Several years ago, I heard, that in a few short years, every one in the United States would know personally or be related to someone who will have died of AIDS.
I thought of the people I knew. And of all the people that I was related to. Old G.I. buddies who slept around or who were into drugs. People that I was friends with now. Family.
Aunts, uncles, parents...cousins.
I had a cousin.
I didn't know him very well. But I miss him a lot.
This is for Chris.
We were related by marriage only. My presence there was only to enable me to tell his story now.
My father was actually my adopted step-father and Chris' father was his older brother. There were four brothers in all. Chris' father, Thomas or Tommy, was the oldest, followed Cliff, (who for some reason we called Uncle Ricky), and then my dad, Nathan and then Alvin, or 'Pee-Wee'. Pee-Wee was the baby in age only, as he ended up growing to be the biggest in stature. The entire brood was barrel chested and strong.
They had known death from an early age. Some time after their father had sired all four of them, he died. Their mother, Allie, remarried a wonderful man, Donald Hoisington, with whom she spent the rest of her life. She care for and attended to him like no other woman.
Adam didn't have it this good.
The four brothers grew up under this man. Knowing that he was not their natural father, but having much respect for the figure. And the man himself. He was a carpenter on the side, and a cabinet maker to be specific. He had worked most of his life at the Hanford Nuclear Power plant in Richland, Washington. Having a good job, coupled with intelligence and foresight, he bought several government duplexes when the government left the area and put them up for sale.
Each served as rental property. Although all sons were told that they could live in any of the houses any time they wanted. Only Alvin took his dad up on the offer and lived in one of the houses on the same street as his parents, a little more than a block away. Although years later he would build his own for his wife.
All four sons bore more sons. Alvin had two sons and a daughter. Nathan had a son and two daughters. Cliff had a lone son. And Tommy had three sons. The oldest was Stephen, Chris was in the middle and then Robby.
My father ended up being a career Navy man, moving all over the world with my mom, sister and myself.
My mom, Louise, had stayed married to my dad, Ellis, long enough to assure that I would not be born a bastard, (who knew?).
I guess in 1957, a child born out of wedlock was something to avoid. After the divorce she married her high school sweet heart, Nathan. Years later, while at the same time still admiring Ellis, she would come to hate Nathan.
Again, who knew?
During some point in all of this, prior to them getting married, while in the Navy, Nathan managed to write her letters of incredible length. On a teletype machine for thirty-two feet or twenty-five typed pages, space and a half. While stationed in Hawaii and California, he managed to get regular bylines in local papers as a sports writer. A prolific writer who has as of yet failed to follow my advice and pursue a writing career.
They were married in 1959 and then Lisa, my half-sister was born in February of 1960. So we were on the east coast where Nathan went to Navy school to learn a new job and then to Hawaii in 1962. I was only five years old. Nathan was stationed in Hawaii for four years.
During that four years, Donald and Allie came to Hawaii on vacation. Donald, being a fisher man, was taken deep sea fishing and ended up catching a marlin by getting the line tangled and tied up around it's beak. As it hung there by it's fin on the dock's scale, I feared to touch it while my younger sister posed as if it were her own. To this day, I don't know what I was afraid of. I assume that my grand-parents enjoyed their stay in Hawaii. I'm sure that grand-pa did. And grand-ma was happy when grand-pa was happy.
In 1966, Nathan was transferred to the Concord Naval Weapons Station, a base in the San Francisco bay area and he was scheduled to report in August. It was recently made famous by a slow moving fool who after placing himself on the tracks to protest a munitions train, lost both legs. He then successfully sued the government for almost a million dollars.
But I digress.
After much communications, while we were still in Hawaii, I was given the choice of going to visit my natural father in LA. I had always been aware of him, but did not really know him. (To this day, I do not really know him, and it makes me sad. Although I am trying to remedy that.) I do not remember much of the conversation, or preparations. But the next thing I knew, I, a nine year old, was on a jet plane headed for LAX. I remember that Ellis lived in a small house on a large lot along a major thoroughfare in Long Beach. We spent time on the beach and at the auction house where he worked part- time. While Ellis was working, I was allowed to go to the diner next door and order and eat my own dinner. This was something new for me. And we went to Disneyland. At the end of the summer, I flew up to be reunited with Nathan and my mother.
