A half hour later, my clothes dry, I drove home. Now, atop the hill, I faced a bigger challenge. It was two a.m. on a Sunday night. I didn’t have a curfew; by the time I had reached my senior year my parents had either mellowed or been worn out by my four older siblings. Still, a Sunday night meant both my parents had to be awake early for work. I was looking at a world of hurt if I got caught, class valedictorian or not.
I turned off the engine but didn’t lock the steering wheel. I went over my plan, largely making it up on the fly—like my plunge into the swimming pool—the prefrontal cortex of my brain that controlled decision-making, planning, and self-control still not fully cooked.
My options were limited. Option one had been to hope one of my older siblings was not yet home and throw them under the bus, deflecting most of my mother’s wrath. Option one quickly dissipated, however, when I saw that the electric-blue Ford Falcon my brother John drove sat parked at the curb, and the Plymouth Duster and Honda Accord, driven by my sisters, were side by side in the driveway.
Option two was my only choice.
I released the brake and coasted the Pinto down the hill, guiding the car silently and carefully to the curb, behind the Falcon. Nothing screamed drunk driving louder than parking in front of the neighbor’s driveway, four feet from the curb, or on the front lawn.
I slid free from the seat belt then reclipped it so it would not ping when I opened the door. After stepping out, I pressed the door handle button and eased the door shut, sneaking a peek at the windows and french doors of my parents’ bedroom on the second floor.
No lights.
So far so good.
I crept up the brick walkway like a burglar. At the front door I took a breath, held it, and inserted the key ever so carefully. I turned the lock until it clicked.
Now I was committed. No time to waste.
I slipped inside the house and, just as carefully, closed the door and turned the deadbolt. A thud, like someone falling out of bed, came from upstairs. This was never my father. My mother was the disciplinarian. I moved quickly to the room John and I shared at the bottom of the stairs, slipped inside, and gently closed the door. More noise. My mother had opened her bedroom door and was descending the stairs.
Busted.
I had learned from my older siblings that contrition worked far better than arguing, but contrition did not necessarily mean telling the truth. Not at two in the morning.
At the last minute I ditched contrition, flipped off my shoes, pulled back the covers, and jumped into my bed fully clothed, drawing the covers under my chin as the bedroom door opened.
“Vincent? Vincent?” my mother said in a hoarse whisper.
I responded in a voice so groggy Jason Robards would have been impressed. “What? Huh? What?”
“Are you sleeping?”
“What? Yeah.” I sounded indignant. “What time is it?”
“Sorry,” my mother said, retreating and closing the door.
A moment later the deadbolt rattled, one of her compulsive nightly rituals before she ascended the stairs. I’d like to say I felt bad waking my mom, then lying to her, but I was so impressed that my plan of action had worked, not to mention my acting ability, I smiled at my ingenuity.
“You’re such a jackass,” my older brother said from his bed.
And I knew I was not out of the woods.
Not yet.
March 12, 1968
They called it “going down south” in Okinawa.
I flew to Da Nang, Vietnam, on Braniff Airways, a Boeing 707 painted in designer colors—puce and canary yellow. That meant my DEROS （date of expected return from overseas） was April 13, 1969. Thirteen months and a wake-up.
I had survived nine weeks of boot camp and eight weeks of ITR （infantry training regiment）。 After recording the highest score on my MAT （marine aptitude test）， I chose combat reporter as my MOS （military occupational specialty）。 （In the military you learn acronyms quickly. They become a second language.） The marines denied my first MOS choice, so I chose combat photographer. I figured I could build a portfolio and land a job as a photojournalist after the war, then work my way up to reporter. In the meantime, I’ll keep a record of my military time in this journal, in case someday, maybe, it’s worth writing about.
Ironically, my combat photographer classes were at Fort Monmouth, which is just an hour from Elizabeth. For those two months, and the thirty-day leave that followed, I got to go home and see my family before I left for Vietnam.
At boot camp I learned the history and tradition of the marines, how to march, how to polish floors, how to clean the barrack and make my rack with the covers tucked at forty-five-degree angles. I learned discipline, and when I graduated, I was a rifle-carrying marine—because every marine carries a rifle and knows how to use one. At ITR I learned how to kill. Claymore mines filled with BBs, booby traps, the M-60 machine gun, a grenade launcher, .45-caliber pistol, and the M-16 rifle. I learned jungle warfare in the Okefenokee Swamp.