Mark's Work: Outasite!

“On one thing, tho, all agree, if anyone can keep his head together, Mark can.”

I heard this so much from my older brother Brian, that I actually started to believe it. Now, as I pour over the pile of letters, news clippings and photographs, I continue to be amazed at the level and volume of support for me, when I was caught up in the military.

From the day I left for Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri, on January 10th, 1972, until I returned home for good in October of 1973, Brian was one of my staunchest supporters. Except for Mama and my girl, Nancy, no one wrote more letters to me than Bro Brian.

He was 24 when I was drafted, and going to school full-time out at Loyola University, in Los Angeles. He had an apartment out in Manchester, with Noel, that was about six blocks from L.A. International Airport. Unlike the time that he had spent at Cal Poly, Pomona, majoring in business, his time at Loyola was completely the opposite, with his interests including studies in philosophy and theology.

He expanded his circle of friends, and from my perspective, his mind, during his time at Loyola. His language had blossomed into that of a hip radical, and I loved it. Gone was his focus on work and his white shirts and ties; in their place were classes of interest, a determination to improve communication, and a genuine distress at my plight.

He sent me Los Angeles Lakers clippings while I was at Fort Leonard Wood, during that magical season when they won 33 consecutive games, and the title. He sent me spring training clippings of the Dodgers while I was at Fort Dix, and then regular season clippings all summer long (not a baseball season to be remembered by the fans for very long).

His letters were a combination of news from Manchester Avenue, and one subject that frequently came up, was that of our commune, even then in the planning. He hosted many gatherings where my plight was discussed and I always got an infusion of correspondence out of these gatherings. At one point he wrote,

“Your letter, received yesterday, was so fantastically outasite! Picture the typical situation, if you will (this is a Wednesday at the apartment that I'm referring to): Brian comes straggling in from school and nearly everyone is here: Noel and Sharon, Nancy, Janet (just arrived on the scene), Joanie, and John Bryan from San Diego. What is everyone standing around doing? They are all reading letters from Markie, and saying, 'Hurry up and open your letter, we haven't got all day!...Wait a shake, Jack, hold on...What IS this? Gimme a chance.'

Outasite. Later, Dave, Jean and Matt showed up...By the way we are anxious to get preparations underway for the all-time most classic party of them all when Markie gets back.”

Wow. For a guy unaccustomed to getting attention, by virtue of my placement dead center in the family structure, this was good stuff.

Brian had to go to court more than once to settle little logistical challenges for me, but he took up the gauntlet and appealed to the judge for justice for me, who was “defending his [beloved] country while on hostile shores.” He wrote me all of the sordid details, including a copy of the transcript of the dialogue in the courtroom, which he recreated from memory.

In the end it added up to a brilliant defense by Brian, and a dismissing of the case of the judge. Prior to departure, I had been cited by the CHP for a smog violation on my '64 Nova, and Brian had gotten the whole thing tossed out, including the fifty to five hundred dollar fine that accompanied the citation. Now that's what I call support.

During my time in the service, Brian ended up down in Guadalajara, Mexico, where he was doing pre-med work. He wrote of his experiences, as he explored the possibility of going into medicine. Frankly, I was not surprised.

All through my time in the army, Brian kept me up-to-date on the scene back home. Early on, when I experienced a momentary breakdown of resolve, and had sent home an SOS, declaring that I could not handle it any more, Brian sent reassurance, along with Noel, who told me, “Do not touch any guns.”

These were my big brothers, having my back, along with my oldest brother Eric, who was also in South Korea at the time, in the Peace Corps, if you can dig the irony of that. Noel communicated with me more on the astro-plane, than with actual words, but Brian always had time in the middle of a German class, or while listening to the Lakers, to scribble-or type-a few words to me.

Our friend, Joannie, sent me this.

I have those letters, still, Brian having saved them and returned them to me at some point in time, and I am astonished to this day, at the emotion and passion he was able to express. His willingness to do so, for me while I was so down, has always blown my mind, to use the vernacular of the period.

His confidence in me to “handle the situation” further amazed me, lending me much of the strength I needed, to make it through without doing anything rash. Because there was a window of fragility there in Missouri, about two weeks in, through which I almost threw a brick.

I simply wanted to go home. On one particular occasion, one morning when I had KP, an eighteen-hour-long stint, I awaited the arrival of my company, thinking I would josh around, and make with the palaver. I kept an eye on the entrance, as I went about my tasks.

When they appeared, I was overwhelmed at how much they resembled robots. No one was allowed to talk, you had to keep your eyes fastened to the back of the head of the guy in front of you, as you went through the chow line, and therefore, no one knew I existed.

Then I realized that I was the same as the rest of them, every morning, and I almost barfed.

I had a full-blown panic attack, right there in the expansive mess hall, and had to pull it together, before I drew the attention of the salty sergeant-major, who liked nothing more than to make trainees’ lives more miserable.

Letter from Guadalajara...

He was quite adept at the task, and I did not want to be one of the two poor bastards, who had to spend the day outside, in freezing weather, doing whatever it was that the mess hall needed to have done in the way of deliveries, garbage, et all.

The net result was that I fired off a letter to Noel and Brian, telling them I was considering bailing out. Both were immensely supportive, and wasted no time letting me know that they were there for me. I did, indeed, survive.

One reason was that steady flow of communication from the world. Included was an article about Vin Scully, the revered broadcaster of the Dodgers, who retired just last year, and just exactly why it was that he was switching over to the Angels, to be their new broadcaster.

Wow. I had completely “forgotten” all about that. It seems Vinny did it for the money.