepr my body moving. The days were cool and bright. The nights were very dark, One morning rhe old man showed rne how to splic and stack firewoocl, and for several hours we just worked in silence or,rr behind his house. Ar one poinc, I remcrn- ber, Elroy put down his maul and looked at rne for a long rime, his lips drawn as if framing a difficult question, br-rt rhen he shook his head and wenc back to work. Thc rnans sel{-control was antazing. He never pried. He never put me in a position that required lies or denials. To an extent, I suppose, his rericence was rypical of thar part of Minne- soca, where privacy sdll held value, and even if I cl bee n walking around with some horrible defbrmity - four arms and three heac{s - l'11 s111s

the old man would've talked about everything except those exrra arms and heads. Simple politeness was parr c-rf it. Bur even rrrore rhan that, I think, the man understood that words wefe insufficient. The problem had gone beyond discussion. Dtrring that long sun-uner I d been over and over the various argumenrs, all rhe pros and cons, and ir was no longer a question that could be decided by an act of pure reason. Intel- lect had come up against emotion. My conscience told rne ro run, bur some irrational and powerful force was resistine like a weighr pr-rshing me toward the war. What it came down to, srupidly, was a sense of sharne. Hot, scupicl sharne. I did nor wanr people ro rhink badly of me. Not rny parents, not my brother and sister, not even rhe folks .lown ar the Gobbler Cafe.I was ashamed to be rhere at ttre Tip Top Lodge. I was asharned of my conscience, as[amed ro be doing the righr thing.

O ' B r i e n o O n t h e R a i n y R i v e r 1 8 1

Sorne of this Elroy must've understood. Not the details, of course, but the plain fact of crisis.

Although the old man never confronted me abouc it, there was one

occasion when he came close to forcing the whole thing out into the

open. It was early evening, and wedjust finished supper, and over coffee

and dessert I asked hirn abouc rny bill, how much I owed so far. For a

long while the old man squinted down at the tablecloth. "We11, che basic rate',' he said, "is fifty bucks a night. Not counting

rneals. This rnakes four nighrs, righti"

I nodded. I had three hundred and twelve dollars in my wallet. Elroy kept his eyes on the tablecloth."Now that's an on-season price.

To be fair,I suppose we should knock it down apegor twol'He leaned

back in his chair."What's a reasonable number, you figurei" "I dont knowj'I said."Forty?" "Forty's good. Forry a night. Tl-ren we tack on food - say another

hundredi Two hundred sixry cotali" "I guessl' He raised his eyebrows."Too muchi" "No, thar's fair. Its fine. Tomorrow, rhough . . . I rhink Id betrer take

offtomorrow." Elroy shrugged and began clearing rhe table. For a time he fussed

with the dishes, whistiing to himself as if the subject had been settled.

After a second he slapped his hands together. "You know what we forgoti" he said. "We forgot wages. Those odd

jobs you done. What we have to do, we have to figure out what your time's worth. Your last job - how much did you pull in an houri"

"No[ enough," I said. 'A

bad one?" "Yes. Pretty badi'

Slowly then, without intending any long sermon, I told him about

my days at the pig plant. It began as a straight recitation of the facts,

but before I could stop myself I was talking about the blood clots and

the water gun and how the smell had soaked into my skin and how I

couldn't wash it away.I went on for a long rime. I told hirn about wild

hogs squealing in my dreams, the sounds of butchery, slaughterhouse

sounds, and how Id sometimes wake up with that greasy pig-scink in

my throat. When I was finished, Elroy nodded at me.

