The Haunted Refrigerator

They gather at The Ramifications, a hundred young men looking to get drunk, sweat it out, and see where they stand in life and death. Some of the young men think of themselves as idealists, although in reality they are just naive. It does not occur to them that no one in history has ever been luckier, to be alive in this particular century, at this particular place on planet Earth. "Except maybe Sweden," says the dark-eyed girl named Zizzie, with a wink. The night before, Roberto “Robot” Larch had gone to see a Swedish film by Ingmar Bergman called The Seventh Seal, in which the Knight's Squire said of the Crusades: "it was so stupid, only an idealist could have thought it up." Now he’s watching the new waitress, who's just delivered a pitcher of beer to the next table. The new waitress is small, compact, green-eyed and speedy in her green form-fitting dirndl. Long wheat-colored hair swings behind her as she glides away, and in her wake a guy in a blue shirt jumps up and lifts his hands above his head and dances around like a victorious boxer receiving slaps and punches from his friends. 1. SEPTEMBER 14 “HOWOOO!” The guy in the blue-shirt howls like Tarzan. On the wall behind the bar the gray screen of a TV displays a haze of buzzing horizontal lines and white board with a number and a date. Blue-shirt guy’s birthday is evidently September 14th. He beats his chest. He's hit the jackpot: Draft Lottery Number 1. The new waitress is delivering another pitcher. Her dirndl twitches as she zips off and a guy behind her leans over and pukes. 2. APRIL 24 Puking guy’s birthday must be April 24th. Draft Lottery Number 2. “She’s two for two.” Across the table from Robot, Leif Lambrochet (LAM-BRO-SHAY) is also watching. The new waitress waits for the next pitcher. Dark-eyed Zizzie nestles against Leif's broad shoulder and gives Robot a sleepy smile, as if she knows what he’s thinking, as if to say: "Go ahead, what's stopping you?" Leif takes out a five-dollar bill and waves it in the air. "Hey! Over here!" "Don't do that,” says earnest Clare, his sister, furrowing her brow. “Can’t you see she's the kiss of death?" But it’s too late. The new waitress turns her small white face in their direction, two green eyes, up-turned nose, small tight-lipped mouth like a bud waiting to open. Leif grins. Eighteen months younger than his sister Clare, he’s big, easy-going most of the time, and confident in ways she’s not. “Don’t worry,” he says. "No way she goes three for three." The flickering TV shows a glass jug with a jumble of capsules inside. A fat man in a suit and tie reaches in and draws out a capsule, another fat man opens it, and a third old fat man reads the date written inside and posts it on the big white board: 3. DECEMBER 30 Nothing happens. Robot glances over at the bar. The new waitress is still waiting, tapping her fingers. Surreptitiously he wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. He’s feeling defenseless and vulnerable and it’s his own fault. He’s made his choice and there’s nothing he can do about it now except face the consequences. His II-S student deferment, shaky in the first place, had disappeared when he dropped nine units that fall. Not that it matters, all deferments are out the window now. In October 1966 a massive number of men had been drafted. Most of them have served their time by now, one way or another, and are getting out. As if to hasten their departure, in late January 1968 the North Vietnamese had launched the Tet Offensive, surprising the south, shocking the American command, and altering the perception of the war back home. But not enough. America’s in too far to back out now. Nixon’s promise to end the war was politically calculated and is now shown to be a lie. More troops are needed. But this time, to counter the obvious truth that the poor and black have borne a disproportionate brunt of the fight, rich white affluent pointy-headed intellectual Americans will be required to contribute their pounds of flesh. No more student deferments. This time it’s going to be fair. Robot’s problem is he wants to be a veterinarian but he doesn’t like science, just dogs and cats. These days, when he says he wants to be a “vet” people think he means “veteran” and has plans to enlist He’s messed around too long. He’s always known, intellectually and lately viscerally, that he’s gambling with his life. Claiming high moral ground, he’s declared, to others as well as to himself, that no action is the best action, that the peaceful resistance of Gandhi is a proven winner, and that furthermore he refuses to define the rest of his life by avoiding the outrageous, immoral, impossible threat of fat old men assigning him to die in a useless, absurd, and criminal War. Now, here, on this night of convocation and decision at The Ram, his gamble has come to a head. At some point during the evening a capsule will be drawn containing his birthday, which will be posted beside the next sequential Draft Number on the big white board. If that number is low, he will be sent to fight in the jungles of Southeast Asia. A mid-range number will leave him in limbo—no one can predict how many numbers will be called before the end of 1970. A high number, say 250 or above, will mean he won’t be drafted at all, anointing him as an unfettered, unblemished, and honorable heir to that unencumbered future which Roberto “Robot” Larch, like most American youths of his time, has always been told and has always believed his just and rightful due. Leif’s refilling their mugs and at the same time watching the TV. "Number up," he says.