“AWOL,” he said. “Which is what I’m doing now. I ain’t going to do no six months in the fucking brig, man. I did two tours in Nam. I don’t deserve this kind of treatment. You want to know something?”

“What’s that?”

“I stole this fucking car. Hot-wired the motherfucker.”

“Far out,” I said. “Which way you going?”

“As far as five bucks in gas will take me.”

“I got a little money. Drive me to Haight-Ashbury?”

“Groovy. What are you doing, man, picking your nose?”

“Just checking for cockroaches,” I said weakly. I was afraid I was going to have a fit, and I began to see the black lights—they were coming on big time, but I fought them off. “What was your M.O.S.?”

“Oh-three-eleven, communications. I packed a radio over in I Corps. Three Purple Hearts and three Bronze Stars with valor. That’s why I ain’t doing six months in no brig. I just hope the ’P. waves us through at the gate. I don’t want no high-speed chases.” The Marine lit another of my cigarettes from the butt of the first one. “Hey, man, were you in the war? You look like you got some hard miles on you. Were you in the war? Did you just get out? You’re not going AWOL, too—that ain’t no regulation haircut. Man, you got a headful of hair. On the run? How about it? Were you in the war? You got that thousand-yard stare, man. Hey, man, stop picking your nose and tell me about it.”

Arf!

“Goddammit, are you zoned or what?”

Bow wow!

“I can’t believe this shit. That motherfucker ’P. at the gate is pulling me over. Look at that. Can you believe this shit? They never pull you over at this gate, not at this time of day—and I haven’t got any identification. Shit! Buckle up your seat belt, nose-pickin’ man, we are gonna motate. This fucking Ford has got a blower on the engine and it can boogie. Haight-Ashbury, here we come or we die tryin’. Save us some of that free love! Just hope you get some of that free lovin’—save me some of that good pussy!”

The Marine slammed his foot down full on the accelerator. The T-bird surged like a rocket and blew by the guard post, snapping off the wooden crossbar. For a moment I felt like I was back in the jungle again, a savage in greasepaint, or back in the boxing ring, a primal man—kill or be killed. It was the best feeling. It was ecstasy. The bugs vanished. My skull contained gray matter again. I looked back at the M.P. in the guard post making a frantic call on the telephone. But the crazy Marine at the wheel told me not to worry, he knew the back roads.

I Want to Live!