What
Happened to Dave?
Part 1
Throughout my life, people with whom I have been acquainted have been known to mutter to themselves and to each other this phrase: “What happened to Dave?” The implication of this question, of course, being that this poor boy somehow has lost his mind, or, at least has changed into something we never thought he would become.
Part 1 is perhaps the most unpleasant for me to write since it is the most embarrassing for me to write. I am in no way proud of much of my past, and so, for editorial purposes, I will strive to avoid sordid details.
I was raised in a somewhat God-fearing family. Although we never went to “church” (save for weddings and funerals), as children we were taught right from wrong. My parents were not shy to exercise their God-given right to discipline me. Of the seven children, I am sure that I received the lion’s share of that discipline! But, I am also the first to admit that of the seven, I most assuredly deserved this negative attention.
I “came of age” in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s. If you are familiar with the cultural history of America during this time, many societal changes were taking place, leading to a more permissive and self-indulgent attitude toward life. In those days, I was heavily influenced by a form of music called “acid rock” (the precursor to what is now known as “heavy metal”). Related to this form of music was a culture of drugs and illicit sex. I also got sucked into this culture (although I am not claiming victimhood here as I “sinned” with my eyes wide opened). The old adage, “Wine, Women, and Song,” became to us “Sex, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll” (which was the actual title to a song in those days). Friends and relatives who were not into this culture were shaking their heads and asking themselves and each other, “What happened to Dave?”
During my senior year in high school (1973-74), I can count on my fingers the number of times I did not go to school “straight” (i.e., not under the influence of some drug). I can barely remember my senior year. After a failed attempt at post-secondary education at an area community college (I majored in pinball, billiards, and foosball), I enlisted in the U.S. Navy. On the one hand, it was one the best things to happen to me in that it helped me to grow up and become a more self-disciplined person.
On the other hand, the Navy was one of the worst things to happen to me in that it opened me to a world of drugs that was global in its proportions. No longer was I exposed to the array of drugs available to a Minnesota boy, but now I had access to the drug markets of Taiwan, Korea, Hong Kong, the Philippines, Thailand, and other ports of call. I had a roommate from our ship who died of a heroin overdose in our house in Japan in 1975. You would think that I would have been “scared straight” at the sight of a friend being shipped back home to his parents in a box (he was only 17), but I was too stupid (and self-indulgent) to care.
The last three of my seven years in the Navy were spent on shore duty in San Diego. My drug habit became so entrenched (I rarely left the house to go anywhere – be it work or play – without being stoned), that I was resigned to a life of staying high. Drug testing in those days was not as sophisticated as it is today, so I was able to live out my charade undetected. Of course, drugs are not cheap, so I was forced to make a decision: Stop doing drugs or start dealing dope in order to “smoke” or “snort” my profits, and at least break even.
Well, I chose the latter. When you choose a life of dealing, you always get slightly alarmed when the door knocks. Sure, it could be a customer. But it could also be police officers, or, worse yet, an armed robber.
One fateful night in December of 1979, my “party” was crashed by three armed and masked men who broke into my house and violently robbed us. While handcuffed in the bathroom with one of my best friends, they raped his wife in the other room. It was probably the first time I had prayed since I was a boy. We all survived that night (although they had put a gun inside a pillow up to another friend’s head), but I don’t think any of the half-dozen folks at my house that night will ever be the same.
So, do you think that the experience of the rape and robbery (and near death experience) of that night made me “scared straight”? Contrary. I got so messed up, that I actually did MORE drugs in order to numb the pain and fear. Procuring an semi-automatic weapon for self-defense did little to salve the pain.
Curiously, during this time I began to attend San Diego Junior College at night as a journalism student. It was here that I really learned how to write. One thing that wrote back then that really sticks out in my mind to this day was an assignment about my goal in life at that time: “To be a Hedonist.” My sole goal in life was pleasure! Boy, what a comic-book world I lived in then!
Meanwhile, I met a lovely young lady who was from the “other world” (the world of the non-druggies). Her cousin was stationed with me in San Diego, and was a Filipino. During my 2-1/2 years in the Philippines while stationed there, I was able to study and learn (to some proficiency) their dialect (known as Tagalog). This endeared him to me, and he introduced me to his cousin. She knew nothing of my illicit activities (or she would have had nothing to do with me).
Meeting her forced me to begin to live a double life. I had experience doing this for nearly seven years in the Navy (I was a well-respected petty officer by that time), but now I had to extend this façade to my personal life. Fortunately for her, she moved to Chicago after a few months, so that she would be spared from what happened next.
In the late fall of 1980, the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) and the Naval Investigative Service (NIS), paid a visit to our house in Coronado, California. For whatever reason, I was not home, but my roommate and his “connection” were both there. There was a line of law enforcement vehicles a block long hiding out in the alley. They “busted” my roommate and his friend for trying to sell them two pounds of hashish. They both ended up in federal jail, with my roommate eventually doing hard labor time in a military prison. Part of that whole mess also involved me. Unbeknownst to me, a former “friend” had done a “controlled buy” from me just before that. They had pictures and everything.
I was subsequently arrested and court-martialed. The prosecution’s witness was very unreliable, and my lies were very convincing. But, military justice plays to military music, and the jury of my “peers” (they were career officers and I was a lowly enlisted man) found me guilty of the possession and sale of a controlled substance (which was later downgraded to an “attempt” to do this, as the lab test was illegible).
Once the jury stepped out of the room, the question now was, what sentence will they hand down? It was at this point that my lawyer gave me the wise counsel to simply “pray.” I went into the “head” (Navy lingo for a restroom) and got on my knees and earnestly beseeched God to not let them throw me in the “brig” (Navy lingo for prison or jail). Well, God answered that prayer, because the jury chose to not reduce my rank or put me in the brig. They sentenced me to 3 months of hard labor (without confinement) and forfeiture of two-thirds of my pay for 3 months. I was still eligible to be honorably discharged when my enlistment expired in four months!
The reason I went into such detail for the recent story is that it lays the groundwork for what happened to me in “Part 2.” God was at work in my life even then in that courtroom to prepare my heart for what was about to happen. Please read Part 2 to learn more. (Incidentally, it is not surprising to know that “JAG” is one of my favorite TV shows. I lived it!)