Sheep Dip

Corporal Toby Weydig was lazy. Some people might think of him as a good person or a bad person, but everyone acquainted with Corporal Weydig would agree that he was extremely indolent.

In May of 1970, Toby was discharged from the Army after honorably completing his two-year draft obligation. Although Toby’s two years of military service coincided with some of the bloodiest fighting of the Vietnam War, the closest Corporal Weydig ever got to Southeast Asia were his weekly visits to the Thai restaurant, The Golden Triangle, located about a half-mile beyond the gates of Fort Dix in southern New Jersey. Toby was crazy about the restaurant’s seafood noodle cuisine and the proprietor’s long-legged daughter, Bobbi.

Corporal Weydig spent his entire two-year tour of duty at Fort Dix, an infantry training facility that turned out human fodder for the war. As a trainee, Toby was slotted for a platoon in Vietnam until he heard a rumor while working KP in the fort’s huge kitchen facility. A fat and
likeable mess sergeant advised Toby that in order to get out of the Army, all one had to do was to pee in bed every night. The overweight cook insisted that a medical discharge would be awarded
for chronic bed wetting.

The cook may have been telling the truth, or perhaps he enjoyed the thought of headquarters being bombarded with urine-stained sheets. Toby Weydig promptly wet his bed for twenty-seven consecutive days. Not having to get up at night to go to the bathroom certainly
appealed to the young recruit.

Toby wasn’t offered a discharge. However, he was pulled off infantry orders at the completion of boot camp and assigned to the fort’s vast laundry service. His first sergeant, who truly disliked Toby, told him that he was promoted to corporal because of his expertise in
cleansing out the nocturnal wet-dream emissions of homesick recruits who refused to swallow their libido-busting daily allotment of saltpeter tablets. Toby shrugged off the cruel sarcasm and
his first sergeant’s contempt for him, reasoning that it was much easier than having to shrug off shrapnel and jungle fungus.

When May 8th arrived, Corporal Toby Weydig became plain old Toby Weydig. Despite his lack of combat experience, Toby noticed that his separation paperwork repeatedly listed the phrase, Vietnam Era Veteran. The words made Toby proud and he remembered a conversation he had with the beautiful Asian waitress, Bobbi. She once expressed admiration and concern for all the young boys who were being filtered through Fort Dix to fight in such a horrible war. Toby, in a rare instance of defensive posturing, drew himself up and
staring into Bobbi’s eyes stated, “Listen Bobbi, when the Viet Cong hit the Jersey Shore who do you think is going to repel them?” She laughed, then Toby laughed too, but he didn’t think it was so funny.

Toby was happy to leave the military, but was financially depressed. He had saved nothing from his paltry paychecks the past two years. Before boarding a bus that would take him into the New York City Port Authority Bus Terminal on 42nd Street, Toby called his father.
“Hello, Pop.”
“Toby?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s it going, son?”
“I’m free, Pop.” My service to my country is over.”
“There’s nothing free here, Toby. You got a job lined up?”
“Not yet, Pop. But I’m going to get one as soon as I return.”
“Return where?”
“I was hoping you and Ma could put me up for a short time while I look for work.”
His father grunted into the telephone, place his hand over the mouthpiece, and shouted something to Toby’s mother. Although Toby couldn’t make out his mother’s muffled reply, her tone didn’t sound encouraging.

“Your mother wants to know how long you’re planning to stay.”
“Christ, Pop, I’m just asking for a few days, maybe a week or so until I can find my own place. Gimme a break, will ya?”
“Hey, Toby, the only reason why you ended up down at Dix was because you were too lazy to take your SATs and get your ass into college like everyone else. Chasing skirts was more important, right? Your mother and I begged you for five years to get a lousy part-time job. Did you?”
Toby wrinkled his forehead and pressed the receiver against his temple. “I made my own money,” he muttered.
“That’s right,” said his father. “But I don’t count selling nickel bags and mescaline in the school locker room as gainful employment. How do we know that you’ve changed? I don’t want no twenty-one-year-old mooching off me. You’re not a kid, Toby. You’re a man.”
Toby stared at his reflection in the telephone booth. “Look, Pop, if you don’t respect me, at least respect the uniform I’m wearing. Let me prove that I’ve changed. All I’m asking for is a few days to get myself organized. That’s all. I respect myself now, Pop. I want you and Ma to respect me too.”
“Okay,” said his father and hung up the phone.
It upset Toby that he would have to spend his first summer of freedom in two years working at some stupid job. The more Toby thought about his impending summer drudgery, the more outraged he became.
Monday morning, Toby’s parents were pleased to see him up and dressed way before his 9:30 appointment at the Veterans Administration employment office. His father was annoyed by his son’s three-day growth of beard, but Toby explained that he was sick of his military look and his facial hair had nothing to do with a lack of pride in his military service but that the hippie girls he was anxious to meet would be turned off by his clean-cut look.