In 1969, Nathan retired from the Navy and soon after began working for Greyhound as a operations supervisor in Oakland, California. I remember him saying that he had been given the job primarily due to his ability to operate a teletype machine. At the time, this was how the various depots communicated with each other.
In the late sixties, our family began making regular holiday trips to see Nathan's family in southern Washington. Mom didn't really have any family. Her parents had spilt when she was barely a teen, and she went with her father. He remarried shortly after, although Louise did not care for her new step-mother. In 1949, they were involved in an auto accident. Mom's father was killed, mom suffered a broken back that went undetected for three days. Her new mother escaped without injury and exited the picture. Mom didn't know where her natural mother was, nor did she really care. Other than Nathan's family, my half-sister and myself, the only people she had were on Ellis' side of the family. They had always held her dear in their hearts even after the spilt. She was part of their family for ever.
I don't think that she never got that feeling from her other former in-laws, even when she wasn't an 'ex'.
But almost every Thanksgiving we would visit. We would pack up our car the night before, and then very early we would be loaded into the car and make the sixteen hour drive to Richland. My sister and I would always sleep for the first few hours. That I can remember, Louise never drove on these trips.
We would stay with our grandparents in one of their many extra rooms. I remember that their house was always immaculate. Donald had built an extra room off the house in the back. It was more immaculate and lavishly furnished than the rest of the house. The grand kids were often sent to play in the big room, and were always admonished to be 'careful'.
Lisa and I were always the outsiders of the children at these family reunions. We were the only ones who did not live near by. The farthest was Uncle Ricky, who lived in Seattle, on the other side of the state. Although he came often to visit his parents. Lisa and I only saw these people once a year, whereas they saw each other monthly, or even weekly. We weren't really friends with these other kids whom we called cousins because we didn't really know them. But we played and enjoyed our time together.
On one particular occasion, we visiting were at Uncle Tommy's house. He was a successful business man and had a rather large house, including fully finished basement. While the adults were socializing and having drinks, we kids were off checking out the rest of the house. On of the three brothers had just bought the latest Beatle album, 'Abbey Road'. The two others wanted to borrow it so that they could listen to it and share the music with my sister and myself. The owner declined. I don't remember why, except that it was probably just adolescent stubbornness.
In 1972, Nathan and Louise were divorced. It was not amicable. It was not friendly. It was not pretty. It was the end of my annual visits to the Tri cities area. Nathan moved to Yakima, Washington, were he moved into management with Greyhound. Lisa moved up with Nathan for a short time, enrolling in school and everything. It didn't last and she soon returned to California.
After I graduated from high school, I went into the Air Force as a fire fighter and only saw the Nall clan once while on leave in 1978. Other than that one visit as an adult, I had no contact with them. In 1980, I was transferred to Travis AFB, about half way between San Francisco and Sacramento. Some time during all of this, Nathan told me that my cousin Chris was living in San Francisco. I also found out that he was homosexual. The fact that he was homosexual surprised me a little. The fact that he was living in the city did not. I was happy that if he were gay he would be living in the city. Glad that we would have something in common after all of these years and that maybe now as adults we could be good friends. I was looking forward to visiting him.
And then on December 8, 1980, the world changed for me. I was working in the fire station. I was at the one engine structural station on the main thoroughfare on base. I had never been a big sports fan and the other three fire men were watching a football game on T.V.. I had gone into the bunk room to read and fell asleep with my book in my hands. The next morning I got up and began cleaning the station, preparing to get off. As I mopped the stalls, one of my buddies came up to me and told me that John Lennon had died the night before. I stopped in mid-swipe and looked at him.
"That's not even funny.' I told him. I was not amused at all at his attempt at a lame joke.
