Rank

by Richard Compson Sater

  “Did you know he was married once?”

  That was startling news. Such a thing had never even occurred to me. I assumed he’d always been single. I bit down an immediate and irrational feeling of jealousy. Where had that come from?

  “Did you know her?”

  “No. They divorced a couple of years before he was assigned here. He was still a colonel, but he’d already been selected for promotion to brigadier general,” Julia said. “Linda told me about it. Said the wife was very attractive and quite a bit younger than him. They were married for ten years. I guess everyone was pretty surprised when they split up.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “But it sounds a little fishy to me if he didn’t get married until he was nearly forty. Not to mention that he got divorced only after the promotion was announced.”

  Julia nodded. “Like he didn’t need her anymore.”

  “Exactly.” I almost hesitated to ask. “Any kids?”

  “No. It’s kind of hard for me to imagine General O’Neill as a dad.”

  “Me, too.” I was significantly relieved. Perhaps I feared competition.

  “So he gets a check mark in the ‘maybe straight’ column for marrying a woman, but a check mark in the ‘maybe gay’ column for waiting until he was almost forty to do it. Not to mention the sketchy timing of the divorce. I think the odds may still be in your favor, Harris.”

  Enough. “I think you should get changed so we can head over to the club.”

  She giggled. “Just wait until you see what I picked up last week. It’s fantastic!”

  Left to my unquiet thoughts, I wondered what Julia would say about the general’s postcards. I’d received four, so far, one from each out-of-town trip he’d made without me. I’d never told her about them. Each was signed “yours, SEO,” and while I’m sure he regarded me as his private property, I would hardly dare consider him mine. I knew no straight man who would go to such trouble if his only aim was to frustrate a gay man.

  And what would Julia say regarding a certain incident involving the general and myself in the men’s room? He’d walked in on me standing at the urinal and chosen the one right next to mine, even though there were four unoccupied. When he looked over the partition to see what I held in my hand, my mouth dropped open from surprise, if not shock.

  I half expected him to make a joke of some sort. But he merely raised his eyebrows and grinned. Or was that a smirk under his galloping mustache? He zipped up, flushed his urinal, washed his hands, offered me an exaggerated wink and a rakish salute, and was gone. I stood there, too startled even to move. When I regained my composure and returned to the office, he acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place at all. I knew no straight man who would have the nerve to indulge so obviously in such sport.

  Such evidence led me to only one conclusion, but I could be a genius at misinterpreting signs. Maybe it was wishful thinking on my part. Besides, what good would it do for a second lieutenant if the general actually were gay? We could never have any kind of satisfactory relationship.

  Julia cut short my reverie when she emerged from the bedroom to show off her attire for our adventure in Clubland—short white skirt flavored with Day-Glo lemon, tangerine, and lime, accessorized with a wide blue belt, platform shoes, and geometric costume jewelry—all recent thrift-shop purchases, she told me, and straight out of the 1970s, a decade before we were born. My black trousers and white shirt and skinny tie were likewise behind the times but fully a decade beyond her on the fashion timeline. I certainly couldn’t match her flair.

  A warm night stretched before us. I was relieved to leave the gay-or-not discussion behind us as we hiked to the club, holding hands, gossiping, laughing, as if we’d made some unconscious decision to be lovers. It was part of the game, and the playing of it seemed natural enough. Besides, as games are supposed to be, it was fun.

  The base club tended to be a staid and stuffy place, designed to appeal to middle-aged officers and chief master sergeants rather than junior personnel. But on Friday and Saturday nights, the club featured popular guest DJs and remained open until one o’clock, so we’d have a few hours to enjoy ourselves and blow off a little steam. I did not want to talk about the general anymore.

  The floor was packed. Usually, I’m a little self-conscious about dancing. I’m not very good. I’ve never learned any formal steps, and I’ve got a limited repertoire otherwise. It’s only the kinetic energy of movement and the persuasion of the beat that coerces me to the floor. And the fact that Julia is actually a terrific dancer.

