CHAPTER ONE The Long Drive to P.I.
MEPS Station Tampa
My father asked me what I would be wearing to report in this morning. I was a
touch on the nervous side. It was September 23, 1987 — the day that I was
heading out to Parris Island. I was prepared as I could ever be to get physically
and mentally abused for thirteen weeks in order to earn the title of United
States Marine. I responded to my father’s question by appearing to him in a
ragged-out set of clothes. Such attire consisted of a cut-off white T-shirt,
Bermuda shorts, and flip-flops. Not a lot of thought went into my selection of
clothes for the trip. I figured they were going to throw away my civilian clothes
once I got off the bus anyway. The stress of wondering what was in store for
me in the next twenty-four hours weighed more heavily on my head than trying
to figure out what to wear!
Jumping into my father’s ten-year-old BMW 318i, we proceeded to drive
the two-hour trip from Cape Coral to Tampa, Florida. Once arrived in
downtown Tampa, I would meet Marine Sergeant Hagmann at the Military
Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) facility. Every state in America has at
least three or four MEPS, usually located in the state’s larger cities. MEPS is
where I would be put through physical tests, urine tests, medical evaluations,
and eventually swear my oath to defend the United States before boarding the
bus to Parris Island, South Carolina.
On the drive up, I was uncharacteristically quiet. A lot of stuff was
spinning through my head: What have I done? No turning back now. My
easygoing life is now over. Just weeks ago, my father took me to the movie theater
to watch Full Metal Jacket, a Stanley Kubrick film that had just opened. The first
half of the movie was set in Parris Island, during recruit training for the
Vietnam War. It was brutally vicious and realistic. The man who played the DI
must have been an actual drill instructor because he portrayed it so realistically.
Did I really need to see this movie just days prior to leaving for Parris Island?
Probably not. I now had a glimpse of what terrible things were in store for me
the next three months plus.
Finally arriving at MEPS Tampa, my father let me out of the car at the
door marked “USMC Candidates.” He looked me in the eye, shook my hand
(he wasn’t one for hugs), and said that he was proud of me for making this
decision. His one caveat was that I should have chosen the Navy, rather than
the Marines (he was an old Navy hand).
Walking through the USMC door, I was met and greeted by Sgt Hagmann,
my recruiter who played a major part in coercing me into signing a year ago.
Sgt Hagmann grouped me up with about ten other young guys like myself and
told us to wait outside the Master Sergeant’s office. While waiting, the gruff,
hard looking Master Sergeant’s eyes looked me over through his doorway. He
screamed, “Sgt Hagmann! Report to my office immediately!” As Sgt Hagmann
came back with a cup of coffee, the Master Sergeant chewed his ass out bigtime.
“What the f@#! are you doing bringing in a potential recruit dressed like
we fished him in off the f@#*ing beach?! Get that man some acceptable
civilian attire, now!”
“Sure, Top!” Sgt Hagmann did a quick about-face and leaned into me
saying, “Don’t worry about the Master Sergeant, he’s always cranky before he’s
had his coffee. I’ll be right back with some proper civilian clothes for you to
change into.”
One of Sgt Hagmann’s corporals came back in ten minutes and handed me
a paper bag with clothes. They must have gone out to Goodwill to get this
outfit. In the brown paper bag were a pair of brown penny loafers, an oversized
pair of flared out bell-bottom jeans, and a ’60s or ’70s era terry cloth shirt.
Once I changed into my newly acquired duds, I looked in a mirror and realized
that I now resembled the obscure underground comic characters, Freak
Brothers. “Oh well,” I thought to myself. “I just have to wear these weirdo
clothes until I get off the bus at Parris Island tonight. I will never have to see
these out of style clothes again! I wouldn’t even care if the Marines burned
these outdated garments with the trash!”
After hours of standing on lines, being run through a variety of tests, and
every orifice in my body being intruded upon, it was finally time to stand with
my group, raise our right hands, and swear our oaths. Swearing the oath to
defend the United States was something I took very seriously. I was ready to
give my life for the nation if it came down to it. For the first time in my life, I
felt that I now had a sense of purpose.
After the oath was completed, Sgt Hagmann met our group and handed a
manila envelope containing our orders to this recruit kid named Goetz. He was
designated the leader of our little group of Marine Recruits. It went right to his
head. He tried to order everyone around as we boarded the Trailways bus.
When he tried to exercise his “authority” over me, I told him to get out of my
face or there would be big trouble. He never approached me again for the rest
of trip.
For the past hundred years, the Marine Corps would bring the recruits into
Parris Island at midnight. This ensures that when the recruits arrive, they are
disorientated, lacking sleep, and as confused as can be. I purposed in my head
during the twelve-hour bus trip that I would get as much sleep as I could.
There wasn’t much chance of that coming to fruition. My spinning mind would
not let me be rewarded with anything resembling sleep. Nevertheless, I kept
trying to relax and slow down my brain. “I must get some kind of rest or I’m
going to really pay the price once we arrive at Parris Island. How can I put
away these wandering thoughts?”
Yorktown Heights
In the late sixties, Yorktown Heights was becoming an inexpensive, clean,
upstate suburban alternative to living in New York City. A thirty to forty-fiveminute
commute to New York City, Westchester County was a mix of bluecollar
and up-and-coming white-collar businessman. Yorktown Heights was a
sleepy residential town with an excellent school district that produced plenty of
Ivy League scholarships. Little did anyone know at the time that only twenty
years later, Yorktown would become an elite, upper-class neighborhood,
commanding premium dollars for its real estate. The town would eventually be
included with some of the wealthiest areas of the country per capita. In its later
and current years, Yorktown would go on to house well known upper-class
residents who run Wall Street, own prominent businesses in Manhattan, and
even turn out a rather unknown young waitress who would go on to be elected
into United States Congress (Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez — Dem.).
In the summer of 1969, I was born at Peekskill Hospital, just a twentyminute
drive west from our home in Yorktown Heights. Upon being released
from the hospital, my parents brought me back to our house on Barway Drive.
Our home was of a modest size, consisting of one bedroom, a kitchen, a dining
room, a living room, and a closed-in porch, which would become my bedroom
when I was older. The porch was not insulated, so I froze during the winter
and sweated profusely during the summer. At least I had my own room.
My father was a Yonkers Police motorcycle cop, and my mother was a stayat-
home housewife. We were the typical nuclear family. As I grew up, my
father’s salary always provided our family’s basic needs. We were not very
wealthy, but neither were we poor. Certain comforts that are considered
standard today were not present in our home. Back in the day, central heat and
air conditioning were more of a luxury than a necessity. Somehow, we got by
each summer and winter without. Kerosene heaters and window box fans were
the standard temperature controls during this time.
