The bus arrived at the Port Authority Terminal with a whooosh of air brakes, and he took the escalator to the main concourse. He politely refused literature from the Black Panthers, Students for a Democratic Society, Youth International Peace Party, Jehovah's Witnesses, Young Republicans and the Jewish Defense League - skirted the white-sheeted Hare Krishna's clanking their cymbals and tambourines - and exited onto Eighth Avenue, right into a group of middle-aged women brandishing placards reading NOT OUR SONS, NOT YOUR SONS, NOT THEIR SONS.
The escalating Vietnam War aroused strong passions.
Jim squeezed by the crowd and set off for his interview. He spent a half-hour there filling out forms on a clipboard, and finally got to see the owner of the mid-sized manufacturing company.
"Come in, come in, glad to see you, Jim," he was greeted with a hearty handshake. "Have a seat and give me a minute with this, okay?" Dave, the owner, sat behind his huge glass-topped desk and flipped through Jim's application.
His smile disappeared. He punched the intercom button on his phone. "Jennifer, get me Larry over at the agency." "Is something wrong?" Jim asked, sensing surely there was but without a clue what it might be.
Gruffly, the owner assured him, "Nothing to do with you, Jim, it's these damned agency people. Never get anything straight." "Larry's on line one."
"Thanks, Jennifer." He punched the lighted button. "Hello, Larry? What the hell are you trying to pass off on me? Are you an idiot or do you think I am?" Jim's stomach flopped. This was not a good sign.
"Larry, he's single, no dependents, good health, no military service, not even in the reserves! I told you, I only want to see men classified as 'unfit for military service.' Get with it, Larry. Don't pull this on me again or I'll find a new agency!" He slammed the receiver back into its multi- buttoned cradle.
"Jim, I'm sorry," he said, and he seemed genuinely so, "but I'll be damned if I'll spend another nickel training someone to have the army snap him up. Your situation gives you only two options, Jim - digging ditches until you're drafted because no one else will hire you, or killing Vietcong - take your choice, a shovel or a gun."
Eight months later, Jim was drafted into the Marines. Of the 80 men in his platoon from basic training, 78 became infantrymen in Vietnam; one became a data processing specialist stationed in Florida; and Jim became a supply clerk stationed in North Carolina, half a world away from the front- lines in Southeast Asia. Today, Jim owns a software consulting company.
Despite the law, candidates today still get rejected for political, racial and religious prejudices; You can fight it or move on.