Hopefully, a beard would be a quick fix solution, at least until his hair grew out.
The lobby of the V.A. counseling services was already crowded by the time Toby arrived. All of the young men seated within the semi-circle of chairs had long hair and were dressed in shorts or blue jeans. Toby felt like a freak because of his close-cropped hair, sports jacket and tie.

Some of his fellow veterans gave Toby a mock salute, which he returned with a grin. A tall, thin veteran around Toby’s age with greasy long hair and a bushy moustache walked over and
extended his hand.

“Hi. My name’s James, but friends call me Mr. Jimmy. First timer?”
Toby nodded and shook the man’s hand. “I’m Toby.”
“Which branch did you escape from, Toby?”
“Army. And you?”
“Same.”
“Mr. Jimmy, how come everybody’s dressed so. . . relaxed at an employment office?”
Mr. Jimmy grinned and glanced over at the receptionist. “Are you really looking for work?”
“I have no goddamn choice. I’m broke.”
“That’s not true, Toby. You look like a smart guy.”
“Yeah, so?” Toby was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable with Mr. Jimmy and the rest of his brothers-in-arms.
“Knowledge is power,” whispered Mr. Jimmy.
“I don’t need power. I need cash,” replied Toby.

“You ever hear of U.C.X.?”
“No. What’s that, Mr. Jimmy?”
“It’s a huge government tit,” giggled Mr. Jimmy, “that you can suck on for a long time if you stroke it right and don’t pull too hard.”
Mr. Jimmy lit up a cigarette and offered one to Toby. Toby shook his head but listened intently as Mr. Jimmy explained that U.C.X. was a special unemployment program for returning veterans. It guaranteed them an eighty-one-dollar-a-week check for six months while they looked for work. Mr. Jimmy said there was a special U.C.X. line at the State unemployment office so that unlike regular benefit seekers, there was no long and annoying wait. He claimed that picking
up checks every two weeks was fast and painless.

Toby was shocked. “Wow. Six months is a long time and that’s pretty good money.”
Mr. Jimmy laughed so loud the receptionist at the far side of the room looked over at him.
“I’m on my ninth month, man. I’m here because I need to get approval for another three-month extension. The state makes you clear with a V.A. rep before cutting you more checks after your
six months has lapsed. Every guy you see is here for another extension on their account. You’re the only rookie here today.”
“But doesn’t the employment counselor try to hook you up with work?”
“Nah, he’s cool. He doesn’t give a shit. Besides, he just runs the same old tired jobs over and over again on his viewfinder. People think we Vietnam Vets are all crazy dope-smoking fiends on the brink of violence. Guys offering real jobs don’t register with the V.A. office.”
“That sounds great,” said Toby. “But there’s one problem. I’m not a Vietnam Vet. I spent my tour at a fort in New Jersey.”

Mr. Jimmy shrugged. “So what? I was stationed in California. I pissed into the Pacific Ocean a few times, so maybe something of me made it over to Southeast Asia. But it doesn’t matter where you served, it’s when you served. As long as it was during wartime, a jungle grunt
shooting his ass off for thirteen months, or a stateside paper shuffler like me both get the same benefits.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a shout of “Mr. Weydig!” The two men shook hands as Toby headed towards the employment counselor’s office.
Mr. Jimmy had spoken the truth. Early the next morning Toby was down at the state unemployment office, inaugurating his U.C.X. account.
The unemployment office was located in Englewood, a Bergen County city Toby detested. When he walked inside the building, he couldn’t believe how jammed it was. There were more than a dozen lines stretching from the teller’s stations all the way to the front of the
building. Toby spotted the overhead sign, U.C.X., and was pleased to see only eight people standing underneath it.

The clerk, a matronly looking woman about his mother’s age smiled and handed him forms to fill out. After completing the paperwork, he returned to the clerk and she gave him his first check.
“I know that a lot of people don’t appreciate what you boys did for our country, but I do,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Toby.
“I’m glad your horror show is over and that you made it back safely. Welcome home.”