Sunday Service
My mother had me baptized shortly after my birth in a Lutheran Church in
Yorktown. She bore the responsibility of taking my younger brother Erik and
me to church on Sundays, since my father, being a cop, had to work revolving
shifts. When he was free on Sundays, he did not have much desire to
participate at church. In 1975, when I was six, my mother started taking us to
Yorktown Presbyterian Church, at the center of town on Route 202. The
church building was a glorious old historic building, dating back to
Revolutionary War times. Surrounded by centuries old gravestones, the twolevel
church had balcony seating, a huge old pipe organ, and a functioning bell
tower. Stained-glass windows completed the authentic church experience.
Alas, the beauty of the church building was offset by a young pastor in
scandal, caught having an affair with a female church member. A church can be
physically beautiful, but spiritually dead when a pastor is being led by the flesh
and not by the Spirit. When the scandal was starting to overshadow seemingly
all honest functions of the church, my mother’s friend, Carol O’Connor,
revealed some passages in the Gospel to my mother about being saved from
hell by faith and not by good works. My mother, shortly thereafter, read the
popular novel from author Hal Lindsey, The Late Great Planet Earth. The
powerful book, guided by scripture, eventually led my mother to pray and give
her life to Jesus. She became born-again in Spirit (John 3:3-8). She was forever
changed. She then shared the same revelation that she received with me. I
shortly ended up praying a similar sinner’s prayer to Jesus at a summer
Vacation Bible School when I was seven. I had also become born-again in
Christ!
As my mother was now a new creature in Christ, she started sharing the
same Gospel (Good News) with other members of the Presbyterian church.
Immediately, she became shunned and cut-off from all the relationships she had
built with fellow church members. The Presbyterian Church in Yorktown
wanted nothing to do with being “born-again.” They feared people who
professed being in an extreme cult, despite the fact that Jesus himself
commands us to be born again in the third chapter of the Gospel of John. The
Presbyterians at this church believed that as long as we did our best to follow
God’s commandments, go to church on Sundays, be a good person, and follow
the Golden Rules, we would have no trouble entering the gates of heaven.
Many did not understand the concept of being saved through faith alone.
Eventually, my mother found a church that did preach the Born-Again
Gospel, the Christian Missionary Alliance Church. The church was a huge step
in the right direction, but the pastor was young, fresh out of Bible College, and
the congregation was set by their own traditions. My mother studied her Bible
daily and did her best to teach me the Christian walk. I was pretty much just
going through the motions. My mother started receiving resentment from her
own husband and other family members over her radical change. She did the
best she could in teaching me while not having a true mentor herself. As I grew
older, I kind of went my own way, drifting from the faith that had saved me. It
would be nearly thirty years later that I would be reconciled to God. In the
meantime, I preferred to keep my knowledge of Jesus to myself, not desiring to
be an outcast from society as my mother had experienced.
Journey to the Beach
Memorial Day approached on the calendar. This was the trigger for all the
New York beaches and pools to open. At least twice a week, my mother would
bring Erik and me to Sparkle Lake. Only three blocks away, Sparkle Lake was a
beautiful day swimming in brown, algae-infested water. Too bad the lake did
not quite live up to its namesake.
Until I learned to swim, I would wear “the bomb.” It was a large, thick
piece of Styrofoam, shaped like a flat egg, worn on my back. It was secured by a
red, white, and blue nylon strap cinched together with a rusty metal buckle that
would dig into my stomach. This primitive flotation device always made
swimming hardly enjoyable. Fortunately for me, I would eventually take formal
swimming lessons at the Mildred E. Strang Middle School pool. After
successfully mastering the art of staying afloat and not drowning, I was forever
free of that dreadful “bomb.”
On weekends when my father didn’t have to work, we would pack the car
and head through New York City to Jones Beach, Long Island. Just getting to
the beach made for an interesting ride. We would start out by heading south on
the scenic Taconic Parkway. This leg of the trip was filled with wonderful
mountain and woodsy views. After twenty minutes, we would turn onto the
Sprain Brook Parkway, passing by my father’s police precinct as we got into
Yonkers. The further south we travelled, the woods and trees would start to
disappear as Yonkers gave way to the Bronx. Shortly, we would have to get off
the Bronx River Parkway and head east on the always congested Cross Bronx
Expressway. Traffic was guaranteed to be at a stand-still on any summer
weekend. No matter what time of year it seemed like the CBE was always in
this motionless state. Sitting in the stopped car with beautiful scenic views of
South Bronx burned-out public housing towers, the scenes would always make
me appreciate that my family didn’t have to live in the City.
Once we crossed the Whitestone Bridge into Queens, traffic would begin
to open up as we traveled the various Robert Moses parkways which would
eventually conclude with the Meadowbrook Parkway in Long Island. My father
told us that renowned New York City Building Commissioner, Robert Moses,
designed the New York City parkways with low-clearance bridges and
overpasses on purpose. This ruled out commercial truck traffic on the
manicured parkways. Urban legend says that the real reason Moses designed
the overpass clearances so low was to prevent the poor neighborhood people
living in the Bronx from taking buses to the beach. Whether there is any truth
to this is still debated to this day.
On the Meadowbrook Parkway, we would eventually pass the huge city
landfill at the seashore of Long Island, with flocks of seagulls everywhere. My
father would curse as the windshield wipers would only smear the seagulls’
crap across the windshield. It was as if the birds were B-52 bombers doing their
best to pinpoint aim their droppings upon the passing cars below. After a tiring
two-hour-plus journey, we would finally arrive at the iconic Jones Beach.
After my parents argued about whether to park at Parking Lot #4, #5, or
#6, we would finally un-pack the car with all our beach gear. My father would
always put the large, heavy cooler on his shoulder (they hadn’t invented coolers
with wheels yet). We would then follow him on the long walk through the sand.
Jones Beach was a beautiful beach, but you had to walk at least a half-mile
through scorching sand just to get close to the water and waves. By the time we
picked a spot, we would all be thoroughly worn out, sprawled on the blanket
under the umbrella recuperating from the arduous trek.
Running out into the water, the eight to ten-foot waves seemed like twentyfive-
foot waves to me and my brother when we were young. Erik and I would
play in the waves together all day. Now, Erik and I did not always get along at
home. We were two different types of people, both of us into our own things.