  I enjoy watching her and mimicking her stylized movements to the best of my ability. Mostly, she makes us look good, and I let her lead. She isn’t afraid to put her hands on me and navigate us around the floor, whether the tempo is fast or slow. Her steps always have some method to them. They aren’t simply aimless, and that in itself sets us apart from everyone else there.

  We pester the DJ to spin old songs we remember from a decade ago or more and shout along with the choruses while the mirrorball shimmers and spins from the ceiling, turning everything kaleidoscopic and reflecting back our true colors. Is this what dating is like in the straight world? I think sometimes I could grow accustomed to such things.

  I wonder if I would ever have the nerve to bring a man here.

  After an invigorating session on the crowded floor, my sleeves rolled up, my shirt already soggy from perspiration, my face flushed, I waited in line at the bar, tapping my foot to the beat thudding from the speakers and looking around in the dim light for some familiar faces. And at the end of the bar, looking straight at me as I turned his way, sat the general.

  He still wore his flight suit, making him even more conspicuous in the place. I wondered if he’d come to the club directly from the office, or if he simply wanted to stick out. You can put nothing past a general, certainly not any opportunity to be the center of attention. He nursed a glass of some dark brew, and he nodded at me.

  I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen him. After I paid for two bottles of beer, I went over to say hello.

  “Evening, Matchbox,” he said loud, over the din. “Looks as if you’ve been cutting quite a rug.”

  I ran my fingers through my damp hair. “Hey, sir. Yup. It’s a little crowded on the floor. It feels like a sauna in here. Enjoying the music?”

  He shook his head. “Too monotonous for my taste. And too loud.”

  He emptied his glass.

  “Can I buy you another one, sir?”

  “I might be persuaded.” He noticed the two bottles of beer in my hands. “Looks like you already have a date, Budweiser. Maybe another time.”

  As if on cue, Julia joined us, breathless. “I wondered if you got lost. Hi, General O’Neill. Checking up on us?”

  “There was a line at the bar. Sorry.” I handed her a bottle. We clicked the necks together in a wordless toast, and took a swallow.

  The general seemed surprised to see her, or at least to see us together.

  “I assumed your date would be of a slightly different gender,” he said to me.

  Julia giggled.

  “I like to keep people guessing,” I said. “Sorry if you’re disappointed, sir.”

  I was wondering what we could talk about next, or at least how to make a graceful exit, but the DJ solved the problem for me. Sweeping strings eased into a seductive beat that grew more and more irresistible as a familiar, nagging synthesized riff spilled from the monitors, a song from our elementary school days. Julia squealed. “There it is! Come on, Harris. We asked for this one, so we’d better get out there. Good night, sir,” she said to the general as she pulled me away, toward the dance floor.

  Madonna’s music was as much a part of my youth and my coming out as anything I might name. Her songs were titillating, edgy, and propulsive, but above all confident. This one in particular spoke to me and probably many thousands of other young and uncertain gay kids. Life could be painful and uncertain; why not escape to the dance floor, lose yo
urself in the rhythm and melody, pretend for a while that you are someone you might otherwise envy, assume the pose of Marilyn Monroe, or Lana Turner, or James Dean, Bette Davis, Rita Hayworth, Fred Astaire? All it took, Madonna insisted, was imagination and unconditional surrender to the music and the mood. And the beat.

  You, I, anyone could be beautiful. There was nothing to it, and no special skills required.

  As Julia and I bounced and swooped and struck angular poses, I knew we were being watched. I could see that the general had shifted his seat to get a better view of us on the floor, and he was craning his neck to see. He was all the audience I needed. My performance became frantic, manic, as I stepped and twisted and froze, stepped and twisted and froze again.

  As the song ended, the exuberant crowd of dancers clapped and cheered. Without thinking, I pulled Julia to me and gave her a kiss that was long and wide and deep and tall enough that she stared at me for a second after I let go. I knew the general had been watching intently from his seat at the end of the bar, the voyeur. But by the time we were finished, he was gone.