"No, really. They interrupted the game last night to announce it. Some guy shot him." I dropped my mop and ran into the T.V. room. Someone was watching something on the tube. Without even asking, I switched the channel until I found something that confirmed what I had been told.
There on the T.V. was the face of a news reporter with John's face superimposed to the side of his head. He spoke of shots fired at John as he walked from his limo to the Dakota, of valiant efforts to save John, and of too much blood lost. I don't remember much else. I hadn't even gotten around to buying 'Double Fantasy' yet. I don't think that I moved from that spot until my station captain, Chuck Lewis, told me that I could go home. He had allowed to miss standing roll call. Mr. Lewis treated me like a son most of the time. We didn't hang out a lot like some of the others, and we didn't always work together. But there was a special bond there that neither one of us understood or questioned.
It was the beginning of my three day break. I got into my car and drove home to my house in Vacaville, stopping on the way to buy a big bottle of wine. Through out the day, I got drunk on wine and listened to KZAP, an AOR, (Album Oriented Rock) radio station out of Sacramento. They were playing nothing but Beatle and John Lennon songs.
A tribute.
Simple.
Soothing. Just what I was in the mood for. Hardly any patter, no long diatribes on John's place among rock-n-roll history or his contributions to mankind and peace. Just the music to listen to and allow each of us to remember in our own way what he meant to us. They spoke all day of a candle light vigil in Sacramento at a park near the station. That night I drove, still drunk, to Sacramento and shed tears with a few hundred other people.
I got back home late that night and passed out in my bed. Still drunk and a still a little tired from work, but was more emotionally exhausted over the death of John.
The next day, again on the radio, I heard about another candle vigil, only in San Francisco. I didn't even have to think if I would go or not. It was just a matter of getting ready and leaving. The Beatles and San Francisco made me think of Chris. I found his number in my phone and called him. He was home and glad to here from me. I told him that I was coming into the city for the vigil and could I come by and visit with him afterwards. He said that I was more than welcome and gave me his address and directions from the vigil to his house. I wrote them down and told him about what time I would be there.
We both hung up looking forward to seeing each other and having a little family reunion.
The vigil in the city was a let down. It was an organized event on a flat bed truck with a PA and a set up for a band. There were no Beatle songs played at all, save for those performed by local semi- somebodies. Average renditions, at best. There was also poems read, prayers said and all of the things that I wanted to avoid. The Rev. Cecil Williams was there posturing like he does. Not that I disagreed with what he said, nor with what he did other everyday. Rev. Williams is a well known advocate for the homeless, and has done a great deal of good work. But it was not what I needed to heal this wound. And it left a bad taste in my mouth. It seemed to center more on those talking and 'how they felt' than on the man and his music on it's own.
I didn't stay long.
I found a pay phone and called Chris to let him know I was on my way. He lived off of Market St. on the south side, in a well maintained, yellow, two story house. It was in a nice neighborhood.
He was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, smiling. When I got to the top of the stairs, we both hugged each other. It was like we were best friends reuniting.
For the first time.
We talked the whole night about everything. He had prepared dinner for us and it was delicious. We drank a bottle of wine or two. His music library was very similar to mine. He asked me if I liked to smoke pot and I told him yes. (I was a rebel while in the military, not like I am now) He said that his next door neighbor had some pot that he would give us. He had just run out and wanted to get a joint to celebrate our new friendship. I couldn't wait. It was just another thing that we had in common, that made our newly discovered bond even tighter. His friend never showed up with the pot and we never noticed. It was like we were best friends reuniting.
For the first time.
I left late and enjoyed the long drive back to Vacaville.
Little did I know that soon, Chris would be held hostage to AIDS. I had been at Travis about three weeks, when a request came in for two E-4s, (NCO) firefighters to go TDY, (temporary duty). Both Sergeants had to be qualified to drive a particular type of fire truck that was not at Travis. (An AS-32/P-4, for those of you counting) There just happened to be two who were qualified.
Sgt. Oscar Pepper and myself. The fact that I was new to the department meant that I really wouldn't be missed, so it was like only losing one of us. Besides, they didn't have any choice. I spent an entire week getting ready to go.