Nevertheless, when we were on family outings, we played together to the
fullest. All day, the goal was to try to ride the waves without letting a “biggie”
crash on you, therefore planting your face into the sand below. In the late
afternoon, the jellyfish would start rolling in with tide. We would try to figure
out if our bodies were red from sunburn or from the multitude of jellyfish
stings. It usually turned out that both were true. Before sunset, we would pack
up the gear and head back to Yorktown on the same route. By the time we
would arrive home, nobody could move. The whole family would jump into
the backyard pool to remove the sand from our bodies and go right to bed. For
all the hassle, the trip to Jones Beach was always well worth it. It sure beat out
nasty ole algae-infested Sparkle Lake.
Middle School
In Middle School, I started to break out of my reclusive shell. Hanging out
with friends became more important than ever. Girls were starting to catch my
interest in ways I had never experienced. My first crush was with my favorite
Italian girl, Angela Miraglia. I believe that she had a crush on me as well. My
problem was that I was too worried about being rejected to ever tell her how I
felt. At that age, I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence in myself.
Once we were returning on the bus from a school trip. We had gone to see
a New York City off-Broadway production of the Maurice Sendak illustrated
children’s book, Really Rosie. The show had music by Carole King. Angela
ended up sitting in the back of the bus next to me. The whole hour-long trip
home we talked nonsense, exchanged loving glances, and almost brought lips
together within inches, but I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t know
anything about kissing a girl! Even if I kissed her, what would I do then? Ask
her out? I had no money, no job, only a bicycle for a vehicle. My mind would
never allow me to relax and just seize the moment. I would constantly play out
various follow-up scenarios which included evaluating the consequences of
every decision. Everything always seemed to be more complicated for me than
for others. I was a bit naïve and was still carrying my boyhood innocence. I
finally resigned that I wasn’t ready for that girlfriend stuff yet.
Yorktown High School
Even though the high school and the middle school were adjacent to one
other, just a quick walk away, Yorktown High School was a whole different
world from middle school. The high school was staffed by a very liberal group
of teachers and deans, many of whom were throwbacks to the sixties/seventies
flower-power generation. The principals and teachers gave a lot of
independence and responsibility to the students, treating them almost as equals.
There were more than enough periods in the day to satisfy the minimal credit
requirements. Students could potentially have one or two “free” periods in
their daily routine, where they could use the time to study, leave campus to go
home or to a restaurant for lunch. Many students would just do as I did: hang
outside the woodshop wall, the designated smoking area for students.
Occasionally a teacher or the vice-principal would cross by from the middle
school to the high school, with the strong smell of pot in the air. The smell was
put there by the “Deadheads,” loyal fans of the Grateful Dead hippie-trippy
music and lifestyle. Most of the teachers would just walk on by and ignore it.
They didn’t want to call the cops on students participating in something that
most of them also practiced during their off time.
In high school, every student was naturally segregated into whatever group
they fit in with. Free periods would find the athletic jocks wearing their dress
shirts and ties on game day. They would meet in the cafeteria, going through
their game plans and post-game pursuits. At another area in the cafeteria would
be the “Preps.” The Preps would volunteer for all the afterschool clubs such as
Yearbook Club, Student Government Club, Chess Club, etc. Not far from the
Preps would be the “Dexters.” These students studied religiously to get straight
As in their New York Regents advanced college prep courses. The Dexters
were constantly picked on. As they later graduated from Ivy League
universities, these “geeks” would go on to become the CEOs of New York City
banks, hedge fund managers on Wall Street, and employers of the students who
picked on them.
Outside the cafeteria, hanging outside the shop room wall, one would find
the “Greasers.” This group consisted primarily of Italian guys and girls. They
would all wear their skin-tight Jordache or Sergio Valente jeans tucked into
their white, high-top Puma sneakers. A large brush or comb would somehow
fit into their skin-tight rear pant pocket. A Members Only nylon jacket or black
leather biker jacket would finish off the look. Marlboro and Salem menthol
cigarettes were chain-smoked by all as they talked about whatever Italian kids
talk about, looking good and being cool.
Across from the Greasers at the other end of the shop-room wall were the
Deadheads, also known as “burnouts.” The smell of marijuana was always in
the air as these guys and girls tuned out while playing hacky-sack as if in a
trance. They were dressed in faded, worn-out Levis, tie-dye shirts, with suede
tan Wallabee shoes or sandals. Four to five stoned-out hacky-sack circles would
be formed as Grateful Dead bootleg tapes played on someone’s boom box.
I wasn’t really Italian enough to be a Greaser (about a third of my heritage),
nor was I a jock or Prep either. I naturally started fitting in with the Deadheads
as I entered high school. Up to this point, I was still sticking to my Christian
moral values instilled in me by my mother. My friends were all smoking
cigarettes and starting to experiment with pot. I was a hold-out for a while. I
didn’t want to pollute my body and mind with nicotine or harder drugs for that
matter. From reading anti-drug books and paraphernalia, I had a certain fear
that experimenting with these substances would forever change me for the
worse.
Meanwhile, my musical tastes were changing. Billy Joel and The Police
records and tapes were hardly ever getting played anymore, while I was
beginning to discover Grateful Dead, Santana, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd.
The problem with most of this music was that the songs were intended to be
listened to while stoned or tripping. It wouldn’t be long before I would cross
the line that I previously swore to not cross.
The Times They Are A-Changin’
During my English class, I was sitting in the back corner with three of my
friends, Jim Pullman, Ed Rodriguez, and Christine Peterson. Jim and Ed were
on the junior varsity soccer team with me. Christine was a Greaser who also
liked to hang out with Deadheads. Wearing her tight Jordache jeans and black
leather jacket, she was a good-looking girl, but always smelled like three packs
of cigarettes. Ed was doing in class what he always did, drawing stoned-out
pictures. These pictures would always be rated and laughed at by Jim,
Christine, and myself. Every day we would sit in the back of the class talking
nonsense for the boring English class hour. Somehow, we managed to pass the
tests and get our reports written. One day Ed and I were staying after school
for soccer practice. He asked me if I wanted to cut practice and go to his house
to get stoned. For some reason, without really thinking it through, I accepted
his offer.
Once we arrived at Ed’s empty house (his parents were both working), he
slipped his Zeppelin II record onto the turntable and fired up a water-bong with
a bowl packed with high-grade marijuana. The first time I inhaled, I swallowed
the bong water. I had to puke it out for it was disgusting. Ed gave me further
instruction on how to properly inhale from a pipe bong. After two or three
successful times, something was starting to happen. I was experiencing feelings
that I had never experienced before. The Lemon Song was playing, and it seemed
like the six-minute song was playing on for six hours! Ed was talking to me, but
I was only half listening, for my mind was occupied with new sensations. I was
stoned out of my mind! I finally left Ed’s house and started to walk home.