Toby smiled at the woman and nodded. While he cashed his check at an Englewood bank, he glanced at his paperwork to see if his non-combatant status was listed anywhere. It wasn’t. In smeared black print it simply stated Vietnam Era Veteran.

The summer turned into a happy dream for Toby. He spent most of it down the Jersey shore with his buddies, swimming and picking up girls. In the beginning, he pretended to his parents that he was truly searching for employment. He’d leave the house in the morning looking for work, but would often return late in the evening, sunburned, tired and wearing a completely different change of clothes.

The truth was revealed weeks later when his father happened upon
him filling out his bi-weekly employment search sheet that he had to turn into the unemployment office as proof that he was sincerely looking for a job in order to qualify for his benefits.

While his father silently watched, Toby scoured the newspaper help wanted section, copying down the names and addresses of businesses where he supposedly interviewed. The clerks at Unemployment never challenged his desire to find work, but his father did. His parents were so upset at their son’s deception—theft is the word they used—that they kicked him out of their house.

Deception had become an integral part of Toby’s summer of freedom. Once he discovered that he could earn respect and money from the state by pretending to be a warrior, he decided to do the same with his social life. It started as a simple pick-up line for bikini-clad
beauties on the beach. Quite a few young ladies would offer up comfort to the returned war veteran who was trying to piece his life together after the trauma of unrelenting, senseless combat.

Soon Toby was presenting himself as a burnt-out infantry veteran to all he met. After his parents forced him to leave, a World War II veteran who ran a decayed motel near the beach let Toby stay free of charge in a basement room. It was a solemn gesture of brotherhood between two combat veterans.

If one were to search for something positive to say about Toby at this time, although he was a very lazy young man, he was not a lazy liar. It was amazing how much energy he poured into his new persona.
Accepting the limitations of his imagination and ignorance, he’d spend hours at the library, reviewing newspaper microfilm that chronicled the war during his two years at Fort Dix.

Toby took such copious notes that one would think he was a dedicated actor researching a challenging role.
As the summer came to a close, a new Toby Weydig had emerged. A kind of bitterness crept inside this world-weary twenty-one-year-old veteran. He was upset at his parents for kicking him out. He loved to tell the story of their cruel indifference to their returning warrior
son and was quite successful soliciting support and sympathy from both men and women whenever he offered up his torrid tale of disrespect and rejection.

Less than three weeks after moving in with friends renting a dilapidated house in Bergenfield, Toby was notified by the New Jersey Department of Unemployment that his benefits were being terminated for falsifying his work search sheet. He felt as if his entire world had imploded, a world based on the gratuitous respect for his military exploits. His roommates offered him little comfort.

“Big deal, get a job,” said Jeffrey. “I got a job. You’ve got to kick in your share of the rent. The last guy we roomed with fell down on his share. We bailed him out for a few months and then he skipped on us. We’re not carrying you, Toby. We can’t afford it.”

“It’s not having to find work that upsets me, Jeffrey. It’s the indifference of a government who can send me out into a killing field and then suddenly call me a liar and a fraud and take away the one measly comfort I earned. Earned! I earned those checks! I’m not going to be disrespected by the same people I put my life on the line for. I was abused in war. I will not be abused in peace!”

Jeffrey shrugged. “Speaking of abuse, how about cleaning out the sink after you trim your beard? When I went to wash my face this morning I almost puked. It felt like I was dipping my face into a urinal filled with pubes because sometimes it smells like you pissed in the sink.”
Toby’s sorrow at losing his benefits turned into total fear as his appointment with the Claims Examiner drew closer. He knew that everyone thought of Vietnam Vets as deranged assholes, and by God, he was going to scare the sonofabitch who was trying to terminate his benefits into extending his unemployment account. On the way to his appointment, Toby Weydig did something he had not done in many years. He entered a church to pray for help. It was called The Good Shepherd Assembly of Englewood and was located a block and a half from the unemployment office.

The small church was dimly lit. Its light came from the concentrated bunches of candles burning beneath beautifully crafted tableaus and icons scattered about the church. All of the religious mosaics, sculptures, and paintings depicted a bearded, loving shepherd tending his flock. Toby was so moved by the quiet, peaceful atmosphere that he dropped into a pew and sat for many minutes with his eyes closed, his head resting against the smooth wooden bench. The comforting coolness of early morning dew seemed to be ingrained into the fine wood; the foul, wincing headache that Toby had taken to bed and still gripped his skull suddenly vanished.

