Shawn Inmon - The Vigilante Life of Scott McKenzie

Cheryl still jumped and cried at sudden, loud noises. Scott’s nightmares eventually lessened, but still awakened him, sweating and shaking, from time to time.

Even the most horrific wounds eventually heal over and fade into scars. Their grandparents provided them with many things they had missed while their parents were alive—primary among them, safety and a sense of calm.

Scott finally felt like he had his life under control. In eight months, he would turn twenty-one, and could finally enroll in the academy for the Evansville, Indiana police force. He had graduated from high school two years earlier with grades that were good enough to get him into college, but Scott had never considered it—he was going to be a cop.

The night his parents had died, his first instinct was to run out the front door and never look back. He knew he could not leave his sister behind, though, and there was no way to get her out of the house without seeing the horror show their living room had become.

Instead, he had looked up the number, called the police and told them what had happened. The first responder on the scene had been a large man in full uniform. He had been an awe-inspiring sight to the frightened ten-year-old boy. He had brought such a sense of calm and order to the scene, that Scott knew that was the job for him.

The summer after his senior year, he had taken a job at the local Chevy dealer. He washed cars, ran errands, and worked as a general-purpose gofer at the dealership, working and saving until he was old enough to get into the academy.

While working at the dealership, he met Sherry Dickenson, a pretty brunette girl with a friendly smile who liked to wear miniskirts to her job as the front desk receptionist. It was hard to say which of those traits attracted Scott more. Before he knew it, he was in love.

At the tender age of twenty, then, he had his life planned out. Enroll in the academy, become a police officer, then ask Sherry to marry him and live happily ever after. As simple as one, two, three.

The only potential monkey wrench in his plan was the Selective Service Draft, which was going to be televised on CBS that very night in place of a new episode of Mayberry RFD.

The newspaper that morning had said that if your birthdate was drawn in the first third of the selection, you were almost certain to be drafted. In the last third, you were almost certain not to be. If you were in the middle, it could go either way. This was one lottery that no one wanted to win.

Scott dried his hands on a dishtowel and walked into the small living room. His grandparents were already in their favorite chairs. His grandfather had that day’s Evansville Courier & Press open on his lap. His grandmother was knitting an afghan she intended as a Christmas present for one of the ladies at church. Cheryl, who was in high school now, was in her room, ostensibly studying. In reality, she was laying on her bed, staring at a poster of Bobby Sherman and talking on the princess phone she had gotten for her birthday.

CBS correspondent Roger Mudd, reporting on the low-tech affair, sat in the front row, like a witness to an execution. He turned in his seat, looked directly into the camera and in hushed tones, explained that the United States hadn’t held a draft in twenty-seven years, since World War II.

Scott sat on the edge of the couch.

They’re not gonna show them draw all three hundred and sixty-six numbers, are they? That’ll take all night.

In a stroke of almost unbelievable anticlimax, Mudd intoned, “The famous first number drawn for this draft is September 14. That will be number zero-zero-one. If that’s your birthday, it’s time to start packing.”

His grandfather dropped his paper into his lap. “Shit.”

“Earl!” Cora said. “Language.” She cocked her head and looked at Scott. “Oh, Scotty, I’m so sorry. This is so awful.”

Scott leaned back into the couch, stunned. He had been anticipating this night for weeks, and before it even started, it was all over for him.

“The famous first number drawn for this draft is September 14.”

Of course. My birthday. Am I never going to catch a break?

Scott glanced at his grandfather, whose mouth was set in a thin line as he shook his head. “Damned war. There’s no way we’re going to win over there. Nixon keeps saying he’s going to end it, but instead, he’s throwing more and more of our young men into the fire.”

Scott tried to find a smile to flash at his grandparents, but he couldn’t manage it. Instead, he said, “I think I’m going to go for a little drive.”

“Oh, honey,” his grandmother said, soothingly. “Why don’t you stay here with us? We don’t need to watch this. I’m sure there’s a movie on one of the other channels. I can make some popcorn.”

“Thanks, Grandma. I just want to go for a little drive and clear my head. I’ll be all right. I’ve got to think things through.”

He kissed his grandmother on the cheek, grabbed his keys off the hall table and hurried outside. His old Chevy Apache pickup sat in the driveway, and he climbed in. Five minutes later, he was outside the city limits of Evansville and driving through the countryside.

Now what. Wait it out? I don’t think it will be much of a wait. How long until they send Draft Notices to those first few numbers?

He rolled the driver’s window down and a cold blast of air filled the cab.

Go to Canada? Can’t do it. I don’t have it in me, and I can’t leave everyone behind anyway. That doesn’t leave many options.

He shook his head at the unfairness of it all. He realized he was trapped.

Scott asked for, and got, the next afternoon off from work at the dealership. He drove to the Army Recruiting office, which was in a small storefront in downtown Evansville. It was a modest affair—just two desks, a few chairs against the front wall, and an American flag in one corner of the room.

One desk was empty, but a barrel-chested man in a crisp U.S. Army uniform sat behind the other. When Scott walked in, the man jumped to his feet, his posture erect, a small smile on his face. For a moment, Scott thought he was going to salute him, but he extended his hand instead.

Scott shook it, firmly.

“Good handshake, son. That’s a good sign.” The man gestured to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, and we can talk. I’m Sgt. Berkman. What brings you into the office today? Looking for information?”

Soft sell. I’m sure they pick these recruiters based on their personalities.

“I guess so. My birthday is September 14.”

Sgt. Berkman didn’t wince, or commiserate. He didn’t need to look at a sheet of paper to see what that birthday signified. He nodded and said, “Oh-oh-one. So, I guess the die is cast for you, then, isn’t it?”

“Seems that way.”

“With that birthday, you’re going to be in the first group called. It might be better if you just signed up now.”

“When will the first group of draftees be called?”

“No way to know. I don’t expect it will be too long, though. Likely right after the first of the year. You’ll be better situated if you volunteer.”

Scott nodded glumly, but didn’t ask exactly how he would be better situated.

Sgt. Berkman nodded sympathetically. “Last night wasn’t good news for you, eh?”