Pete Hamill - A Drinking Life

In August, I decided to join the navy.

But why? Maureen said.

I can finish high school in the navy, I said. And when I get out, I’ll get the GI Bill. You know, they pay you to go to school. They give you loans to buy a house. I can save a lot of money while I’m in, and we’ll be in great shape when I get out. It’s for us, Maureen. For us.

She knew otherwise. She began to weep. I talked to her, caressed her, kissed her almost desperately. I hedged, layering doubt into my words, making it sound as if my mind wasn’t made up. She cried inconsolably for a while and then stopped. I walked her home. She ran inside without another word.

But the idea of the navy had possessed me, and the possession wasn’t based on the benefits of the GI Bill. That summer, I couldn’t see myself clearly; it was as if the mirror was warped. The navy would provide me with a clear identity, no matter how temporary. Once I could say I was an Eagle boy and everyone knew what I meant; now I could say I was a sailor. In the navy, I would earn my space in the world and in this country; the act would certify that I was American, not Irish, not simply my father’s son. Joining a group larger than myself would cause my hobbling ten-cent miseries to recede and vanish. Above all, the navy offered escape. I would escape the stunted geography of Brooklyn, going where nobody knew about my father, my drinking, my failure at Regis, my limitless uncertainties. I would escape the grinding pressure to pay my way in the world. Above all, I would escape the strained demands of choice. I wouldn’t have to choose between life as a cop or a bohemian, a plumber or an artist. I wouldn’t have to choose between art school or an early marriage and the baby carriage in the hallway.

In addition, there was the truant spirit of romance. I would be going from the known to the unknown, the safe to the dangerous. Alone at night, I saw myself on a cruiser, rocking in deep blue water as the heavy guns fired salvos at the dark Korean coast. I saw myself moving through radiant tropical ports with palm trees blowing in the wind and bars full of dark abundant women like Gloria Vasquez, with brown nipples and black hair. I thought about visiting all the ports where my grandfather had gone, drinking in his bars, and then, dressed in navy whites, tougher and older, walking into the sunlight and seeing Laura. She would stop and squint and say, Is that you? And I’d look at her in a bitter Bogart way and say, Not anymore, and turn to take Gloria Vasquez by the hand.

And Maureen? I made a different set of pictures, conjured another shadow-self. Maybe we’d get married. Not right away. Eventually. When Korea was over or something. She’d come and live with me in my home port, in Hawaii or San Diego, some bright gleaming place far from Brooklyn. Or we’d want until I was discharged. Sure.

Because I was only seventeen, I needed to be signed into the navy by one of my parents. But when I told them one evening in 378, my mother was horrified.

They’ll send you to the war, she said.

Everybody’s going to the war, Mom.

Buddy Kelly is dead in this war, she said. Buddy Kiernan is dead. Every week, more of them are dead.

They were in the army, Mom. I’ll be in the navy.

Can’t you wait a year? Until you’re eighteen? Maybe the war’ll be over by then.

I don’t want to wait, Mom.

She shook her head in sorrow and frustration. But my father was looking at me in a different way.

Don’t listen to her, he said. It’ll be the best thing you ever did. You can learn a trade. It’ll make you a man.

I don’t understand it, my mother said.

You’re not a man, Annie.

And so he signed the papers.

I was told to report three weeks later, on Monday, September 8, at eight in the morning. The recruiter said I could “strike” for a yeoman rate, which meant I might be able to work as an artist or cartoonist on a ship’s newspaper. There were no guarantees, he said, but since I’d gone to art school, it was possible. This inflamed me even more; with any luck, I could become the Bill Mauldin of the navy!

A week after signing up, I left the Navy Yard, saying good-bye to the men, who all wished me well. I wrote to C&I, explaining that I wouldn’t be back until I was out of the navy. Then I packed all my things, gave up the room next to the Parkview, and went home to 378. I didn’t show off the nude drawings; I sealed them with Scotch tape into the big portfolio envelopes. I got cardboard boxes from the grocery store and packed my art supplies, comics, and other books, including The Art Spirit. I stacked them all in the woodbin in the cellar, explaining to my brother Tommy that eventually he might send them to me when I was out at sea. He was now at Brooklyn Tech, a brilliant student, with plans to be an engineer. He took the assignment as if it were a sacred duty.

Then I went on a summer binge, ten days of tearful scenes with Maureen, wild nights at Boop’s, sunburns at Coney. The art school interlude was behind me; I had been reclaimed by the rituals of the Neighborhood. Everything culminated in a going-away party for me and three other young men in a VFW post down by the Venus theater. I arrived with Maureen and we clung to each other through the long evening. Now there was no going back; the papers were signed; my friends were here to say good-bye. The hall was packed, the tables stacked with whiskey and set-ups and pitchers of beer. The jukebox blasted. Maureen and I danced, her small breasts pushing hard against me, her hands tense and sweaty. She said very little, but at some point I made a joke and smiled and she turned away in tears. Her girlfriends came over and hurried her into the ladies room. I downed a cold beer and poured another. Goddammit, Maureen, I’m a man, I thought (incapable of irony or self-mockery); I have to do this because men do these things. When Maureen came back, her eyes were red. I took her hand and we went to dance. Jo Stafford was singing “You Belong to Me.”

She began to weep again, and I put my arm around her and waved good-bye to my friends and went into the cool autumn air. She lived a few blocks away, and we walked together with my arm around her waist. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go. I wanted to repeal everything: the decision to join, the signing of the papers, the surrender of room and job, the departure from the only school I’d ever loved. And I wanted to take back everything I’d said to Maureen.

But when we reached her house, huddling on the bottom step out of view of anyone inside, I couldn’t find the right words. There was no going back. Staying would be scarier than going. I kissed her. She cried. So did I.

Maybe I’ve made some terrible mistake, I said.

She didn’t answer. I said I’d write every day. She said she would too. I said I’d be home at Christmas. She said she’d see me then. I asked her to wait for me. A light went on inside her house, and she kissed me one final time on the cheek and moved quickly up the steps, opened the front door with a key, and vanished. I stood there for a long moment, wondering if I should go back to the VFW and get roaring drunk.

Then I started walking home through the Neighborhood, along the parkside and the dark brooding forest beyond the granite walls, past the Totem Poles and the Sanders, down past the shuttered synagogue and the gated armory to Seventh Avenue. The lights were out in most of the apartments. Even at 378. I wondered if any of them were doing what they wanted to do. I wondered if Maureen was asleep. I wondered where Laura was.

In the morning, I went off to the navy.