Batman and Me

Sounding as desolate as I feel, the wind wailing off Lake Erie sends McDonald’s cups and Colt 45 cans ricocheting down the gutter while I lock the car. Overhead, a streetlight flickers like a dying candle, and a Doberman in the yard behind snarls and lunges against a rotted picket fence that I pray will hold. Rusted-out vehicles missing wheels, doors, and hoods litter the curb and, although the street sign has been wrenched off, the Lackawanna map says this block lined with boarded-up houses is where I should be. Pulling my coat tight, I thrust hands into pockets, hunch over, and wait on the deserted street, the only white guy in this ZIP code. 

“Corner of Cherry and Franklin, nine o’clock Tuesday,” Art the medic told me. “You’ll be meeting Big Cat. He leads the Black Panthers.” 

A car stops. The man inside, muffled in a heavy jacket, says, “Hey, bro, lookin’ for weed?” I shake my head. “Some horse?” I wave him away. In the next half hour, I’m approached by an elderly Black lady who asks if I’m lost, a car of teenagers who want me to buy them beer, and two snazzily dressed women who offer a good time. 

A dark Buick pulls up, its muffler roaring. The window rolls down, a smoldering cigarette flies out, and a tall, lithe man pushes up mirror sunglasses. “You the draft guy?” 

“You Big Cat?” 

He ruffles his Afro. “You can help a brother with a draft problem?” I nod. “What if the problem’s really big?” 

I swallow hard. “Probably, but I need to talk to him.” 

The streetlight glows a garish orange on the scar that runs from temple to jaw. “Get in,” Big Cat says. “I gotta see some of my people.” 

*          *          *

When Big Cat and I enter the smoke-filled pool hall, every sound except the Temptations on the juke box stops as twenty eyes turn toward me. Everyone has Afros and tight jeans, switchblade handles protruding from their back pockets. I feel as out of place as a rabbit in a tiger cage. 

“It’s cool,” Big Cat announces. “The honkie’s with me.” 

As the overhead fan lurches to life and parts the haze, I make out tables with rumpled surfaces beneath racks of cues crooked as a mountain road. Big Cat chalks up. “Wanna play one?” 

“I’m not any good.” 

When someone else accepts, Big Cat smiles, gold tooth shining in the glow from the bare bulb over the table. “Ten spot says I’m better than anybody here.” 

He doesn’t play like it. Big Cat misses an easy cut shot, and then his opponent sinks a couple before inexplicably knocking in the eight ball. Big Cat says, “Come on, Whitey.” 

I shrug, put down ten dollars, chalk a cue, and break. Two solid-color balls drop. “Whoa!” somebody cries. I quickly sink the five ball, then the three, a bank shot with no obstructions. I draw a bead on the seven but find myself looking at someone who mouths, “Don’t mess with Big Cat.” 

After I miss by two inches, Big Cat pockets the stripes and eight. “Week’s beer and weed money.” He scoops up the cash. “Time for our graceful exit.” 

Big Cat drives back where I met him, the muffler shuddering as he switches off the motor. “Okay, honkie, tell me one thing. Why are you settin’ up shop in Lackawanna?” 

I thought he might ask that. “The draft counseling center’s in east Buffalo, Parade Street. You know where that is?” 

“Lotta my people live around there.” 

“Guess how many Black men we counseled last week. None. The week before? None. What does that tell you?” 

“Maybe it tells me we don’t need your white-ass advice.” 

“Blacks make up eleven percent of the U.S. population, but over twice that number have died in Vietnam.” 

He grins and twirls an earring. “So you decided your people should help my people.” 

I take a breath. “I decided it was time folks who live here have the same chance as those in Amherst or Cheektowaga. Look, if your guy comes to me, there’s no guarantee nothing bad will happen, but it improves the odds.” 

Big Cat stares straight ahead. “Okay, here’s the deal.” He pats the top of the wheel. “This brother got one of those orders to report, but somehow he never got around to it. How long’s he got to lay low?” 