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I 8 2 M o D E L T E X T S F o R w R I T E R S

"we11, ro be honesri' he said, "when you firsC showed up here, I

wondered about all chat. fhe aroma, I mean. Smelled like you was

awful {amned fond of pork chopsi' The old man almost smiled. He

mad"e a snuflling sound, then sar down wirh a pencil and a piece of

paper."So whard rhis crud job pay? Ten bucks an hour? Fifreeni"

" L e s s i '

Elroy sl-rook his head. "Let's make it fifteen. You pur in twenty--{ive

hours 6ere, easy. Thar's three hundred seventy-five bucks total wdges.

we subrracr rhe two hundred sixty for food and lodging,I still owe you

a hundred and 6fteen'

He took four fifties out of his

table. "Call it eveni'he said' "Noi' "Pick it up. Get Yours eLf ahaircur''

The mon-ey lay on the table for the rest of the evening. It was still

rhere when I went back to my cabin. In the morning, thorrgh, I found an

envelope tacked ro my door. Inside were the four fifties and a two-word

nore rhar said EIr,4ERGENCY FUND' I

l n e l - l t a n K n e w .

Looking back afrer rwenry years,I sornetimes wonder if the events of

th"t ,,rl-er didn't happen in some other dimension, a place where

your life exists before you ve lived ir, ancl where it goes afterward. Nonc

of ir ever seerned real. During nly titne at the Tip Top l.odge I had the

feeling that I d slipped out of my own skin, hovering a few feer away

while sorne poor yo-yo with nry name and face tried to make his way

toward a furure he didnt understand and didn't want. Even now I can

see myself as I was then. It's like watching an old home movie: I'm young

and tan and fir. I've got hair -lots of it. I don't smoke or drink. I'm

wearing faded blue jeans and a white polo shirt. I can see rnyself sitting

on Elroy Berdahls dock near dusk one evening, the sky a bright shim-

mering pink, and I'm finishing up a letrer lo. my Parents chat tells what

I'- "bo,rt

to do and why I'm doing it and how sorry I am thar I d never

found the courage to talk to thern about it. I ask them not to be angry'

I rry to explain some of my feelings, but there aren't enough words, and

so I just r"y th"r its a thing thar has to be done. At the end of the letter

I talk abour the vacations we used to take up in this north country, at a

O ' B r i e n . O n t h e R a i n y R i v e r 1 8 3

place called Whitefish Lake, and how the scenery here reminds me of

ihor. good times. I tell them I'm fine. I tell them I'11 write agairt frorn

Winnipeq or Montreal or wherever I end up.

On my lasr full day, rhe sixth d:ry, che old man took tne out fishing

on tlre Rainy River. The afiernoon was sunny and cold. A stiff^ \reeze

came ir-r from the north, and I remember how the little fourteen-foot

boat made sharp rocking motions as we pushed ofl from the dock. The

current was fast. All around us, I remember, there was a vastness to the

world, an unpeopled rawness, just the trees and the sky and the warer

reaching out toward nowhere. The air had the brirle scent of October'

For ten or fifteen minuces Elroy held a course uPstrealn, the river

cl-rop,py and silver-gray, tl-ren he turned straight north and put the engine

on fr-rll rhrotrle. I felt the borv lift benearh me. I remember the wind in

my ears, the sound of the old outboard Evinrude. For a time I didn't pay

arrention to anything, just feeling the cold sPray against my face, but

then it occttrred to ffIe that at solne point we must ve passed into Cana-

dian waters, across that dotted line between two differenc worlds, and I

remember a sudden cightness in rny chest as I looked up and warched

the f'ar shore come at me. Tl-ris wasnt a daydrearn. It was tangible and

real. As we came in toward land, Elroy cut the engitre, letting the boat

fishtail lightly about twenty yards off shore. The old man didn't iook at

me or speak. Bending down, he opened up his tackle box and busied

hirnself with a bobber and a piece of wire leader, hurnming to himselfl,

his eyes down.

It struck lne then that he lnustve planned it. I'll never be certain,

of course, but I think he tneant to bring me uP against the realities, to

guide rne across the river and to take me to the edge and to stand a kind

of vigil as I chose a life for myself.