Paranoia was starting to set in. How long would this last? Was I going to be in
this condition permanently? How would I face my parents at home? On that
day, the last of my “innocence” was lost. There was no turning back.
One Thing Leads to Another
I started hanging out with a new friend, Mark Perricone. He was half Jewish
and half Italian. He also followed the Grateful Dead. We would hang out at his
house discovering and listening to old Santana and Jeff Beck Group albums.
Mark also introduced me to a new drug, cocaine. He would score a quarter
gram of the white powder from a source in the Chinese restaurant that Mark
worked at as a busboy. Back at his house, Mark showed me how to cut the
powder fine with a razorblade upon a small mirror. He then chopped it into
even lines, rolled up a crisp dollar bill, and offered the first snort to me. A few
minutes after snorting two lines, a whole different sensation overcame me.
Much different than the effect of marijuana, coke heightened all my senses and
gave me a feeling of power and confidence. Over time and habitual use, cocaine
would alter my personality, breaking me out of my shy, introverted, insecure
self to an aggressive, outgoing, ultimately arrogant self.
Nothing was out of bounds to me now. Friends were introducing me to
hash and even mescaline acid. I had no problem trying anything that was put in
front of me. All my self-discipline had been destroyed. I was regularly smoking
Merit brand cigarettes, failing classes, dropping out of sports, and tuning out to
my own family. All that mattered was hanging out with my Deadhead friends,
taking drugs, and drinking beer.
Pending Retirement
It was 1984, during my freshman year at Yorktown High School that my father
was approaching his final year with Yonkers Police Department. At the bright
young age of forty-four, he was retiring with full pension benefits after just
twenty years of service. For the last few years, I had not seen him much. He was
working all kinds of crazy overtime in order to boost his take-home pension at
retirement. When he was home, he was making plans for the next stage of his
family’s life. During the eighties, Yorktown Heights was in the middle of
change. A corporate office for IBM and PepsiCo were both recently established
in town. This began driving tremendous white-collar development and growth.
Affluent families from the City started moving to the burbs in droves. Property
values soared. At the same time, property taxes and the overall cost of living in
Yorktown soared as well.
The PBA (Police Benevolent Association) union had just negotiated one of
the greatest collective bargaining agreements with the City of Yonkers. My
father would receive one of the highest police retirement pension payouts in
the country, far surpassing the negotiated pensions of New York City cops.
Notwithstanding the huge monthly retirement pension and benefits he would
take, my father had a realization: The high cost of living in Westchester and
New York City would still force him to work a new full-time job in order to
pay bills and maintain our current standard of living. My father had worked his
tail off for the last few years. He wanted to retire without having to work. After
much searching and investigating, he found his answer in how to accomplish
his goal: move the family to sunny Florida.
Southbound
My father packed the family in the El Camino. It was capped by a low-profile
camper top. The rear cab window was removed, which transformed the pick-up
into a rough station wagon. My brother, sister and I were stuffed into the
carpeted rear bed. We launched a search party trek to find the right
neighborhood in Florida that would suit my father’s retirement dream. The
twenty-four-hour trip from New York to Florida inside a hot, black, El Camino
without air conditioning was torture. My friends called my father’s El Camino
“The Hearse,” due to the vehicle resembling one after he installed a matching
black cap over the bed. They used to tape hand-written paper “Dead Man
Inside” signs to the tailgate.
Unfortunately, my father’s retirement dream didn’t agree with my
immediate dreams. I had tight relationships with many of my burnout friends
and girlfriends. I wasn’t ready to just kiss them all good-bye and start anew in a
Florida high school. My attitude toward the Florida plan progressively soured,
but to no avail. My father was on a mission to succeed in relocating our family
to the Sunshine State. Nevertheless, after checking out properties and
neighborhoods down the A1A intracoastal highway, from Daytona Beach to
Boynton Beach, from Ft. Lauderdale to Key Largo, my parents kept striking
out. Either the properties or homes were a good deal, but the neighborhood
and school districts were lousy, or the school districts were excellent, but the
homes were unaffordable. They ultimately crossed Everglades Alligator Alley
to the Fort Myers area on the west coast out of desperation, but there weren’t
much better prospects in Naples or Fort Myers. They were about to give up
when a realtor encouraged them to cross over the Caloosahatchee River to
check out an up-and-coming new city on the Gulf coast… Cape Coral.
In 1957, two developers purchased 103 square miles of undeveloped swamp
land for a little over $600,000. Since then, the young city of Cape Coral has
become the largest city in Florida between Tampa and Miami. The city has 400
miles of dredged Gulf-access canals, more than any city in the world, including
Venice, Italy. It has become a suitable city for both retired families and up- andcoming young blue-collar families. In 1984, when my parents were discovering
it, Cape Coral was in the beginning of a massive development boom that would
continue throughout the nineties, and not cease until 2007. Currently, Cape
Coral is experiencing a reinvigorated real-estate boom.
It was a done deal. My father purchased a canal-front lot and contracted a
builder to build our new home. During the few months I had back in New
York, I passed the news to all my friends that I would be moving to Florida.
Their response wasn’t that they were going to miss me, but to make sure that I
send them some home-grown herb once I got connected down there. My
burnout friends weren’t very deep, but they were the friends that I had. I
continued to withdraw from my family and silently rebel against the moving
trip that I was not very happy about. At fifteen years old, and halfway through
high school, packing up and relocating to Florida was not what I wanted to do.
Growing up in New York was all I knew. I couldn’t conceive of living in
another neighborhood, let alone in Florida.
New Kid in Town
Our family arrived in Cape Coral. While our new home was being constructed,
we lived in a rental duplex on Skyline Blvd. Our temporary neighborhood was
barely developed. Many empty lots without trees surrounded our apartment,
lacking any plant life. Florida was flat. You could see down the road for miles.
Compared to my old neighborhood in Yorktown, I felt we were living in a
desolate wasteland, reminiscent of Mad Max, a futuristic apocalyptic movie that
came out a few years earlier.
Upon checking into my new school, Cape Coral High, I discovered that
this school was the opposite of Yorktown High School. This school did not
give the students any independence or freedom. Gone were any free periods to
do as I wished between classes. Gone were designated student smoking areas.
Smoking was treated like a crime, with an in-school suspension policy for
violations. Gone was an open-campus policy. Once you were on campus you
could not leave. If you were caught leaving, many days of in-school suspension
were given. The school had hardly any windows, and the structure resembled a
federal penitentiary. Nevertheless, I gravitated toward a small population of
burnout rebels, who would test the school rules continually.