“To avoid prosecution? For failure to report, the statute of limitations is two years.” 

“Damn!” 

“But there’s a catch. The law considers failure to report a continuing offense, which means that every day he doesn’t show up, he’s committing the crime all over again.” 

“And so?” 

“So, the statute of limitations is really two years plus forever.” 

“Fuck.” He lights a cigarette, flame mirrored in his glasses. “Can you help him?” 

“I think so.” I don’t say I have no idea how. “I need to talk with him.” 

Even from behind sunglasses, I feel his eyes burning into mine. “Meet me next week, same time and place.” 

*          *          *

Each week, two hundred draft-age men come to the Buffalo Draft Information Center. It’s in the Quaker meeting house on Parade Street, a Gilded Age building in what was once Buffalo’s poshest neighborhood. Mansions formerly screened by now-vanished elms have been divided into apartments with sagging drainpipes and abandoned cars scattered across bare lawns. After their shifts in the Lackawanna mills, African-American men sip Bud Lights on the neighboring porches and wonder what brings so many honkies here. 

This morning, a young white man sits opposite me at a Formica kitchen table on a tattered chair, its back horseshoe-shaped aluminum. “So,” I say, “what would you do if you got an induction order?” 

He blinks twice. “A what?” 

“A notice to report for military service. If you got one, and I and six lawyers said it was a legal order, what would you do?” 

“Jesus.” The man strokes his beard and adjusts his headband, beaded in a chevron pattern, which corrals locks that cascade to his shoulders. 

“Want to hear your options?” He nods. “One, accept induction and serve two years in the army.” 

His eyes widen. “And get sent to Vietnam?” 

“Could happen. Two, enlist in another branch of the military and serve four years.” 

“What if I joined the National Guard?” 

I shake my head. “New York has a two-year waiting list. Option three, have a physical defect—high blood pressure, obesity, missing toe or finger, something like that. Four, go to Canada. Last, refuse induction. That’s a felony that can bring five years in prison.” 

“Can I keep delaying until I’m too old?” 

“Normally, the cut-off age is twenty-six, but you’ve had a 2-A student deferment, so that extends your eligibility to thirty-five.” 

“What if my girlfriend had a baby?” 

“That 2-A made you ineligible for a 3-A fatherhood deferment.” 

The man wipes his brow. “I feel like I’m caught in a vise.” 

“You aren’t alone. Last year three hundred thousand got induction orders. I don’t make the law, I just list options. What’ll it be?” 

“Canada, I guess. Couldn’t be much worse than Buffalo.” 

“But you can never come back,” says Larry, the head counselor, who lives in the meeting house. He ruffles his slicked-back hair. Tall and thin with Buddy Holly–style glasses, he wrestles with a shirttail that refuses to stay tucked and lights a Lark from the smoldering stub in the ashtray. I’m his apprentice—Robin to his Batman—learning Selective Service law and the rights of those registered for the draft, rights that the Buffalo draft boards don’t always respect. 

As an undergrad, I supported the Vietnam war, believing that freedom was under attack. As my roommate put it, “It doesn’t matter whether it’s soldiers goose-stepping across the border or guys slipping through the jungle in black pajamas. South Vietnam has been invaded.” 

But as the death toll mounted while our President continued to insist victory was near, I grew angry at how even the war’s purpose kept changing. First, we sent advisors to train South Vietnam’s military. Then combat troops to preserve democracy. But after the C.I.A. ousted South Vietnam’s president, I saw that the south was as undemocratic as the north. Next came the “domino theory” that if South Vietnam went communist, so would Laos, Cambodia, Australia. Some senators claimed that if we didn’t stop the communists in Vietnam, we’d have to fight them in the streets of San Francisco. 