  “Why did you do that?” Julia said.

  I was a little embarrassed. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, Julia. Are you mad at me?”

  “Well, I guess not,” she said. “It’s a little weird, though. Sometimes I can’t figure you out, Harris.”

  Sometimes I couldn’t figure myself out, either. I apologized again, and we went back to our seats.

  “You want another beer? Maybe a soda?” I said.

  She didn’t. Nor did I, and when she suggested that we call it a night, I didn’t argue. We walked back to her place in silence. After a quick, awkward embrace, we said good night and she said she would see me on Monday. Instead of driving back to my apartment, I took a long walk, a couple of miles at least, because it took me past the club, past the base hospital, into the housing area to the general’s home. Behind a drawn blind, a light shone in a second-story window, perhaps the general’s bedroom.

  I hoped fervently, selfishly, uselessly, that he slept alone. The walk back to the car seemed to take twice as long, and an endless, empty weekend yawned before me. On Monday, the general was so irritable with me that I couldn’t help but feel as if he were extracting some sort of revenge, as if he had caught me in some shameful adulterous act. As if I had somehow been unfaithful.

  *

  My six months as the aide may have set a record, but I didn’t feel much like celebrating. Publicly, General O’Neill still voiced his dissatisfaction with me for the headquarters staff and the world to hear. Privately, he continued to either surprise or confound me in unexpected ways. I won’t forget chatting with a coworker in the hallway one afternoon when the general came by and smacked me playfully on the seat of my pants with a hefty paperback book.

  “Great American novel, hell!” he said, but I could hear the chuckle in his voice. He didn’t stop, just walked past us. I pretended to be as mystified about the general’s behavior as my colleague, but I knew precisely what had happened. So the general didn’t care for Moby Dick as much as I did. By then, I knew I cared for the general. I’d pushed away such feelings for as long as I could, but if my strict and unsympathetic inner voice of reason was still functioning, I paid little attention.

  What prompted my complete and unequivocal surrender to the inevitable was a much more public moment in front of the entire NAF. We were required to receive yearly training on sexual-harassment awareness. In past years, it had been coupled with a review of the Air Force’s homosexual-conduct policy, the damnable “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” farce. I wasn’t sure what to expect this year, but I knew the fact that gay servicemembers could serve openly had created a huge headache for the Military Equal Opportunity Office, and I was sure the topic would be addressed.

  Because the refresher course was required for everyone, military and civilian alike, the Sixth Air Force leadership made an effort to get it over with as efficiently as possible. That meant crowding into the base theater one afternoon to knock out the training all at once. I grimly waited for the interminable slides and video clips projected dimly on a screen in a dark auditorium.

  Such stuff makes me squirm.

  Even if I have chosen to be out of the closet at work, many other gay men and women at our base have stayed in. I see them at the gym and at the exchange and the commissary and in the NAF headquarters. We recognize each other. Pick up the vibe. Tune into each other’s wavelength, but we keep many secrets to ourselves out of respect for privacy. It’s comforting to know that so many gay men and women are in uniform, but I rage at the culture that seems to prefer their silence. I wonder sometimes how smart I was to come out. But as long as the Air Force insists on integrity first, I had no choice.

  On a hot summer day, we filed into the theater at the appointed time. The air conditioning wasn’t working, which made the situation even more unpleasant. I didn’t sit with the general, who was usually front and center, but I sat close enough so I could keep an eye on him without being too noticeable, in case he needed anything.

  I could summarize the training in one sentence along the lines of “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” It would be considerably less painful, but the Air Force chooses a traditional route for ancillary training: bludgeoning its constituents with the obvious.

  The sexual harassment portion opened with a video illustrating various concocted scenarios, badly acted and not particularly realistic. Most provoked laughter. Can anyone imagine a drooling old chief saying, “Hey, honey, looking good in that tight sweater!” to a young female airman? I howled along with everyone else, and even the Military Equal Opportunity major who helmed the proceedings seemed a little apologetic and embarrassed about presenting such materials in the guise of required training. The unfortunate part is that the ludicrous trappings obscured information about a serious issue.

