The transition had not happened overnight. It stemmed from an attitude that had its origins in a chance meeting with a man almost twice Curt’s age. It was 1979. Curt was nineteen. He’d recently finished boot camp, which had provided a dramatic boost to his self-esteem. He and several of his newfound colleagues, which included several African-Americans, had left the base to visit a bar on Point Loma. It was a bar frequented by armed forces personnel, particularly navy divers and Marines.

The bar was dark and smoky. The only light emanated from low-wattage bulbs inside old-fashioned, hard-hat diving helmets. The music was mostly from a band Curt later learned was Skrewdriver, and the man who was feeding quarters into the jukebox was sitting next to it, at a small table by himself.

Curt and his buddies crowded in at the bar and ordered beers. They swapped war stories about their recent boot camp experiences and laughed heartily. Curt was content. It was the first time he had felt at all like part of a group. He’d even excelled during training and had been selected as a squadron leader.

Eventually tiring of the thudding, monotonous music, Curt drifted over to the jukebox. He’d had several beers and was euphorically mellow. He looked over the selections and fingered a handful of quarters.

“You don’t like the music?” the man at the small table asked.

Curt looked down at the stranger. He was of moderate size with close-cropped hair. His features were sharp with narrow lips and straight, white teeth. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a T-shirt and ironed jeans. There was a small American flag tattooed on his right upper arm. But his most striking attribute was his eyes. Even in the semi-darkness, they had a piercing quality that Curt found almost hypnotic.

“The music’s all right,” Curt said. He squared his shoulders. It appeared as if the stranger was sizing him up.

“You should listen to the words, friend,” the man said. He took a pull on his beer.

“Yeah, what would I hear?” Curt asked.

“A message that might save the goddamn country,” the man said.

A wry smile crept onto Curt’s face. He glanced over at his buddies, thinking they should hear this guy.

“My name’s Tim Melcher,” the man said. He pushed an empty chair out from his table with his foot. “Sit down. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Curt looked at the beer in his hand. It was down to the dregs.

“Come on, soldier,” Tim said. “Take a load off your feet and do yourself a favor.”

“I’m a Marine,” Curt said.

“It’s all the same,” Tim said. “I was army myself. First Cavalry Division. I did two tours in Vietnam.”

Curt nodded. The word Vietnam made his legs feel rubbery. It meant real war instead of the playacting Curt and his friends had been doing. It also reminded Curt of his older brother Pete, the Bensonhurst football star. Eight years older than Curt, he’d had the bad luck of being drafted. He’d been killed in Vietnam the year before the war was over.