When, as a grad student, I no longer qualified for a student deferment, the university draft counselor discovered I had a disqualifying physical defect, documented by treatment at the college health center. Chronic sinusitis, a condition as banal as flat feet, obesity, or heel spurs, but the regulations listed it. So, when summoned for my Army physical, I brought doctors’ letters and a log of treatment history. To my surprise, the examining physician tossed back the documents, saying, “Everybody in Buffalo’s got sinus trouble.” When I received notice I’d passed the physical, my wife, Patricia, and I began saving to move to Canada. 

But the university counselor knew how to have a medical unfitness claim reviewed, and very soon my draft board (located in Dallas, where everybody didn’t have sinus trouble) replaced my 1-A card, fit for military service, with one that read 1-Y: fit only in a national emergency. Evidently the threat of fighting communists in San Francisco didn’t constitute a national emergency. Without counseling, I would be in Canada right now. 

Infuriated by how I’d been treated, I wondered how many others were getting wronged as I had, and I determined that everyone, college student or not, should have the same chance as me. I would become a crusader for justice. 

The young man sitting opposite me at the kitchen table says, “Never come back?” 

“Never,” Larry says. 

I glance through the information form the guy’s filled out. “This says you’re in college, so why are you 1-A?” 

“I partied and flunked some courses. I thought I just had to be in school.” 

“How long have you been 1-A?” He tells me two weeks. “Good, it isn’t too late.” I explain that after a new classification, he has the right to a personal appearance before his board, at which he should promise he’ll study hard and get his grades up. If they keep him 1-A, as they likely will, he has the right to appeal, so long as he acts within thirty days. It’s important, I say, to send the appeal letter from a post office via certified mail to prove the sending date. 

“Return receipt requested.” Larry blows on his glasses, lights another Lark. “Do it twenty-eight days from the date on your new 1-A card. You miss the deadline, you lose your rights. Are you determined not to accept conscription?” 

“What’s that?” 

“Being drafted,” I say. 

He folds his arms. “No way I’m going into the army.” 

“Then you should apply for status as a CO.” 

“A what?” 

“Conscientious objector,” Larry says. 

“I’m not a Quaker or anything. Would that be legal?” 

Larry says, “We never advise anything illegal.” 

“You don’t have to be a Quaker or Jehovah’s Witness,” I say, “so long as you have a deeply held moral or ethical opposition to war.” I pull a CO form from our file. “The time to submit your claim is after you file your appeal. You stay 1-A, they can send you an induction order. We’ve had guys get one in the same envelope as notice that their appeal was denied.” 

When the guy is gone, I ask, “How’d I do?” 

“I think you’re ready to be on your own.” Larry crushes out a cigarette, its last puff escaping like a rising soul. “But you didn’t mention undescended testicle.” 

*          *          *

As we empty ashtrays after the session, Larry says he and his wife are leaving Buffalo for five days and asks if Patricia and I can look after the meeting house while they’re gone. The place requires little care, he says. 

After a quick phone call that confirms that Patricia’s willing, Larry produces a six-page document listing duties. Among other things, we’re to collect the mail, take out the garbage on Thursday night, twice a day feed the cat (a mat of brindled fur with one ear half chewed off) and change his litter every three days. All the appointments are made, Larry says. Nothing complicated, mostly CO applicants who need their statements reviewed. 

Larry writes down a phone number to reach him. “Just one more thing: there’s a deserter and his wife upstairs.” 

“Deserter?” I say. “Harboring a deserter’s a felony. What happened to your ‘all within the law’ philosophy?” 

“We never suggest anyone do something illegal, but Quaker tradition says to ignore laws if they conflict with our conscience. Before the Civil War, the Buffalo meeting house was an Underground Railroad terminal.” 

Another instruction sheet details transport arrangements. Because Canada rotates border personnel, the Toronto Anti-Draft Center will use code to signal which bridge has the most sympathetic officials. “Really quiet today” means the Peace Bridge. “Did you see that sunrise?” means the Rainbow Bridge. Once we know where to cross, a member of the fellowship will drive our guests there. 