And from the very beginning, the whole thing smelled of monkey dung. First, I got my orders. They said I was going to Sigonella, Italy. Then I had to get shots. A will, qualified on the M-16, and a shitload of G.I. gear. i.e. helmet, web belt, canteen, clip holders for an M-16, gas masks and spring loaded injection kits for inoculation against chemical weapons.
And some desert gear, like goggles, (for wind and sand), Broad brimmed hats, (for desert sun), skin protection from the sun, preferably two pairs of sun glasses. A total of two big bags of military gear.
I had to get extra fatigues because all of my uniforms had to have the new 'subdued' insignia. This was military talk for no light colors on patches sewn onto uniforms. Only black and light green thread on O.D. green. This was something that the Army had been doing for decades. Why it took the Air Force until I had to get new uniforms is beyond me. I had a duffel bag full of uniforms and other military-related clothing, and for my civilian self I had a big shoulder bag and a soft suitcase. A total of five pieces weighing as much I did.
And to top everything else off, nobody believed that I was going to Italy.
None of this filled me with comfort.
They all believed that I was going to Egypt.
Something to do with the hostages. Although I knew full well about the hostage situation, I was at a small base in Japan. We only had one TV and radio station in English, and they were both run by the military. Our news was a local broadcast by soldiers and airmen. They were told what to say by regulations and protocols. We got what we got, but we were not as saturated with it like they had been in the states.
In between getting all of my G.I. shit together, I had to get my personal shit together. Clothes, defiantly not military looking in appearance. Jeans and T shirts. Colorful stuff. Books, magazines. I had one of the first Walkman's from Japan and a good collection of tapes.
Among my collection of books and magazines, I had my copy of Rolling Stone with John on the cover.
I left on January 4, 1981, headed east. We flew to Atlanta and from there to Frankfurt, Germany. In Frankfurt, we drank beer while waiting for a bus. We rode the bus to billeting and crashed from jet lag. The next day we attended our 'briefing'. A couple of hours from a major to us about our 'mission', the political climate in that region of the world, and about being prepared for different customs and the 'local nationals'.
It was at the briefing that Sgt. Pepper and I met our fellow firefighters and 'superiors'. McClarity, an E-6, (Technical sergeant), and Dumm, an E-5, (Staff Sergeant), to our E-4s.
After three planes, two layer-overs, and one set of hellacious winds, we landed.
The closest we got to Italy was forty-thousand feet.
The hatch/ladder of the C-141 was unfolded out by a crew member. It was glaring outside. We all put on our sunglasses and hats as we de-planed. Or to be more precise, de-cargo-jetted.
All of our gear was labeled on a pallet in the back of the plane. I figured that they'd get it to us sooner or later. Two guys walked over to us. One guy climbed out of a jeep, the other out of a standard Air Force rescue vehicle. climbed out of a jeep and walked over to the four of us.
"Are you guys the new firemen?" he yelled above the roar of the noise that was the plane's engine's winding down and APUs (auxiliary power units) powering up. Our superiors both yelled 'Yes!' above the noise from the aircraft. Oscar and I pointed to the badge/patches on our fatigue shirts.
"Get in." one of them instructed. They were both Sergeants. The two hire ranked men were probably off somewhere cooking steaks.
"They'll let us know when you can come claim your gear. It'll take 'em a while to get it unloaded and sort it out." I looked back at the plane. The rear clam shell doors were opening up and a fork lift was waiting to pick up pallets and set them off to the side. Oscar and I climbed in the back of the jeep and we took off for the fire station. The entire ride did not last two minutes, but all they kept saying was that they were glad we were there. It didn't look that bad, I thought to myself.
Little did I know.
The 'station' turned out to be a buried, concrete bunker that used to house alert fighter aircraft.
And not necessarily ours.