  In the old days, the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” homosexual-conduct policy briefing led to nasty catcalls yelled out from the safety of a dark auditorium, but no one ever filed a complaint. To whom could we complain? The audience response, as well as the fact that no senior leader saw fit to quell it, served as more proof that the military work environment was downright hostile to the idea of gay airmen being able to serve, openly or not. I wondered what sort of training we would get this year under the new policy. I shuddered to think it might include video of scripted scenarios and was relieved that it didn’t, only dozens of slides full of words projected on the big screen, dutifully read aloud by the major.

  I’m sure someone had agonized over the information presented. Terms were defined and policies spelled out carefully and clinically, so as not to offend. The Department of Defense maintains a zero-tolerance policy for harassment, violence, or discrimination of any kind based on sexual orientation. Sexual orientation is no longer a bar to military service, nor is it a factor to be considered in recruiting and retention. The Air Force cannot discharge any airman based on sexual orientation. All airmen will be evaluated based on individual merit, fitness, and capability, not sexual preference.

  Sexual misconduct of any kind by an airman—homosexual or heterosexual—is grounds for administrative or legal action. The policy will be enforced under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. If you have moral or religious concerns regarding homosexuality, you are free to maintain your beliefs and free to exercise religious expression within the law and policy. Discuss concerns with your commander or chaplain, but continue to treat all airmen with dignity and respect and follow all lawful orders. In the context of their ministry, Air Force chaplains are not required to take actions inconsistent with their religious beliefs.

  There is no policy in effect to grant you a discharge if you are opposed to the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” or if you are opposed to serving or living with homosexual or bisexual servicemembers. There will be no segregation of facilities or quarters based on sexual orientation. If you have complaints, use existing mechanisms for redress, including
your chain of command and the Office of the Inspector General. Homosexual airmen who feel that they are victims of harassment or unfair treatment because of their sexual preference are encouraged to use the same existing mechanisms to remedy the situation.

  The major reiterated the policy, standing at a lectern onstage and reading the slides one by one as the crowd perspired and grew more restless. Occasional snickers and rude remarks punctuated the briefing, growing more frequent and daring as she droned on, doing nothing to stop them. As I tried to build up enough nerve to stand up and protest, I happened to look toward the general. Even in the dim light, I could see he wasn’t watching the screen, but he was clearly listening, scowling, impatient. He chewed his mustache absently until he could stand no more.

  He stood up, sudden, and turned into the beam of the projector in the dark, lighting him up like some devil, and he blazed like hell’s fire. “Enough, damn it!” After a collective, hushed gasp, the place grew instantly, carefully quiet, and suspense hung in the air like fog on a cold morning. “I’ve had all I can stand of y’all’s immature outbursts. I won’t tolerate any more. It took a long damn time for the United States military to do the right thing and allow everyone to serve, straight or gay or in between. If any of y’all have a problem with it, then get the hell out. The way y’all are behaving would insult the Army and the Marines and the Navy, but we’re airmen in the United States Air Force, for God’s sake, and I expect y’all to act like it. The major is required to deliver this briefing, and y’all are required to hear it, so give her the courtesy of your attention and listen up. You might learn something. Keep your ignorant opinions to yourself and sit quiet, or I’ll file a harassment complaint against every single one of y’all!”

  Abruptly, he took his seat.

  Even the major on stage was startled by the length and depth of General O’Neill’s eruption, but she recovered quickly and resumed her presentation, the crowd now raptly attentive. Without the distraction of an unruly audience, she finished within minutes. The briefing concluded with a reminder of the core values and the importance of diversity in establishing unit cohesion. The auditorium was called to attention for General O’Neill’s departure. Still scowling, he strode up the center aisle and out the door. The crowd filed silently out of the stuffy auditorium, into the bright intolerant sun of the afternoon.