My New Neighborhood
After moving into our new home, I discovered that a fellow New York
alumnus, Dominick Santella, lived just a couple streets away. He, similar to me,
was relocated from Queens NYC to Cape Coral by his family. He quickly made
connections and became a dealer of fine herb. This was good and bad. I only
had to walk a couple blocks to score some pot, but Dominick also had a bad
habit of showing up at my family’s door, soliciting to me his illegal substances
just about loud enough for my parents to hear. I had to quickly run him out to
the front curb to guarantee that my mother and father would not hear the
nature of what kind of “friend” Dominick really was.
On the first day of walking to my new school bus stop, I arrived to
discover a group of kids who I would never have any interest in hanging out
with. Girls wearing white George Michael WHAM shirts, guys dressed in
pastel-colored Sixteen Candles outfits, and jocks dressed in Florida Gators/FSU
Tomahawk regalia. It was definitely not my crowd. From the distance, I noticed
one latecomer to the bus stop. A short guy wearing jeans, a Black Sabbath Tshirt
and long blond hair. He very much resembled Ozzy Osbourne’s late
guitarist, Randy Rhoads. Almost instantly I introduced myself and he asked if I
would care for a hit off his one-hitter, a little brass pipe resembling a tiny
baseball bat. Mike Cohen became one of my first true friends who I would
hang out with through most of my later years in Florida.
One Restaurant to Another
Through eleventh grade, my grades started dropping off the cliff. I was cutting
classes and showing up late. When in attendance, I was either daydreaming
about being the hippie-rebel I thought I was, or I was sleeping in class from
staying out late getting stoned. I was sick of riding the school bus and decided I
need to get a job in order to save money for my own ride. I landed a
dishwashing job at a quiet restaurant, The Greenery. The restaurant was owned
by a heavy Jewish guy named Alan. There was no talking allowed while I
worked. If I caught up on the dishes, I had to occupy my time with cleaning the
grease off the floor and walls. Al paid me minimum wage ($3.35/hr) and kept
me working hard. The hours were long and slow. One day after Al left me to
close up the restaurant, the grease trap started overflowing and filled the entire
kitchen floor with an inch of greasy sludge. I did all I could do to stop the flow
and clean the mess. It was too much. I finally locked up and left. The next day I
received an angry call from Alan informing that I was fired. He tried to blame
the mess on me. I was done working for that angry man.
After getting fired by Al at The Greenery, I experienced a short stint
working at Wendy’s. Being a uniformed employee at a fast food joint wasn’t for
me, so I quit and took a walk next door to a small place called Venezia’s Italian
Restaurant & Pizzeria, which was next door to The Greenery. I entered
through the rear kitchen door to see a familiar face, Darrell, who I always
obliged to fill his beer mug from Al’s tap when Venezia’s tap went dry. He
introduced me to his brother, Chris Parks, who owned the place. Chris asked
me how much Al was paying me to wash dishes next door. I told him $3.35
minimum wage. Chris said that he would pay me $4.00/hr cash to wash dishes
for him. I was elated! I just got myself a raise and tax free to boot! After the
first summer working, I would have enough cash to purchase my first bike, a
Suzuki GS250.
Chris teamed me up with Brad, his senior dishwasher. Brad taught me the
ropes: Make sure to keep up with the dishes at all times; Once caught up, light
a cigarette and hang out in the back alley; When business slows down, put your
request in for a meal (slice of pizza, eggplant parm, linguini and clam sauce,
etc.); When the place shuts down, finish all dishes; Do a thorough clean so the
Health Department don’t shut the place down and get a complimentary beer
from the tap. After working a few days, I actually enjoyed working at Venezia’s.
It was never long and boring like working at The Greenery next door.
Venezia’s was a far better restaurant than The Greenery. Poor Al would be
lucky to get one new customer every couple of hours. Venezia’s had a packed
dining room with a line out the door waiting hours for seating! Chris had a
business partner in the kitchen, Paul Santini. He was originally from Long
Island. Pauly made sure that everything about Venezia’s food was as New York
authentic Italian as you could get. Every two weeks, a Cremosa semi-trailer
would deliver all the major ingredients from Long Island (mozzarella, yeast,
flour, pasta, even Spumoni ice cream). Chris Parks’ brother, Ricky, made the
pizza. Rick was in his mid-twenties. He was the Southwest Florida jet ski
champion, making him very popular at the open-front pizza kitchen. Hot
groupie models would stand at the counter watching him spin the pizza dough
all day flirting with him in hopes of being asked out that night.
Venezia’s was an all-night free for all. Chris, Darrell, and Pauly all rotated
cooking dinners in the back kitchen. Darrell drank nothing but beer from the
tap all night. Chris would drink screwdrivers from Cruiser’s liquor/bar next
door. Pauly would step next door to Cruisers as well to refill his Chivas Regal
scotch every hour. Brad was selling weed out the rear kitchen door. The poor
waitresses would come back to the kitchen to put their orders in, and they
would continually be verbally assaulted and sexually harassed. Nothing was
taboo. Drug and sexual innuendoes put one of the waitresses into tears one
night. Every evening was a working party that would be capped off at Cruisers
next door once the restaurant was closed for the evening.
Enter Santman
One month into working at Venezia’s, Chris Parks escorted an older couple
through the kitchen. He showed them the ovens, the walk-in cooler, the dough
machine, the steam dishwasher, the Bari pizza oven, and every feature of the
restaurant. Chris had sold Venezia’s to Harry and Susan Santman, a retired
older couple who sold their restaurant in Chicago to move to Cape Coral and
take over an existing award-winning restaurant. Harry was a big German guy.
He was bald but had a beard and wore big Herman Munster black boots. He
looked like an old-timer biker. Susan was Jewish and in charge of the deals and
finances. Chris Parks was selling the restaurant to pursue other ventures. Brad
and I looked at each other in front of the dishwashing machine, the gig was up.
The party was over at Venezia’s.
The following week, the deal was done, and Harry and Susan were the de
facto owners of the restaurant. Chris and his brother Rick left, but Darrell and
Pauly stayed on in the kitchen. German-descent Harry didn’t know a thing
about Italian food and kept them hired to school him in the various pasta
dishes and pizza making skills. Once Harry was confident cooking in the
kitchen, Paul moved up to the front pizza kitchen. Eventually, Harry
approached me and told me that he admired my work ethic. He then told me
that he was going to fire Brad that night. Harry perceived that Brad was a
slacker, liar, and a con, which was exactly what Brad was.