“This goes with them.” Larry hands me a manila envelope enclosing a stack of twenty-dollar bills. “Six hundred dollars. Getting landed immigrant status requires proof you can support yourself. When they get settled . . .” He tucks in an envelope addressed to us, with Canadian postage. “They’re to mail back what’s left.” 

“But what if somebody finds him here?” 

“We haven’t lost one yet.” He wipes his glasses with his shirttail. “Try not to be the first.” 

*          *          *

That night, before Larry leaves, a dozen guys sit around a table, Larry and me at the end. This is a role-play prep session for men about to defend CO claims. Larry explains that he and I will play the draft board, with each man facing a different strategy, based on what we’ve observed the local boards doing. 

First up is Doug, tall and chunky with black hair in a ponytail, who takes the seat at table’s end. “Thank you for hearing me today.” 

“No need for thanks. We have to do this.” Larry pushes up his glasses. “Which are you, Quaker or Jehovah’s Witness?” 

“Methodist.” 

“That’s not a peace church.” 

I shuffle some papers. “You didn’t claim to be a conscientious objector when you registered. Why?” 

“I wasn’t one then.” 

“When did you become one?” 

“Couple of months ago,” Doug says. 

“The law requires that you notify us within ten days of anything that might affect your status. Why didn’t you do that?” 

“I—I wasn’t sure. The more I thought about this war, the more I saw on TV—” 

Larry taps off his cigarette ash. “So you oppose the Vietnam War?” 

“Yes, and—” 

“And you just got turned down,” Larry says. “COs must oppose all war, not just Vietnam. Draft boards like that trap. If asked if you’re against Vietnam, you should say you’re against all wars.” 

Next is Al, bushy beard and trembling hands. “State your name,” Larry says. 

“Alex Hoyle. Did anything in my statement make you question my sincerity?” 

“All of it.” Larry lurches to his feet. “When I see a coward who won’t defend his country, I want to puke.” 

“I’ll do anything to defend my country except go to war. I’ll—” 

Larry says, “What would you do if someone tried to rape your wife?” Al hesitates. “You’d just let him? Would you have fought Hitler?” Al swallows. Larry pounds the table. “Hitler killed six million people and you wouldn’t fight him?” 

“I—I—” 

“Okay,” I say. “Boards like that question. Larry, would you have fought Hitler?” 

Larry again blows on his glasses and wipes them with his shirttail. “Not with violence. I’d oppose him nonviolently every way I could, but I sure wouldn’t bomb his grandmother’s house.” 

Al bursts into tears. “I don’t wanna go to Vietnam! I love Charlene, and we’re gonna get married, I can’t do this!” 

Larry says, “Al, after your meeting, what do you do?” 

Al blots his eyes. “Write down what was said and get it notarized. Make a copy and send my draft board the original, requesting they put it in my file.” 

“Certified mail,” Larry says. “Return receipt requested.” 

*          *          * 

The deserter, “Jim,” a massive, slow-talking, crew-cut blond who would be at home in Li’l Abner, comes from a farm in Missouri. Over spaghetti that Patricia has cooked, he tells us, “I never thought about being drafted until I got that card. I didn’t know what it meant—1-A sounded good, but one of my dad’s friends—he’s the draft board’s janitor—he said he’d move my file to the back of the cabinet. If I didn’t call attention to myself, they wouldn’t notice until Trena and me”—he nods at the frail brunette who nestles into his side—“had a kid, and that would make me exempt.” 

“Deferred,” I say. 

He scratches the tattoo on his forearm, a mermaid entwined around an anchor. “But we didn’t have any luck.” 

“Doctor says it’s me.” Trena looks at the floor. 

“When I got my draft notice, I heard that if I joined another branch, I’d do my service at home. The Marine recruiter promised I wouldn’t go to Vietnam, but at the end of training, guess what?” 

For earning his unit’s highest shooting score, Jim got a three-day pass, which he used to collect Trena, reach the anti-draft center in St. Louis, and make his way to us. 

