The Draft Induction Center

The Draft Induction Center,
Was in a warehouse on ‘H’ Street,
Across from railroad tracks
That split the town in two.  
Where young men, mostly black
Or Mexican, and poor whites
Went for pre-induction physicals
Before shipping off to Boot Camp
Then the war in Viet Nam.
Both Bill and I were running
From military conscription, and the war.
I rode with him in the passenger seat
Of his ‘61 Austin-Healy bug-eyed
“Sprite” convertible.
It was raining, he had the top up.
A gathering of like-minds,
Meeting at “Ara’s Apartment,”
A seedy bar out on Weber Avenue.   
The parking lot and streets were wet
When we left at 11:00, the rain stopped.
Bill put the convertible top down,
“For some fresh air,” he said.
We were on our way to Café Midí
Before closing at midnight.
At Olive Avenue, Bill turned right
Then left toward Roeding Park,
On Golden State Boulevard.
The café was in the other direction.
He pulled over near the park fence,
Asked me if I wanted to drive his car?
I climbed over the gear-shift.
He got out, opened the trunk,
Closed it, got in the passenger seat.
I took off at a moderate speed,
Went around the Belmont Circle,
Down and up the subway under the tracks,
And giant silos of chicken-feed.
Bill told me to turn right.
Then right again, at ‘H’ Street
And Divisadero, at the Eagle Café.
Sacramento Street, he jumped up
Threw a gasoline-filled balloon
On the roof of the building on the corner.
He was laughing wildly, holding on
To the metal frame around the windshield.
“Go ‘round the block,” he yelled,
Sparking, with its tip, a road flare
He extracted from his coat pocket.
When we got to the side street,   
He threw the burning flare on the roof
Of the Draft Induction Center.
“Get outta here, quick!” He laughed
Like Laffing Sal at the Fun House.
From the apartment window upstairs,
I listened for sirens, and the rain.

.

Air Raid Sirens

After the war,
there were many air-raid sirens
the city of Fresno installed
at the edges of town
to warn the populace
of an impending atomic attack.
The city tested the working order
of the air raid sirens
from time to time,
in the old days
just to be sure.        
Painted an industrial color
known as “precaution yellow,”
The large sirens, and steps
were mounted on a 20-foot steel pipe
at various locations.
Places like the corner
of Ashlan and West,
where Dakota dead ends at Maroa,
or on Chestnut Avenue
where McKenzie crosses,
Dakota Avenue, east of Millbrook,
the sirens stood waiting.
There were notices published
in the daily newspaper
announcing the siren tests,
on a Tuesday, at 9:00 AM,
All the sirens across the city
would blare for three minutes. 
And when the city did the testing,
sirens all around town howled.
I dreamed of mushroom clouds
detonated over the valley.
I thought of a Russian man
pounding his shoe on a podium,
vowing, “We will bury you.”
I used this extraordinary time
trying to keep a clear thought,
thinking, “not to look at the flash.”
Out of a constant pervasive fear,
I asked my father to build
a bomb shelter in our backyard.
“What for?” he said.
I pondered his reply for a long time.
Life in the city did not stand still
in fear of nuclear annihilation,
as I did. When the sirens went off,
everyone went about their business
like the threat of atomic war wasn’t real.

.

Border Crossing

Bob rolled down the window
Told the border guard,
dressed in a heavy wool coat
and a campaign hat
in 30-degree weather,
“Two Americans going to Vancouver to shop.”
(The pretext: to buy
cut-rate Canadian cigarettes,
or liquor and other goods
for a lower cost and tax-free). 
The beer was better too
in the Northern Provinces,
with more alcohol content.
Even though we had
California license plates,
that should have aroused
the border guard’s suspicion.
I had cash in my pocket.
Five hundred dollars,
ready to bribe the guard
if it became necessary. 
I stared straight ahead,
The guard scrutinized us. 
We were, after all, longhaired,
and bearded expatriates
trying to make an escape,
out of reach of the U.S. Army,
and the military regime.
How many immigrants like us
had he seen that morning?
In the trunk of the car
were two suitcases, a guitar,
and our sleeping bags. |
Our stash was safely hidden,
sewn into the lining of my bag
tightly rolled and tied.
There was a long silence,
both painful and protracted,
as he scanned the interior
through the car window
of Bob’s ‘58 Chevy sedan
with a flashlight in hand.
He checked his clipboard
Then rechecked it,
Looking for our descriptions.
Finding none, with cars lined up
Behind us, he waved us through
the Blaine, Washington
ultra-modern border crossing,
that looked like a gas station.
Into British Columbia,
on a cold and wet morning. 
This was our liberation day.

.

Stephen Barile, a Fresno native and poet, was educated in public schools. He attended Fresno City College, Fresno Pacific University, and California State University, Fresno. Stephen Barile taught writing at Madera Community College, and CSU Fresno. His poems have been published extensively. He lives and writes in Fresno.