Inside the station it was semi-vast and barren. Along one side there was a major fire fighting vehicle, a rescue vehicle and a pick- up with a self contained fire fighting unit in the bed. In the back was a big light and a basket ball hoop. Along the other side of the huge room were four doors. Between the two middle distant doors was situated a pic-nic table, chairs and a bar-b-que cooking nice cuts of steak. The aroma had hit me as soon as we pulled into the station. One guy pointed to me and said "That's your room. I've already moved my gear out." I walked into the room and looked around. Plain off- white walls. A cot with netting, (not a good sign). A shelf-thing and a spool-table. And a couple of folding chairs. Nothing else.
I hoped for lumber.
"Lunch is almost ready!" someone yelled.
I was really here!
In Egypt!
In the middle of the fuckin' desert! For the next fifty-five days! (Why the government picked fifty-five days is a mystery to me)
And that's how my trip into the middle East started. For the next two months, I would wait there in the desert and see if the students would release the hostages from the American Embassy in Tehran.
Reagan had just kicked Carter's butt, kicking him into political limbo. Never to be heard of except around election time or in a group among other living Presidents.
But the Ayatollah was about to start kicking Uncle Ronnie's butt without having to lift a decrepit, wrinkled old finger. Ronnie's only saving salvation was that the public at large would not know about Reagan's ass whipping, (Khomenie got some of the weapons that he wanted), until years later when Khomenie died and George was in power to block any serious investigation.
There was a feeling in the air that anything could happen. You could reach out an grab it. We all knew it.
The phone rang and McClarity answered it. He nodded a lot and said "Yes sir." a couple of times.
We were told there was to be a briefing that night, as soon as we were pretty much settled in, we all had a briefing at nineteen hundred hours, in the chow hall regarding were we actually were, 'Sight Alpha'.
The briefing was direct and to the point. Besides the land mines in between the double rows of barbed wire, there were also scattered mines off the roads in certain areas. We were instructed to remain on the roads at all times, whether on foot or in a vehicle.
We were not to have any contact with the 'local national' soldiers. Period.
This was some serious SHIT!
And to compensate for that, they treated us well.
Like kings.
Kings, surrounded by barbed wire fences and land mines. With enough M-16s for all personnel. With high tech radar and ops controls. With satellite communications. And 'local national' soldiers carrying AK-47s.
So we ate well and drank a lot. Steak and lobster often and a lot of bar-b-ques. Budwiser, Michelobe and a couple of German beers. We had an above ground pool. We drank some more. We had free movies and pop corn every night. We had bon fires a few times a week.
Although the bon fires got out of hand at one point. The fire department, in our infinite wisdom, lite the biggest bon fire of all, during the course of our stay. It lasted for about a week.
Only because we used oil, diesel, spools of wire, lumber and anything else we could find. It did not occur to any of us then that anyone could have spotted our plume of smoke from fifty miles away.
We won accolades from everyone for weeks after our spectacular bon fire.
It was almost as crazy as M*A*S*H. (The movie, not the TV series.)
At one point, the beer supply had run dangerously low. There was only a low scale beer, P.B.R., (Pabst Blue Ribbon). But it wasn't because of it's taste, as much as it's commercial popularity. It had been there for weeks, because nobody drank it.
The supply plane was scheduled in every Tuesday, early afternoon. The night before, Monday, the supply officer was getting heat from everyone about having to drink THAT BEER. There were loosely implied threats should the beer not be on the plane.
They were laughed off easily.
Or were they?
The young blonde lieutenant with black, horned rim glasses looked nervously around. He saw no friendly faces.
The next day surrounded and gravitated around the 'arrival of the plane'.
"Dee plane, dee plane!" everyone imitated like 'Tattoo' from Fantasy Island, at least one time or another. It got old and trite in a couple of weeks. Ricardo Montalbahn's father spun in his grave.
Everyone's thoughts were on beer.
RAPCON, (a military acronym for some radar-type detection system), would announce the distance and time of arrival of the supply plane. We would eventually spot it off in the north and watch it land headed south and then taxi back toward us.
As the fire department, we would take up a stand-by position after the aircraft parked and shut down. We would then sit back and watch them unload the plane. Which is what we normally did.
Not this time.
