LBJ Got Me Thrown Out of the House Before I Could Have Calzone
LBJ got me thrown out of my childhood home. Actually, it wasn’t my childhood home; I said that for dramatic effect – a Dickensian touch. My childhood home was a small rickety house on a hill in Repugnant Valley, though not above the valley. I got thrown out of the large house on Nowhere Street where my friend Timber and I paid rent to Old Yeller and Mother for a bedroom. It happened at an age when I should have been out on my own, anyway, whether I paid rent or not.
LBJ could have known I’d stayed too long at home by reviewing my Selective Service file (yes, Virginia, we are very selective. First, we select this one, then we select that one, then we…). The file would have shown in c. 1968 young men who were c. twenty or so years of age should have been out on their own. In fact, c. 1968 men aged c. twenty or so years should have been out on their own killing the commie bastards in Vietnam. According to LBJ, anyway, and according to Robert McNamara (and his band of hawks), unless, of course, that young man happened to be white, rich, in college, or a Senator’s son (hey, I ain’t no Senator’s son).
Perhaps LBJ knew I was a shirker in his war of the dominoes. Perhaps LBJ had conspired with Old Yeller to have me thrown out of my home. After all, where did Old Yeller get the backbone to actually throw me out if not backed by the might of the President of the United States? Old Yeller loved that dirty little war as much as LBJ initially did. He’d continue loving it when his idol Richard Nixon took it over. In fact, Old Yeller would come to love it all the more as he fell in love with his buddy Dick and his toady Spiro Gearloose (I mean Nixon’s toady here, not Old Yeller’s toady; Old Yeller’s toady was his own dick, if you see what I mean).
LBJ must have known that I’d refused to sign a loyalty oath in order to receive a student loan, which action caused me to drop out of college and thereby made me eligible for the draft. And LBJ must have known, too, that I had a subscription to Ramparts magazine and I. F. Stone’s Weekly. He certainly knew I had aided and abetted the head of the local Students Against Goddamn Society by getting him home safely one night after a drinking binge at Rex’s. I’ll bet, in fact, LBJ told Old Yeller all of this and had said to Old Yeller “Throw the li’l sumbitch out of the house and Ah’ll draft his ass and ship him to Nam.”
I should have known Old Yeller’s and my argument hadn’t taking the usual route when I called him a narrow-minded red-necked son-of-a-bitch and a vein popped out where it crossed his temple. The vein signaled I’d crossed a line with Old Yeller and he truly believed what he was arguing. The vein had never popped out before in one of our arguments. I should have known if it wasn’t a Very Big Event, it was a big enough event nonetheless.
When I called LBJ a narrow-minded red-necked son-of-a-bitch the protruding vein grew larger. I should have known Old Yeller actually cared - about killing the commie bastards, the domino theory, and LBJ. He cared I was betraying LBJ, my country and democracy by not going off to Vietnam and getting myself killed. I could be admired and he could be admired in turn for producing me (“I’d like to introduce my son, Little Cannonfodder Yeller. I created him, you know. He’d shake your hand, but he’s dead. But he’s admired.”).
Little did it matter to Old Yeller America was betraying its sons, mothers and fathers. Little did it matter to Old Yeller LBJ wouldn’t run again because he had betrayed America’s trust and the good he had done. What mattered to Old Yeller was I had as good as called America a son-of-a-bitch. What mattered to Old Yeller was I had shirked my patriotic duty by not going to war. He threw me out of the house while Mother stood in the kitchen door and watched with calzone pastry dripping off her fingers. Various brothers stood in the corners of the room pissing their pants (they did this a lot) and Timber sat at the table reading the newspaper.
When Old Yeller said “I don’t want your rent money anymore, it has the stench of a coward’s hands on it,” I knew I’d been thrown out. I left that evening while Timber stayed long enough to eat Mother’s calzone. I left without any calzone. Thanks a bunch, LBJ.
Geordie de Boer
contents rewind fast forward slow motion director's cut special features