When I got home from work today, there were new items on my desk. Mom left an article reporting that enlistments fell far short of the army’s goal last year (Hell no, we won’t go). In the margin, in blue fountain-pen ink, my mother’s slim script: “Won’t they have to make up the shortfall by increasing the draft?”

And the paterfamilias left a Department of Motor Vehicles change-of-address form with my name and the address of the apartment in Bay Shore filled in. Paper-clipped to it is a note “From the desk of Richard Baker” ordering me to “sign immediately.” I wonder what he’s up to with this change-of-address stuff. No point in asking. He would have told me if he wanted me to know. I sign the DMV form in the hope that it will mean the government will have a few less tax dollars to spend on napalm.

As far as increasing the draft, it’s hard to know what the government is up to. Last month Nixon declared that the United States would soon begin drawing down the number of troops in Nam, but that hasn’t started yet. On the other hand, nearly two hundred thousand men have been inducted (they either enlisted or were drafted) this year, and it’s only July. That’s the second-highest pace of any year since the Korean War. With fewer and fewer men enlisting voluntarily, there’s only one way to fill the ranks: the draft.

A shout echoes through the house, followed by Alan’s cry. I’m out of my room and trotting down the hall when Musclini storms out of the bathroom, still bare-chested, his face red and glistening from his workout. Alan’s in the tub bawling. Floating in the water around him are three brown turds.

It’s gross, but it’s Alan. Who knows why he did it. Maybe he had to go, and rather than get out of the tub and sit on the toilet wet and shivering, he figured it was easier in the tub. Or maybe he was curious to see what would happen. He’s always been a barometer of the family’s moods; maybe he’s acting out because he can feel the mountains of tension around here.

But there’s nothing malicious about what he’s done. For all I know, taking a dump in the tub is the kind of thing a lot of kids try once. Including some who don’t have anything wrong in the head.

But it’s set Musclini off. And here he comes stomping back down the hall with the wooden paddle.

“Richard, what are you doing?” Mom shouts, following.

The only thing standing between Musclini and Alan is me, in the bathroom doorway. It’s been so long since he’s spanked Alan that I’m shocked he still has the paddle.

“Out of the way!” he shouts.