“It’s funny,” Jim says, “how you see something like Vietnam on TV, and you think it ain’t got nothing to do with you, then one day it does.” He sucks in a pasta strand escaping his fork. “I love America, but I don’t see how killin’ somebody a million miles away has a thing to do with protectin’ it. Those little guys ain’t no danger to us.” 

Trena nods eagerly. “We believe in live and let live.” 

“Jim, I wish we’d connected earlier,” I say. “You could’ve applied for CO status.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Conscientious objector—means you’re opposed to war.” 

“Oh.” He guffaws. “Well, I don’t mind war so long’s I’m not in it. Nope, killin’ don’t bother me none. It’s the gettin’ killed part I object to.” He attacks another pasta strand. “I like to hunt, but, hell, I wouldn’t go after rabbits if they could shoot back.” 

What he said horrifies me. As we lie in bed that night, I tell Patricia, “I can’t believe we’re committing a felony for this guy. He’s not against Vietnam.” 

“He deserted from the Marines, didn’t he?” 

“Not out of principle. He’s afraid of gun-toting rabbits, for God’s sake!” 

Patricia pats my arm. “The people who believe like us, they’re not going to serve in the military anyway. But if someone who isn’t against Vietnam won’t fight—well, if enough like him refuse, how’s Robert McNamara going to get his army?” 

*          *          * 

The next morning, the center’s phone rings. “Did you see that sunrise?” 

When I answer the knock, there they are, a gray-haired man supported by a cane and an equally gray woman with trembling hands, who wears a flowered dress that might have come from the 1940s. A visit from grandma and grandpa, except they’re about to commit a felony. “We’re here for a pick-up.” 

“Jim,” I call upstairs, “your ride’s here.” 

As he wrestles his suitcase down, Jim asks Trena, “You scared?” 

She squeezes his hand. “Not when I’m with you.” 

I review what will happen. At the Rainbow Bridge, the drivers tell the official they’ve come to see the Falls and on the way picked up a hitchhiker. Jim says he and Trena want to immigrate. During the processing, the Quakers wait out of sight, then drive them to the bus station for Toronto and the Anti-Draft Center there. 

They say, “We’ve done this before.” 

“Jim, time to say goodbye.” I hand him the envelope. “Six hundred dollars—to prove you can support yourself. When you’re settled, mail back whatever’s left. Good luck.” 

He shakes my hand firmly and his blue eyes meet mine. “Much obliged for all you’ve done.” 

Two hours later, the phone tells me, “Package safely delivered.” 

In bed that night, I say to Patricia, “Wanta bet that’s the last we hear from him?” 

*          *          *

When Larry returns, I summarize what’s happened in his absence. “Our Marine deserter got across, though I’m not sure it was right to help him. He isn’t opposed to war.” 

“Men who join the Marines generally aren’t,” Larry says. “For that matter, most of the guys we counsel aren’t, either. They just don’t want their butts getting shot at. Look, we deprived the Pentagon of a soldier. That’s a good thing.” 

“Exactly what Patricia said.” 

“How about the COs we prepped?” 

“All turned down.” 

“Not surprising.” He wipes his glasses. “But they’ve got another chance to meet with their board. Have them make an appointment to review the transcripts.” 

I hesitate. “And I need some advice about this guy I’m helping in Lackawanna.” 

“I didn’t know we had a branch there.” 

“I’m doing this on my own. Black folks don’t come here, so—” 

“I know—that damn conscience thing, no need to explain. What’s his situation?” 

“He didn’t show up for induction. Big Cat and I are meeting with him tonight.” 

“Big Cat?” 

“Head honcho for the Black Panthers around here.” 

“Not showing for induction is the dumbest thing you can do.” Larry shakes his head slowly. “Your guy needs serious legal help.” He tells me what to say. 