After a few nights, we realized Harry wasn’t the old square we thought he
was going to be. In fact, Harry partook in more drinks and drugs than all of us
combined. When the restaurant wasn’t busy, he would be next door at Cruisers
soaking up Beefeaters gin and quickly becoming a regular at the bar. Back in
the restaurant, Harry would bring me a cold tap beer regularly to keep me a
happy worker. By closing time, Harry was already sauced and would have to be
driven home by Susan, who also had her fair share of vodka to drink.
The drinking was only half of what went on nightly at Venezia’s. One night
after I was promoted to the front pizza kitchen, Harry approached me while
the restaurant was packed. He had just come out of the men’s room and told
me to go in, lock the door, and check out the surprise. Once I went into the
men’s room, I noticed three cut-up lines of cocaine on the toilet tank lid. I
rolled a dollar and snorted them quickly and got back to the pizza kitchen
before I burned the pizzas. Soon, Harry Santman became my source for
cocaine, yellow-jacket uppers, amyl-nitrate, valium, and any other
pharmaceuticals that his corrupt doctor was pushing at the time. Many nights I
would bring some of the Venezia drugs to my friend Mike Cohen’s house to
continue the weekend nights of partying.
Spiraling Out of Control
Starting my new semester, I was, of course, the last one to enter the classroom
for my eleventh- grade science class. All seats were taken except one seat at a
table with two girls. One of the girls was Theresa Xander. She was in my eyes,
the hottest and prettiest stoner girl in the school. I had seen her periodically in
the hallways between classes, usually hand in hand with her older boyfriend, a
senior named Rob Sartore. I took a seat at the table with her and introduced
myself, but played it cool, knowing that she was already taken. Nevertheless,
over time, Theresa and I became really close with each other. We realized that
we shared a lot of interests and really liked each other. Although I never asked,
I perceived that her relationship with Rob had grown stale, and that she was
relegated to just being a trophy on his arm. I eventually grew bold and started
riding to her house before school to smoke pot while listening to Aerosmith’s
Toys in the Attic with her. I would then drive her on the back of the Suzuki to
school. Kids in school were noticing and started talking to Rob about me. I
didn’t care much. If he wanted to fight me over Theresa, I was ready.
One morning, arriving early at Theresa’s home, I told her I had surprise.
The previous night at Venezia’s, Harry Santman scored me a quarter gram of
coke and Darrell got me a pint bottle of peach schnapps from Cruisers next
door. Both Theresa and I had done our share of cocaine before, but never
together. Being that it was only 6:00 a.m., we both snorted only a line or two
out of the little quarter gram paper pouch I was carrying. We then polished off
the small bottle of schnapps. Riding into school, we were both as high as can
be. We parted ways to go to our separate classes. Shortly after, as I sat in the
gym bleachers for homeroom class, the 6:00 a.m. schnapps started to make its
way back up its entry route. My head started spinning, and all I knew was that I
had to get out of the school. I ran out the gym’s emergency exit and made a
beeline off the school property towards a convenience store across the street. I
was sick as ever. My head was dizzy and spinning. I puked all over myself on
the walk twice. In the back lot of the Circle K convenience store building there
were some flattened out cardboard boxes. I just wanted to lay down and make
the spinning go away.
An undetermined time later, I was violently awoken by two Cape Coral
police officers. They noticed I was a mess. I wreaked of rotten peach schnapps
puke. My face was half sunburnt from laying on my side, and fire ants had
bitten me all over my arms. They asked me if I was a student at Cape Coral
High School. I lied and told them that I had dropped out last year. The cops,
realizing that I was a terrible liar, frisked me and found the remains of the
quarter gram that was still in my Levis jacket pocket. I was busted. The cops
took me to the principal and released me to my parents, who were called from
the school. I still remember the angry and disappointed look on my parents’
faces as they embarrassingly picked me up from school. For them, this was a
nightmare. Their oldest son was becoming a hard drug user and failing school.
It would be a long time before I had my bike back to meet Theresa in the
mornings before school.
Under the Influence
After getting busted, as usual, my motorcycle and freedom were taken away for
a time. My mother and father did not know what to do to help get me get off
drugs. They were not prepared in how to deal with this situation. They never
expected that this would happen to their son. My mother was crying out to
God, wondering why I was falling away from everything that that she had
taught me and raised me to be. They flirted with ideas such as sending me to
Catholic school, sending me to an outpatient rehab facility, and even
straightforward Christian counseling. I knew they were both praying their
hearts out for me, that I would turn my life back around. For the time being,
this was not to occur. Over the rest of my junior year, I would continue to get
in trouble with the law, being caught in possession of marijuana, and receiving
a DWI on my motorcycle. I would eventually hit my rock bottom, where I
would finally start to evaluate the damage I was doing to my life and those
around me who loved me.
Senior Year
During the summer of 1986 before my senior year, I started to self-evaluate my
life, asking myself what was the point and what would be the future for me of
even existing. I felt that my life had become a rut. Other kids in school, already
groomed for college, were already mapping out their lives and careers. My life’s
destiny at that time appeared to be cooking at an Italian restaurant for the next
few decades. To me, that was a dismal future. I was going nowhere fast! My
unimpressive grade point average pretty much ruled out any future at a
university. Inside me was a longing for adventure, but I had neither the skills
nor the knowledge of how to acquire it. Either way, I figured it was time to get
back to paying attention in class, take summer school classes, and get back on
track for earning my high school diploma. If I couldn’t complete high school,
what other task in life would I ever be able to complete?
I made significant lifestyle changes. No longer was I popping pills, smoking
joints, or snorting lines. I was leaving the illegal substances behind me. This
was all great progress forward from the depths I had just fallen to a few
months prior. However, a new problem developed: Dropping one addiction, I
replaced it with another one — alcohol. I was still partying with my burnout
friends. They didn’t give me any problems when I passed up on a joint coming
my way. My friends knew me long enough, and respected that I wanted to make
positive change in my life. The only problem was that I started drinking harder.
Budweiser and Cuervo became my new vices.
My father located a motorcycle for sale that he thought I would like. It was
an ’85 Suzuki GS550 café-style bike. It was red and white, like new, with a
custom Indian-eagle pinstripe pattern on the tank and fairing. I would sell the
GS250 and add a few more hundred dollars that I had saved from Venezia to
purchase this beautiful, much faster bike. The unique-looking bike got many
looks and challenges from others on crotch rockets looking to prove
themselves racing. I usually blew most of them off.
