Death has laughed at me many times, sometimes from distance, other times slapping me on the shoulder proclaiming, “Ain’t this a hoot?”

Death’s hilarity eludes me. Don’t get me wrong, I love humor, shit, sometimes my humor-mode kicks in when I’m writing, talking to friends and relatives, or trying to make sense of this world we live in. But death just isn’t funny.

Accessing my brain’s hard drive. Going through files, checking the cache. Okay I see it. Something tells me not to download, but it’s been initiated. Sight. Sound. Smell. Conversations. DO NOT REMEMBER. Too Late.

In 1973, I was an 18-yr. old naïve security-police officer stationed at Rickenbacker Air Force Base in Columbus, Ohio. I thought I wanted to be a cop, and believed I was fulfilling some destined course. Drugs, social unrest (Ohio State and nukes), racial tensions, and fears that the Paris Peace Accord was bullshit soon altered my opinion on my destiny. Military life sucked. But that’s not what almost killed me.

One February night I was posted at the flight line’s main gate. It was a cushy gig: adequate shelter from the cold, a chance to sit on my ass, and access to an outside line in case I wanted to order pizza (Canadian bacon was a popular topping amongst my fellow SP’s). Sgt. John Collins was the shift-supervisor. He was a pudgy, high-strung type of dude, usually high on whatever K-9 confiscated during drug sweeps of the maintenance and ad-min barracks. Now, I was no innocent when it came to getting high -- we SP’s were the worst offenders. Office of Special Investigations knew this, but us SP’s hade a code: “No one narc’d”!

“Sarge, Main Gate all secure,” I said, reporting my post.

“What’s tonight’s number?” When pulling guard duty on the flight line, a number was used for security purposes. Know the number, and K-9 won’t bite your ass.

“Thirteen.”

“Right on... did you hear Beasley got busted? OSI snagged his ass.”

I nodded. Beasley usually made pot-runs between Scranton and Columbus when weed was low, or of poor quality.

“You have something to say?”

I stood next the kerosene heater looking into Sgt. Collins’ maniac eyes. “No.” My brain scanned for missed security protocols.

Then it happened, Sgt. Collins had his .38 Smith&Wesson wedged deep into my gut. The hammer wasn’t cocked, but Sgt. Collins was tripping. I figured he was doing mushrooms.

“Fuck-face!”  He was sweating that “crazy” sweat.

 “Sarge?”

He was going to shoot me… execute me. I envisioned the darkness of a body bag. I figured I was about to meet God. The smell of kerosene and fear permeated the guard shack.

“It was you!”

I couldn’t speak.

Sgt. Collins spit in my face. “You fucking rat. You know what I do with rats, don’t you ass-wipe?”

I stared at the .38.

“ I kill ‘em.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t shit myself; I almost did, but I didn’t.

He pulled the trigger. Nothing. The gun wasn’t loaded. I don’t know whether he was too stoned to remember to the bullets, or it was a misfire. I just don’t know. I do know that the hammer’s little dick of a firing ping trying to ignite some perverted pleasure was the loudest thing I ever heard up until that time. I stood close to FB-111’s and KC 135’s as they fired up their engines. I heard M-16’s on full automatic. I forgot to wear my earplugs when firing a M-79 grenade launcher. I heard my mother’s screams when my father beat her…

People say when they think they’re going to die, their lives flash before them. Mine didn’t. I just stood there shaking – terrified. I was also armed with a .38, but never thought of unholstering it. I just watched that freak get back into his truck. There was no slow motion, just anti-climax.

 I opened the main-gate and waived him through.