I remember staring ar the old man, rhen at my hands, then at

Canada. The shoreline was dense with brush and tirnber. I could see

tiny red berries on the bushes. I could see a squirrel up in one of the

birch trees, a big crow looking at me frorn a boulder along the river'

Thar close - rwenry yards - and I could see the delicate latticework

of the leaves, the texture of rhe soil, the browned needles beneath the

pines, the configurations of geology and human history. Twenty yards'

I could've done it. I could've jurnped and started switnming for my life'

Inside me, in my chest, i felt a terrible squeezing Pressure. Even now, as

shirt pocket and laid them on the

6 5

1 8 4 M O D E L T E X T S F O R W R I T E R S

I write this, I can scill feel that tightness. And I want you to feel ic - the

wind coming off the river, the waves, the silence, the wooded frontier.

You're at the bow of a boat on the Rainy fuver. You're twenty-one years

old, you're scared, and there's a hard squeezing Pressure in your chest.

What would you do?

Would you jumpi Would you feel pity for yourselfi Would you

rhink about your farnily and your childhood and your dreams and all

you re leavir-rg behindi Would it hurt? Would it feel like dyingi Would

you cry, as I did?

I tried to swallow it back. I tried to smile, excePt I was crying.

Now perl-raps, you can understand why I've never told this story

before. It's not just the embarrassffIent of tears. That's part of it, no

doubt, but what embarrasses lne rnuch rrore, and always will, is the

paralysis that took rny l-reart. A moral freeze: I couldn't decide, I couldn't

act,I couldn't corxport rnyself with even a Pretense of modest human

dignity. A11 I could do was cry. Quietly, not bawling, just the chest-chokes.

At the rear of tl-re boar Elroy Berdahl pretended not to notice. He

held a fishing rod in his hands, his head bowed to hide his eyes. He

kept l-rumming a soft, monotonous little tune. Everywhere, it seemed,

in the trees and water and sky, a great worldwide sadness came pressing

down on me, a crushing sorrow, sorrow like I had never known it before.

And what was so sad, I reahzed, was that Canada had become a pidful

fantasy. Silly and hopeless. It was no longer a possibiliry. Right then,

with the shore so close, I understood that I would not do what I should

do.I would not swim away frorn rny hometown and my country and my

life. I would not be brave. That old image of rnyself as a hero, as a man

of conscience and courage, all that was just a threadbare pipe dream'

Bobbing there on the Rainy River, looking back at the Minnesota shore,

I felt a sudden swell of helplessness come ovcr mc, a drowning sensation,

as if I had toppled overboard and was being swePt away by the silver

waves. Chunks of my own history {lashed by. I saw a seven-year-old boy

in a white cowboy hat and a Lone Ranger mask and a pair of holstered

six-shooters; I saw a twelve'year'old Little League shortstop pivoting

to turn a double play; I saw a six[een-year-old kid decked out for his

first prom, looking.pifry in a white tux and a black bow tie, his hair cut

shorr and flat, his shoes freshly polished. My whole life seemed to spill

out into the river, swirling away fr0in me, everything I had ever been

O ' B r i e n * O n t h e l { a i n Y R i v e r 1 8 5

or ever wanted to be. I couldn't ger my breath; I couldnt stay afloat; I

couldnt tell which way to swim. A hallucination, I suppose, but it was

as real as anyrhing i would ever feel. I saw my Parents calling to 1xe

from rhe faruhorii.,". I saw rny brother and sister, all the townsfolk'

the rnayor and the entire Chamber of Commerce ancl all n-ry old teach-

.r, ".,i

girlfriends and high school buddies. Like some weird sPorting

evenr: .ri.rybody ,.r"arrrir-rg frotn the sidelines, rooting me on - a loud

stadium roar. Hotdogs and PoPcorn - stadium smells, stadiurn heat'

A squad of cheerle"d"r, did carrwheels along the banks of the Rainy

R.iver; they had megaphones and pompoms and smooth brown thighs.

The crowd swayedl"i, "trd

righr. A marching band played fight songs.