With the disappearance of his headache, Toby leaned forward inside the pew and opened up his eyes. He noticed that his anger had also disappeared, and with it, his anxiety over his impending confrontation with the Claims Examiner. Viewing all the images of the good
shepherd, he knew that he had to choose between good and evil, to take a moral stance with that New Jersey civil servant’s interrogation that was less than an hour away. Toby smiled, bowed his head, and ran out of the church of The Good Shepherd Assembly and straight to the Englewood Public Library’s reference department.

The librarian apologized for the lack of materials she had concerning sheep, but she did lead Toby to a hopeful wall of shelves lined with encyclopedias. Hope turned to help as Toby borrowed some scrap paper and a pencil and began to furiously jot down facts about sheep. He scribbled away until it was time to leave for the interview.
On the walk over to the unemployment office, Toby read and re-read his library research, pulling out phrases and facts that he recited like a mantra. Right before he pushed open the Claims Examiner’s cubicle door, he slipped his sheep list inside his U.C.X. folder and took a deep breath.

Seated behind a cluttered desk was a man who rose to shake his hand. The chunky claims examiner appeared to be about forty with a neatly trimmed moustache and a Prince Valiant hairstyle. The man’s glassy green eyes were highlighted by deep set circles of black. The hand he extended was weak and Toby noticed its pale, effeminate smoothness and size.

“The name’s Moolins, Dennis Moolins,” he said. “And you are Toby Weydig?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Moolins eyed every inch of Toby’s appearance. His inspection ended when he glared directly into Toby’s face. Toby remembered what a pamphlet from that very office had stated about successful job interviews, and proceeded to direct his own glare at the bridge of the man’s nose as he was offered a seat.
“You know why you were called into this office don’t you, Mr. Weydig?”
“I believe I’m being accused of fraud, sir.”
Mr. Moolins lifted a fistful of papers from a folder. “I personally called these lists of potential employers you’ve submitted when picking up your checks and not one can verify that you had applied for work with their organization. Can you come up with a word other than fraud
to describe my investigation, Mr. Weydig? May I call you Toby?

Toby nodded.
“You can call me Dennis. I’ll be glad to listen to any explanation you can offer for not searching for work, Toby, but based on the evidence-or rather the lack of evidence-for your job searches, I’m afraid I have no choice but to terminate your unemployment benefits.”

Toby pinched open his UCX folder and peeked inside.
“Are you going to defend your behavior, Toby?” asked Mr. Moolins as he returned to his desk and began to scribble something onto an official looking piece of paper.
“Defend, Mr. Moolins? I defended my country for two years and now that I’ve returned home, I’m being forced to defend myself against the same government that sent me to fight its war? Is that what you’re asking me to do, Mr. Moolins?”

The claims examiner stopped writing and looked up at his client. “This isn’t a battle, Toby. It’s simply an inquiry into the truth, the truth of your honest search for employment. I conduct these weekly interviews with both veterans and non-veterans.
“Are you a military man, Mr. Moolins?”

“I never served in the Armed Forces, if that’s what you’re asking. But I do respect you fellas who did,” he added, somewhat defensively.
“Do you respect how war can change a person, Mr. Moolins?”
“Yes, but I don’t classify lying and cheating your government for undeserved benefits as a legitimate change in a warrior’s mentality. Do you, Toby?”
“My change came from the brutality I witnessed. If I was to find employment that’s directly connected to my military service, I’d have to find work as a butcher.”

Moolins glanced at Toby’s file. “Butcher’s probably the only occupation you didn’t list on your fictitious job search forms.
“No, sir. There’s one more. One true job, the only career where I know I’d be able to excel and utilize the intense changes resulting from my combat experience.”
“And what would that job be, Toby?”
“Shepherd.”
Moolins raised his eyebrows. “Did I hear you correctly, Toby? You did say shepherd, as in one tends sheep?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m afraid you’re living in the wrong part of the country if tending sheep is to be your life’s work, Toby.”
“But this is my home, Mr. Moolins!” Toby rose from his seat and placed his hands on the investigator’s desk. “Are you saying that I’m responsible for the accident of my New Jersey birth?”

“Please be seated, Mr. Weydig.” The claims examiner stared into Toby’s eyes in an attempt to intimidate him. “Let’s say I could find a situation where you could perform shepherding duties. What sort of knowledge or expertise in the shepherding profession could you
offer a potential employer?”
Toby smiled. “I’m an expert on sheep, sir. My only respite from the war were the hours I spent assisting monks at a Buddhist temple, helping them tend their sheep.”