The mail slot in the front door clinks. Larry opens an envelope with a Toronto postmark and removes a note. “Jim says thanks and he’s already found a job.” He pulls out an inner envelope containing a sheaf of bills, mostly American but some Canadian mixed in. 

“Funny thing,” he says. “All those who cross into Canada, we have no idea who or where they are, and they know it, but this wad of cash has crossed the border a dozen times.” He chuckles. “Once, the bridge official didn’t count it, just said, ‘Six hundred U.S dollars, right?’” 

“You think they suspect what’s going on?” 

“They don’t suspect, they know. And the money always comes back, this time with interest.” He counts the bills. “Six hundred and sixty-two.” 

I blush at how wrongly I judged Jim. “Good to hear it worked out.” 

*          *          * 

My watch says twenty after nine. The snow has changed from flurries to a steady shower, blown sideways by gusts off the lake. The usual patrol of hookers and dealers have offered their services as I shiver in the wind and pace, refrozen ice crunching under my feet, knowing Big Cat won’t like hearing what his friend has to do. I rehearse various ways of telling him, none of them pleasant. 

At last, Big Cat pulls up. He’s alone. “Get in.” The parked car trembles as the exhaust plumes surround us in mist. “I’m surprised you came back.” 

“I said I would.” 

“Yeah, but whiteys are scared of this neighborhood. What got you into this draft counseling stuff anyway?” 

“I got cheated on my Army physical—passed when I should’ve failed.” 

“Injustice.” He chuckles. “Heartbreakin’, ain’t it?” 

“But I was lucky, and after a counselor helped me get a deferment, I decided to do the same for others.” 

“So you’re fightin’ for justice, huh? Just like Batman.” 

“When do I see your friend?” 

“Oh, that.” Big Cat wiggles in his seat. “You know, him servin’ in the army might not be all that bad.” 

“Were you in?” 

“Naw.” Big Cat stretches out his legs and laughs. “Flat feet. Didn’t need no honkie counselor to help with that.” 

I take a breath. “Your friend has to turn himself in. While awaiting arraignment, he should say he realized he was a conscientious objector after he got the induction order. Draft boards don’t take kindly to that, but the judge in this circuit sometimes goes easy on guys whose CO claims have been denied. Still, it’d be easier if he’d shown up. I need to meet with him.” 

“Well, you see—” He rolls down his window and tosses out a still-burning cigarette. “Actually, there ain’t no friend.” 

“No friend?” 

“Yeah, I was just testin’ you, like. You see, lotta crackers come here believin’ they’re gonna help us poor, underprivileged souls. Like that clinic doc, Art. He’s okay, but he’s white, so he ain’t got no idea how we are. Look.” He lowers his shades to stare me in the eye. “We Black Panthers want our brothers in the army. They’ll get weapons training, and when they come back—” 

“If they come back.” 

The windshield wipers lurch to life, producing a haze of snowflakes. “They’ll help lead the revolution, the way Malcolm says. And if we lose a few along the way, well—what do we say when we bomb a village over there and kill a few babies?” 

“McNamara calls it collateral damage.” 

“Right, collateral damage. Worth it to win a war.” 

“Just like we’re winning in Vietnam?” 

He smiles, the streetlight gleaming on his scar. “You know, for a honkie you’re all right.” He shakes my hand as I step out of the car. “When we start roundin’ up your people, tell ’em you know Big Cat.” 

“You think that’ll save my white ass?” 

He chuckles and lights a cigarette. “Just might.” 

I watch as Big Cat’s tail lights get swallowed by the storm. Catching the streetlight’s glow, the snowflakes are dancing twinkles of light in the midst of an immense darkness. I pull my hood tight, fumble for keys, and trudge to my car through the snow. 

TOM HEARRON

Tom Hearron’s writing has recently appeared in Upstreet, Embark: A Literary Magazine for Novelists, Wraparoundsouth, Streetlight, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, and Fine Print. Originally from Dallas, he graduated from Rice and the University of Buffalo and currently lives in the mountains of western North Carolina.