All my aunrs and uncles were there, and Abraharn Lincoln, and Saint

George, and a nine,year-old girl named Linda who had clied of a brain

,tl-o-l. back in fifth grade, and several members pf the United States

Senate, and a blind plet scribbling nores, and LBJ, and Huck Finn, and

Abbie Hoffman, ar",J "il

rhe dead soldiers back from the grave, and the

many rhousands who were later to die - villagers with terrible burns'

little kids withour arms or legs - Yes, and tl-reJoint Chiefs of Staffwere

there, ancl a couple of popes, and a 6rst lieutenant nanled Jimrny Cross,

and rhe last survivi,',g u.t"r"n of the Ame rican Civil War, andJane Fonda

dressed up as Barbarella, and an old man sprawled beside a pigpen, and

rny grandfather, and Gary Cooper, and a kind-faced woman cxrying

"., .r*br"lla and a copy of Plato's Republic, and a rnillion ferocious citi-

zens waving flags of "ll

shapes and colors - people in hard hats, people

in headbands - they were all wl-rooping and chanting end urging me

toward one shore or the otl-rer. I saw faces from rny c-listant past and

distanr future. My wife was rhere. My unborn daughter waved af me,

and my rwo sons hopped up and down, and a drill sergeant named

Blyton sneered and shot up a frnger and shook his l-read. There was a

choir in brighr purple robes. There was a cabbie from the Bronx. There

was a slim young man I would one day kill with a hand grenade along a

red clay trail outside the village of My Khe'

The litrle aluminum boat rocked softly beneath me. There was the

wind and the sky.

I tried to will mYself overboard.

I gripped rhe edge of rhe boat and leaned forward and thought,

Now. I did try. It just wasn't Possible.

t* r*r '

1 8 6 M o D E L T E X T S F o R w R r r E R S

70 A11 those eyes on me - the rown, the whole universe - and I couldn'c risk che embarrassment. ft was as if there were an audience ro my Iife, that swirl of faces along rhe river, and in my head I could hear people screarring at me. Traitor! they yelled. Turncoar! Pussy! I felt myself blush. I couldn't rolerare it. I couldn'r endure the mockery, or the disgrace, or the parrioric ridicule. Even in my imagination, the shore just twenry yards away,I couldn'r make myself be brave. Ir had norhing to do with n-rorality. Embarrassmenr, thar's all ir was.

And right chen I submitred. I would go ro the war - I would kill and maybe die - because I w:rs

embarrassed not ro. That was the sad thing. And so I sar in rhe bow of rhe boat and

cried. It was loud now. Loud, hard crying. Elroy Berdahl remai'ed quier. He kepr fishing. He worked his line

with rhe tips of his fingers , pariently, squinring our ar his red and whice bobber on rhe Rainy River. His eyes were flat and irnpassive. He didn't speak. He was sirnply rhere, like rhe river and the late-sLrmlner sun. And yet by his presence, his mure warchfulness, he made ir real. He was the true audience. He was a wirness,like God, or like the gods, who look on in absolute silence as we live our lives, as we make our choices or fail to rnake thern.

'Ain'c bitingi' he said.

Then afrcr a time the old rnan pr-rlled in his line and turned rhe boat back toward Minnesota.

I don't remember saying goodbye. Thar lasr nighr we had .linner together, and I went to bed early, and in rhe morning Elroy fixed break- fasc for rne. When I rold him Id be leaving, rhe old rnan nodded as if he already knew. He looked down at the table and smiled.

At some point later in the morning ir's possible thar we shook h a n d s - I j u s t d o n ' t r e m e m b e r - b u r I d o k n o w r h a t b y r h e t i m e I d finished packing the oid man had disappeared. Around noon, whe' I took my suircase our ro rhe car, I noticed rhar his old black pickup truck was no longer parked in front of the house. I went inside and waired for a while, bur I fek a bone cerr.ainry thar he wouldn'r be back. In a way, I thought, it was appropriate. I washed up rhe breakfasr dishes, lefr his

O ' B r i e n * O n r h e R : r i r . r y R i v e r l B 7

two hundred dollars on the kitchen counter, got into the car, and drove

south toward home.

The day was cloudy. I passed through towns with familiar names,

tlrrough the pine forests and down to the Pralrre, and rhen to Vietnam'

wlrere I was a soldier, and then home again,I survived, but it's not a

hrppy ending. I was a coward. I went to the war'

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