“You don’t say?” smirked Moolins.
Toby nodded. “Did you know that sheep are not only even tempered, but even toed?
“No, I’m completely unaware of that information,” said Moolins as he began to fidget in his chair.
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Moolins?”
“I don’t think that. . . well, I suppose I am.”
“Then you must be aware that sheep are referred to more often than any other animal in the bible.”
Moolins smiled and jotted a sentence into his file report. “So, you’re telling me you’ve had hands on experience as a shepherd?”
“Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, the most moving moment of my life occurred when I dipped a newborn lamb’s umbilical cord in iodine to prevent infection. It made me feel full.”

The claims examiner rattled some papers on his desk. “Your file is also pretty full, Toby, and the animal that the New Jersey Bureau of Unemployment Benefits associates with your name isn’t lamb, but bull.”
Toby leapt from his seat. “I don’t care what you think of me or what names you call me, but how dare you mock the sweetest of God’s creatures! Sheep are sacred beings Mr. Moolins, and I’m more than proud of the time I spent trying to control their foot rot by my tedious
trimming of their fungus infested feet! Or blue tongue. Have you ever seen a lamb with that horrible disease? Do you think you’re so much better than a sheep? Toby stared at Moolin’s stomach. “Well, let me tell you, one of the most common diseases that inflicts them is
overeating, so don’t try to distance yourself too much from those sweet and joyful souls!

Moolins jabbed a thumb into the excess of flesh under his chin. “Calm down, Mr. Weydig. This is a claims investigation, not an inquisition.”
“Take away my benefits, withhold my money, but don’t taunt me for telling you the truth about the first animal to be domesticated by man 11,000 years ago in Southwestern Asia!” Toby paused for a breath and a sigh while grinding his teeth, trying to buy enough time to recall more sheep encyclopedia facts without having to peek at his folder.
“Calm down, Toby. I’m just trying to help you find relief from your nightmarish rut of unemployment.”
“Mr. Moolins, do you know what the word rut means to a shepherd?”
Moolins tilted his head slightly, as if viewing Toby from a different angle. “No, I don’t, Mr. Weydig. I just want you to make an honest buck, that’s all. What does rut mean to a practitioner of herding sheep?”

Toby bit down on his lip, flared his nostrils and once again jumped up to place his hands on the desk, leaning forwards towards the examiner in a manner some might consider threatening. “A rut is the period of sexual excitement in sheep and a buck is what you call a male of the species. If you think I’m in a rut to make a buck then you have me figured out all wrong. I can assure you that my impulses are quite healthy and normal. I adore women!”

“I’m glad for you,” said the confused civil servant. “I didn’t mean to be insulting. Relax.”

Toby noticed the spreading circle of perspiration staining Moolins’ underarms as he put down his pen and gently gestured for Toby to sit. His smile was solicitous and nervous. “I will investigate all the resources at my disposal to find you gainful employment as a shepherd, Mr. Weydig. I promise.”

Toby wanted to laugh but bit down on his lip instead. “You know, although sheep are well adapted to cool climates they could easily adapt to New Jersey’s environment because their wool supplies them with an excellent tolerance to heat. A sheep’s body temperature is about 102 degrees Fahrenheit, but most importantly, their heat loss comes from evaporation from their respiratory tract. Yes, Mr. Moolins, sheep do sweat somewhat, just like me and you.”

Mr. Moolins nodded and rose from his desk and gently ushered Toby to the door. The two shook hands and Toby was handed an envelope that contained his disputed unemployment check.

When he shut the door behind him, Moolins grimaced, shook his head, and immediately called his supervisor to advise him that Weydig was a Vietnam nut job who should be allowed to run
out his claim without any further interference, at least until a federal government agency could intervene and properly deal with his PTSD.

Summer surrendered to fall and entered winter as Toby’s six months claims extension went unchallenged. When Toby’s unemployment claims finally expired, he continued to suck on the government teat by evoking his G.I. bill educational benefits to study acting at New York’s prestigious Academy of Dramatic Arts. He had no problem passing his series of entry auditions.

While still a first-year Academy student, Toby starred in his first play, a one-act Vietnam War drama produced by the American Theater of Actors, titled “Fresh Fatigues.”

Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild, PEN American Center, and Veterans For Responsible Leadership.  His latest book is the flash fiction collection ‘Hunger Pains’ (Buttonhook Press).