Fortunately, I had learned that move a few months before, on one of my first visits to Gus’s, and I managed to plant my left foot before my ass hit ...he floor. I spun around, and saw a thick built guy, older, maybe thirty five or so, standing in front of me, his black hair, like I said, pulled back into that fucking ridiculous pony tail, with what I can only describe as a pubic patch on the bottom of his chin. “Hey ya little shit,” he said, the stink of cheap beer and cigarettes on his breath,. He snapped, “What number do you see?”“Forty-seven”“No, you can’t see forty-seven. Look carefully and tell me what number you see?” he growled.“I still see forty-seven.”“God dammit, kid. I said you can’t see forty-seven. What fucking number do you see? Don’t give me any shit,” he barked.I was getting apprehensive, so I closed my eyes hoping that when I opened them I wouldn’t see forty-seven again. I knew he had the power to immediately grade me as “Good to Go to Viet Nam”. My heart was pounding. More

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