We sat leaning forward, to spot anything that looked like decent beer. They unloaded pallet after pallet of supplies. None of which ever turned out to be beer, good, or other wise. The lieutenant was incensed and outraged. Not to mention extremely uncomfortable.
We were running very low. For the next week, we drank P.B.R., very begrudgingly.
Nobody liked it.
But we drank it. Maybe we were that hard up. A few people broke out stashed bottles of the hard stuff. Not real popular in a Muslim country. But we never really got instructions not to bring it. And all enjoyed it.
The following Monday night at the bonfire, they burned the Lieutenant in effigy. Someone had gone into his quarters and stolen one of his uniforms.
After a while and a few beers, he forgave them, whoever they were.
And I'm sure that it had nothing to do with the fact that the cans of K rations we were tossing into the fire were all exploding in his direction. No matter were he stood around the fire. After a while, he was standing by himself. There was only a couple of us who noticed when he left and headed towards the club.
We got to go play tourist. Once or twice a week, poorly disguised Air Force buses take selected personnel from various shops with a couple of 'local national' G.I.s to keep them company.
We visited Luxor, Thebes, the Valley of the Kings and The Valley of the Queens. The temple of Karnac at Luxor. (And not Johnny Carson). Quena, were Cleopatra hung out. And in the right season, we got to go to the beach at the Red Sea. It wasn't the right season when I was there. We got to got shopping in the markets.
We could take pictures.
We could buy souvenirs.
And then tell our friends back home that we went to Italy?
"No, no..." The Government said to us, "you tell them, (my family), that you took breaks to Egypt. You know, like little vacations."
"Vacations, on a TDY?" we asked.
"They're not military. They won't know!" they say.
"My dad's retired. He'll know." we reply.
"Then tell him you can't talk about it!" they suggest, with teeth clenched.
"Okay...okay. All you had to do was say so!"
And we waited for something to happen.
And nothing much did until the day that Reagan was inaugurated into office. At almost the same instant the hostages were free and on their way.
"Hhmmm." I thought to myself suspiciously, some time later.
We were all in the mess hall watching movies, when the phone rang. They turned off a forgettable movies and turned the light on. The commanding officer stood in front of us in silence. He took a deep breathe.
"The hostages have been freed." Before he could continue, we were on our feet cheering. The cheering lasted several minutes. The colonel allowed it to go on. He finally brought up his hands for silence and we fell quiet. "The hostages have been released. They are on a plane now and will be in friendly air space in two hours."
It was all a signal to me. It was the end of several eras and the beginning of a new One.
When my replacements arrived, all I could say was "I'm glad you're here!"
On the way home, going through Germany, I put all of my souvenirs in a package to ship home to myself. The packaging shop was closed and somehow instead, I lost the package, containing all of my souvenirs, my copy of Rolling Stone, plus a manuscript I had put a lot of work into.
After I got back, I called Chris and we talked once. I called a couple of times over several months to see what was new, but we always seemed to miss each other.
I didn't get to the city often from Travis. Although I could have, and possibly should have. I called Chris a few times over several months to see what was new, but we always seemed to miss each other. I worked twenty-four hour shifts at the fire department and he had his own life. I sent a letter to him once and never heard back.
A few years later, I tried calling him. I got his answering machine and left a message. Again, no response.
That was the last time I tried to contact Chris.
The next time I heard about Chris was from Uncle Alvin's daughter, who was visiting friends in the area. She came by for a while and brought us to speed on the goings on of the family. It was then that we heard of Chris's death. She seemed to have a distaste for the subjects, both homosexuality and AIDS. It was something that wasn't spoken of much among other family members up north.
I don't really have any regular contact with any other family member except for Nathan. When I go to Washington, it is to Spokane, where Nathan lives. If he happens to be going to see his family and I am there, I will see them. But we have very little in common. Maybe it's just as well.
The only thing I can say is this.
The last time I saw Chris alive was while morning the death of John. And for the rest of my life, whenever I hear a Beatles or John Lennon song, I will think of Chris.
And Egypt.
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