Michael Matchok, who was considerably taller than me, became one of my
closest friends. He was a very smart “gearhead” who taught me much of what I
now know relating to auto mechanics. He was in need of a new job. I offered to
get him a slot dishwashing at Venezia’s with me. Once the Santmans gave
Michael the position, he and I went out together every weekend looking for
stupid adventure. Each weekend, I would score whiskey or beer from Cruisers
next door and Michael would drive me around town in his fast ’71 AMC
Javelin. Michael didn’t drink, but he didn’t mind me getting sloshed in his
passenger seat as we cruised the neighborhood looking for parties with
intoxicated girls.
During my senior year, I worked evenings and spent the late hours in the
Cruisers lounge while most of my classmates were studying for college
placement tests and building school pride floats for the homecoming football
game. I was living in an adult world while most of my classmates were enjoying
their last year of adolescent innocence. I would catch some preppy girls
checking me out in class, but when I would finally approach them to ask them
out, they would reluctantly decline my advances. They appeared interested in
me but were intimidated by my reputation for living a “hard and wild” life. I
didn’t care. I didn’t need them. Most of my partying friends were older or high
school dropouts. I was pretty much a “lone wolf” at school.
Cut Day at the Beach
One morning, I was fighting to keep myself from nodding off in my boring
English class. It was the first class of the day. If it was just starting out like this,
it was going to be a long day. Five desks in front of me in the adjacent row, a
girl named Carmella Di Fiore had been watching my feeble attempts at keeping
my eyes open and my head from nodding out. She approached me at the end of
class and asked me if I wanted to cut the remainder of the school day with her
and go to the beach. I was in awe. I had never been asked out by a girl before.
It was usually me doing the pestering and begging to get girls to hang out with
me. I asked her how we would get there, being that I was, as usual, temporarily
grounded from taking my bike to school. She said that she had the wheels. I
immediately responded, “Let’s go!”
We waited until we saw “Chief,” the school’s security guard, get tied up
busting someone for smoking in the bathroom and figured that was our break.
We quickly proceeded to make the mad dash through the school grounds to the
student parking lot. Upon arriving at student parking, I was impressed:
Carmella drove a mint ’72 Monte Carlo with a powerful 454 cubic engine. We
talked and got to know each other as she drove us to Fort Myers Beach
listening to Bad Company cassette tapes on her aftermarket booming car
stereo. I was thinking to myself that Carmella was pretty cool, and good
looking to boot. Why had I not noticed her every day in my class sooner?
Maybe, this could be the start of something long-term?
One good thing about living in Florida, was that there was a beautiful Gulf
of Mexico beach close by to run away to. The daily weather in our area was that
the beach and water could be enjoyed nearly year-round. At our arrival, I asked
Carmella what kind of beer she preferred. She asked me how I was going to
buy beer underage. Trying to impress her, I said, “Don’t worry about the
details, I’ll take care of it. What do you like?” She said she was into Bartles &
Jaymes wine coolers which I had never tried up to this point. As she set up
beach chairs on the sand, I went across the street to bribe some beach burntout
into purchasing wine coolers in the 7-Eleven for me.
When I arrived back at the beach-side with the wine coolers, Carmella was
already set up in her beach chair. I soon noticed that tanning was an important
pastime for her. Carmella was very petite, had a large Italian nose, and a body
of a boy; nevertheless, she was still attractive in an exceptional way. We sat
together imbibing on the wine coolers. She was sipping. I was chugging.
I could drink a lot of beer, but I hadn’t had much experience with wine
coolers before. It was early, before noon. I hadn’t eaten anything yet, and I
discovered that a bottle of wine coolers had nearly twice the alcohol content
that a can of beer contained. This in turn produced the perfect storm in me. I
was rapidly transforming into a drunken mess. Carmella was starting to get
turned off by my slurring and reckless behavior. I asked her to go in the water
with me. When she refused, I proceeded into the surf alone. The small waves
rolled my lifeless sloshed body in the sand. Carmella, looking disgusted and
disappointed, packed up her stuff and told me that she would have to take me
back to Cape Coral. Not one word was spoken the whole drive back. She
couldn’t wait to drop my drunken butt off at Venezia’s in time for me to go to
work. I had blown it with her big time. Even the Santmans sent me home from
work when they realized I was too inebriated to toss pizzas. I was cleaned off
drugs, but alcohol was progressively making a mess out of my life.
Looking for a Few Good Men
One evening as I was flipping pizzas in the Venezia front kitchen, Susan
Santman informed me that she was holding a phone call for me. I asked her if
she knew who it was? She said it was a Sgt Hagmann. I replied nervously, “Well
don’t tell him I’m here!” thinking it was a Cape Coral police sergeant. Barbara
responded that the sergeant on the phone was with the United States Marine
Corps. “The Marine Corps? What does he want?!” I cautiously took the phone
from her while wondering how a Marine sergeant had gotten my number at the
restaurant. When I answered the phone, Sgt Hagmann blurted out aggressively
loudly and in cadence, “Hey Christian, this is Sgt Hagmann of the U.S. Marine
Corps. I have a card here that says you are interested in giving a shot in earning
the title of being one of the few, the proud, a lean mean fighting machine,
United State Marine!” I responded to the sergeant that I had never filled out
any card like that. As I replied, it dawned on me that the recruiters were at the
school during the last week, and I bet one of my “buddies” wrote my name and
number on the card as a practical joke! “I’m sorry sir, you got the wrong guy. I
don’t have any interest in joining your Marine Corps.” I would begin to find
out that Marine recruiters never take “no” for an answer. They were far more
persistent than any used car or insurance salesman.
It was a Friday evening, and Sgt Hagmann was scheduled to pick me up at
my father’s house promptly at 6:00 p.m. He had coerced me on the phone to
allow him to at least bring me downtown to take the ASVAB test, a military
entrance requirement. The ASVAB was a general aptitude test required by all
branches of service to measure potential recruits’ mental fitness for service and
placement in more advanced military occupational specialties (MOS). Sgt
Hagmann told me that even though I had no interest in signing up for the
Corps, I could take and pass the ASVAB test now. This would get it out of the
way if I was to change my mind in the future. I must have been extremely
bored that evening, to allow him to talk me into agreeing to take this test (a
little curiosity and admiration for the USMC also helped, even though I
wouldn’t admit it at the time).
There was a knock on the front door at precisely 6:00 p.m. I opened the
door and there was Sgt Hagmann in the flesh. He had a huge bodybuilder
physique. His Class B Dress Blues were starched and creased to perfection. He
also had a myriad of gold chains around his neck, somewhat resembling a white
Mr. T from Rocky III. I reached out to welcome his handshake which in turn
nearly crushed the bones in my hand. Speaking in his authoritative cadenced
Marine-speech, he let me know that there was not much time, and that we must
leave now. I responded with my first ever, “Yes Sir!”
