Fragrance of Desertion

Lance Garrison Ballard

February 2006

Creaking high-rise wooden planks, once painted pearl white, were now hole-ridden-weather-beaten–stripped atop a cement foundation–cracked remnants of yesteryear, little more then silent accord to how long the Winslow Manor stood tall among the forty-some-odd acres of Oklahoma soil.

As a young boy of seven (or maybe more around eight, come to think of it) just the thought of treading close to the door, harkened foreboding fear–fear that did not lessen, well into my teens. Yet, even then, fear of Winslow Manor, kept me far from ever stepping near the threshold. Until one day. My eighteenth birthday, matter of fact.

I had just returned from the post office, and had just mailed Uncle Sam my select choice of military branch in which to serve under. The army was were my allegiance would stand proud to protect America against all things RED, if the draft so much as called my name. 1964, the draft was still netting up America’s youth, mostly–poor have-nots, those unable to dodge the draft, as the rich and well-to-do had, by simply gutting it out, as it were, for four years or more and obtaining a college education. Education only money could afford. Hard, cold cash in the circulated color of green.

So, the rich was college bound, to become economically viable, so as to live, as parents before, in homes spread across the Suburban landscape. Least not one forget those white picket fences, either. Nothing white picket for the poor, though. Disposable pawns, they were, the poor–all in the name of war, the Vietnam war, fought by soldiers, most, no older then nineteen, at the time–who shuddered high-alert scare, deep within the dense vegetative coils of jungle, that which was to be the lush camouflage to Charlie’s stealthily rush of death. Death by sudden machine gun fire.

Only way not to die by such sudden onslaught of machine gun fire, was to retreat to the Great White North. Which many a young America boy did. So many so, vapor trails of burnt draft cards spread out across the horizon to the boarder of Canada in a blackened haze of smokelike soot.

I DEFECT, seemed the battle cry of the day.

Had notice for my appearance in army green been required in Guam, Nam, or wherever it was the less prodigal were sent–I DEFECT would have been my battle cry, too. I’ll get to how I dodged the draft later. For now though, keep tuneful ear honed to the rest of what’s about to be said. For what’s about to be said, is sure to bring clear insight to that which seems, to you, I’m sure, incoherent ramble.

But believe me this, when the rest to what I have to say is finally said, incoherent ramble is the least of what you will think of all this. Just stick with me because I know. Know why you’re here today. At Winslow Manor. Nevertheless, I’ll try and be quick in haste and say all that needs to be, okay? Good, now that’s there some level of trust between us, I’ll get on with it. Yes. Yes, I will. And so will you, before too long. Sooner then you know.

Now, where was I? That’s right. I remember now. Remember all too well. As will you. So, back to telling, all what will bring understanding to your confused thoughts.

After checking the box with a No.2 pencil, that 5x7 card that donned my choice branch of selective service was tossed in OUT GOING MAIL.

Then a sudden surge of rugged masculinity, never before felt, took hold. Fear of Winslow Manor had up and vanished, as if a sudden burst of obscure light to rational reflection had all at once lit the mind fantastic.

Fear no longer loomed over me. Nor dread to what lurked, just behind the front door of Winslow Manor.

A rusty hinge squeak echoed out high and loud as I eased the door shut; then this swift sensation of being smothered had me. And wouldn’t let go. Until I was en route–up stairs, second floor.

There, inches from grazing the door to the master suite was body armor to a knight unknown, which seemed to me, solid enough proof to prove existence of King Author and his Knights of the Round Table and the whispered plan of secrecy each knight to King Author spoke, under solemn oath to uphold, the quest to venture forth, out into uncharted land and do, that which must be done, to lay claim over the Holy Grail.

Seemed I was on a quest, too. Yet no inkling of a whisper, and certainly no Holy Grail to claim, on what had brought me here, and why, to Winslow Manor, other then that rugged masculine surge, first felt at the post office, and didn’t let up until I was there, at Winslow Manor, upstairs, here, in the master suite–amidst dust-laden furniture, and a familiar stench of mildew that also lavished the drapes, blood-red velvet in color–frayed at the bottom; and the hardwood floor wasn’t in any better shape, and aside from the mildew stench, the room seemed likened in being forever shunned from warmth of sun and succulent scent of Jasmine that swoons in the air like sweet savor of silent reprieve from harsh winter past and frigid caress, ominous white snow in blizzard wrath.

Be it ominous white snow in blizzard wrath, I didn’t much care. Long as I escaped. From Winslow Manor. From where I still stood. There in the master suite. Only now standing there with me, sea bag at his feet, was a solider, gazing out a dirt-stained window. Opened, if not but an inch, I was sure my escape was at hand. No such luck. Or escape. By me. Or solider. Or sea bag at his feet. And the familiar stench of mildew now grew even more immense. Strange enough though, so did the blackened holes of stained gun- powder on the soldier’s uniform. Blind to the obvious, I was, until now, and saw that the shirt of the uniform had once been neatly pressed in military-style creases and how they had been carefully starched to aid firmness to each crease which ran parallel down the front of the shirt, tucked smoothly in, under narrow waistline where the leather wrap of belt held, snug-tight, pants to hips.

The soldier’s hips. And his pants.

Had it not been for the holes, blackened as they were–his uniform, would have, without doubt, passed any surprise inspection. Immaculate detail spent on the uniform didn’t seem much to matter now. But regardless, there he stood, the solider–unflinching in stare at the dirt-stained window. A stare that was also unflinching over me.

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