Of course, Sgt Hagmann didn’t come to my house to pick me up in some
plain white, government-marked Chrysler vehicle. There outside, sitting at the
curb, was a beautiful ’79 Corvette Stingray. It was white with red and blue
custom pinstripes, along with polished chrome exhaust pipes curving under
each door. We took off as if taking off at the drag races, burning rubber,
enunciated by a loud, powerful motor. Sgt Hagmann routinely drove thirty
miles per hour over the speed limit and occasionally ran stop signs and red
lights. Curious, I turned to him and asked if Marines were exempt from
following traffic laws? He responded, “Don’t worry Christian, me and Sheriff
Wanicka are like this!” as he showed me his crossed fingers. I wouldn’t realize
until years later that the gold chains, the Corvette, the illegal speeding, was all
part of his act to make an awesome impression on an impressionable
seventeen-year-old like myself. His routine was working. I was slowly falling for
the bait.
We arrived downtown and Sgt Hagmann told me that he wasn’t allowed to
be present in the room where I would take the ASVAB. He would meet me at
the same curb when I finished the test. Many recruiters from the Army, Navy,
Air Force, and Coast Guard were also dropping off testing candidates.
Upon finishing the two-hour test, I felt that I had completed it
satisfactorily. Sgt Hagmann met me at the curb like he had said. He left me in
his Corvette while he ran inside to receive my test results. When he returned,
we took off speeding again. He turned to me and told me that he was proud of
me, in that I had not only passed the test, but passed it extremely well. He said
we must celebrate.
We pulled into the Fort Myers USMC Recruiting Center. It was after
hours, so we were the only ones in the office. Sgt Hagmann looked at me and
asked me what kind of beer I liked to drink. With slight surprise and shock
(Florida state drinking age was still eighteen at the time, though I had just
turned seventeen), I responded that Budweiser was fine. Sgt Hagmann sat me
down. He then gave me a copy of his personal photo book to peruse while he
went to the conveniently located ABC Liquor next door, to purchase some
beer. While he was gone, I flipped through his photo album which consisted of
nothing but topless or nude, exotic women from the many ports he visited
during his tours overseas. This Marine Corps idea was growing on me fast. Sgt
Hagmann then returned with a six-pack of Budweiser tall boys. After my
second beer, I surrendered, and signed the next four years of my life over to the
Corps. I would sign on to the Delayed Entry Program. This would allow me to
complete my last year of high school before shipping out to Parris Island. The
whole episode was a recruiter set-up! Sgt Hagmann added another battle win to
the hallowed U.S. Marines two-hundred-plus years of victory on and off the
battlefield. He had won me over the old school way. Very soon, my life would
be forever changed!
Receiving Barracks — MCRD Parris Island
I was shaken by the recruit sitting next to me on the Trailways bus. Apparently,
I had dozed off the past hour. He told me that we had just started crossing the
sole road linking Parris Island to the mainland city of Beaufort, South
Carolina. I looked at my watch, it read 11:45 p.m. “How do these bus drivers
time the arrival so precisely?” I wondered to myself. Looking out the bus
windows into the dark, nothing could be seen. There were no streetlights, just
shadows of buildings and tree lines. The darkness and uneasiness made every
person on the bus feel like we were about to enter the gates of hell itself!
Within minutes, we entered Parris Island. It was dark and empty. A lit
building appeared up ahead as the bus slowed to a stop. A great sign painted
red with gold lettering read, “Receiving Barracks — Marine Corps Recruit
Depot Parris Island.” Not a sound was uttered by any on the bus. There was no
turning back now. The silence was quickly broken by a Marine drill instructor
forcefully boarding the bus. His uniform was creased and fit perfectly; his DI
cap was tilted low, and you couldn’t see his eyes. He immediately barked,
“When I say move, every swinging dick will quickly de-board my bus and plant
your feet on my yellow footsteps right outside! Readyyyyy… MOVE!”
Everyone on the bus turned into a stampeding herd climbing over each other
in hopes of not being the last recruit off that bus. Upon stepping off the bus,
we were welcomed and greeted by three or four more DIs spitting, cursing,
yelling, and trying to confuse us as we looked like a herd of cattle being chased
by a vicious shepherd dog to our prescribed location on the yellow-painted
footsteps.
After everyone found their place in line, the DI who initially boarded the
bus, calmly spoke these words to us in a gravelly, inhuman voice: “You are now
aboard Marine Corps Recruit Training Parris Island, South Carolina, and you
have just taken the first step in becoming a member of the world’s finest
fighting force: The United States Marine Corps. Tens of thousands of Marines
began outstanding service to our country on the very footprints where you are
standing. You will carry on their proud tradition!”
A second DI instructed everyone to start off on their left foot when he
gave the command to march. We were expected to all stay in step with each
other. At approximately one hundred tired, confused, disoriented recruits in
the column line, this proved to be quite impossible. The DIs didn’t care. They
slammed into anyone they spotted out of step as we marched toward a huge
impressive building.
As we came to a halt in front of the building, we were instructed to break
off into a single column to climb the steps and enter two huge stainless steel
hatches (doors) at the receiving barracks. Those doors are the symbolic
threshold between the outside world and Parris Island. To walk through them
is to accept the challenges that boot camp brings. The gold sign above the door
reads: “Through These Portals Pass Prospects for America’s Finest Fighting
Force — United States Marines.”
As we entered the great room of the receiving barracks, we were kept
awake through dawn as we were issued camouflaged utility uniforms, black
leather boots, and web belts with brass buckles. Shortly after that we were
issued a debit card for the PX (Price Exchange). We would be given a “ditty
bag” to buy and load up on “skivvies” (boxer underwear), soap, shaving kit,
toothpaste, towels, Kiwi boot polish, and foot powder.
At the crack of dawn, we were marched to the chow hall. As we were
marching, I noticed that Parris Island reeked of a swampy, musty smell that I
never have experienced, nor will ever forget. All of the streets had overhead
twelve-inch galvanized pipes that carried steam above the sidewalks. Parris
Island was akin to being in another country. It had its own uniqueness,
separating itself from the outside world. Marching by century-old brick
buildings that housed Marines and recruits since World War I produces a
certain sense of awe and respect. The place was like no other place I had ever
been. Upon completing breakfast at the chow hall, we were marched to the base
barbershop to finally lose our now greasy, oily civilian hair. It was like a barber
assembly line, with over a dozen barbers quickly shaving every head down to
skin. We were all now equally bald, equally dressed in utilities, and equally
tired. The idea was to take away any sense of individuality. Besides differences
in skin color and height, we were all Marine recruits, or maggots, as the DIs
started to refer to us.