Rank

by Richard Compson Sater

  For some minutes I sat, stifling a yawn. I had little to anticipate beyond a quiet weekend at home, since Julia was out of town on leave. I’d probably see a movie by myself, wash the car, and do the laundry. This inconvenient general would be out of my sight, and I’d breathe easier.

  Finally he looked up at me. He hesitated and then cleared his throat.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Anything on the schedule, Downtown?”

  “You’re free for the rest of the afternoon, sir.”

  He glanced at the wall clock, about half past two. “You’re dismissed. I have some work to finish, but there’s no reason to keep you.”

  An unexpected surprise, but inwardly, I shrugged. Whatever. “Thank you, sir.”

  As I collected my things, he hollered for me again. I returned to his office and came to attention in front of his desk. He drew deeply on his pipe and exhaled. “A terrible habit,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rum-and-maple blend,” he said. “Imported from Canada.”

  “Yes, sir. It has a very pleasant aroma.”

  “My granddad smoked a pipe,” he said.

  “Did he, sir?”

  The general was stalling. Perhaps he needed a little courage. After a minute, he took a deep breath and asked, hesitant, his voice low, “Could you stand a visitor tonight?”

  I whispered my response as well, though no one was around to hear us. “You might stop by?”

  “I might.”

  “You’re welcome anytime, sir. And you can stay as long as you like.”

  “Thanks, Knoxville. I…ah…might, later. I’ve got some…ah…work to finish first. I…ah…already told you that, didn’t I?”

  I’d rarely seen him so flustered. “I hope to see you later, sir.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  I didn’t move. “Say yes,” I said. “Please, sir?”

  He sighed. “All right, damn it. Yes. Now will you get out of here?”

  The pilot light of hope flamed into possibility. Satisfied, I turned to leave, but I paused by the door and turned to look at him again. After a minute, he looked up, over the top of his glasses. “Well? What?” he barked.

  “Nothing, sir. Just being a tourist.”

  His glower melted, and his mustache bristled, almost imperceptible. Silent, he stood up and made an exaggerated full turn for my benefit. “Enough?”

  “No, sir. May I buy another ticket?”

  He pointed. “Damn it, go!”

  “Yes, sir.” I let him be.

  For the first time since our weekend together a month earlier, he’d given me proof it hadn’t all been a mirage. I might have floated out of the building. Such was my euphoria, at least until panic seized me. What should I serve for dinner? And, if I might be that lucky, breakfast? Before leaving the base, I stopped at the commissary and spent an agonizing hour browsing the well-stocked shelves. I went home with three sacks full of groceries, enough to serve half a dozen meals to any six guests.

  At home, I dusted and vacuumed the whole place and scoured the bathroom. Changed the bedsheets. Washed the kitchen floor. Baked a pan of brownies. Early in the evening, I showered and stood in front of my open closet. Another crisis. What should I wear? A bathrobe might seem too eager, a little presumptuous. I didn’t see any reason to dress formally, but neither would a T-shirt and blue jeans do. I settled for chinos and a polo shirt I changed three times, and sat down to wait, making a useless attempt to read.

  When I still hadn’t heard anything from him by nine o’clock, I assumed a false alarm. Perhaps his “later” meant Saturday or Sunday. After all, he’d asked rather non-specifically about the weekend. It wasn’t as if I’d canceled any plans, I reminded myself. If nothing else, I had accomplished a week’s worth of cleaning in one frenzied evening. But how dare he get my hopes up and then not show? I was still debating both sides of the issue when a brisk knock at the door interrupted me.

  With exaggerated nonchalance, I went to the door, and there he stood. “Good evening,” I said. “Come in, sir.”

  He stepped inside, and I shut the door behind him. He had traded his flight suit for khaki trousers and a sport jacket, casually elegant. We stood in the entry for a minute, staring at each other. I couldn’t quite believe he was here. Perhaps he, too, felt some disbelief.

  He handed me a cold bottle wrapped in a damp brown paper bag. “Chardonnay,” he said. “Thought we might need it.”

  That sounded ominous. “Would you like a glass now?” I said.

  He nodded. He looked around the living room, and he could hardly have been impressed with what he saw. My comfortable but worn furniture reflected an early Salvation Army decorating sensibility, a mix of acquisitions from family, friends, and secondhand stores. The most prominent features were shelves crammed with a thousand books and a tired plaid couch with a framed Toulouse-Lautrec poster reproduction hanging above it.

  The latest addition to the inventory was a battered-but-operational console phonograph, about the same age as me, purchased at the local thrift store for twenty dollars, along with a batch of classical-music albums, including Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony and whatever opera had presented itself. I’d been listening faithfully, making an effort to expand my appreciation.

  “Put on a record, if you’d like, sir. Make yourself at home,” I said. He walked to the couch and sat down on the edge of it, as if he were afraid to settle in, radiating discomfort if not disapproval. I almost told him he wouldn’t catch anything from it.

  In the kitchen, after a couple of minutes’ search, I located the corkscrew and then a pair of stemmed glasses. I’d never heard of the particular brand of wine he brought, but I was hardly a connoisseur. My sole criterion for judging a better vintage was a cork instead of a screw top. I found the receipt in the bag. He’d paid more for that bottle than I had for my phonograph.

  As I poured two glasses, I heard the front door slam.

  My heart and spirit sank. When I went into the living room, he was gone. I watched from the window as he backed his car out of the driveway and screeched away, the tires protesting loudly.

  So. That was that. It occurred to me as I looked at the empty space where his car had been parked that he had quite possibly placed his personal core values at risk by coming to my apartment at all. I had yearned for such a visit but never convinced myself it could happen. Until tonight, I’d been willing to believe I’d been fighting the desperate ache by myself. I hadn’t considered what he had to lose by surrendering to desire.

  What crossed his mind as he changed out of his Air Force uniform and into his civilian clothes and drove across the miles that separated us? At what cost did he make that journey? No wonder he felt so ill at ease, though this sudden awareness did not make his departure any easier for me. I went back to the kitchen and saw the bottle of wine perspiring on the counter, the two glasses poured.

  I picked up one glass. “Cheers,” I said, toasting my ill luck. It went down so smoothly that, after a minute, I gulped down the second glass. In the empty living room, I put a CD on the boom box—a little dance music from this century, thank you—and parked myself on the couch where the general had been only moments before. Anticipation, frustration, anger, bitterness, and dismay collided like a car crash in my head. I was keyed up and too tired to process any part of it, and the alcohol went to work. Before long, I was asleep, no doubt dreaming that the quickest way to a man’s heart was through his chest with a sharp knife.

  Perhaps an hour later, maybe more, I was awakened by urgent knocking. Groggy, I stumbled to the front door and found a general. Rather than let him in immediately, I stood with the screen door between us and glared at him, trying hard to be angry. It was justified, and I didn’t want to cheat myself out of the pleasure. If he had made concessions to be with me, had I not done the same for him?

  “What do you want?” I said.

  He glanced around and sighed, exasperated. “I’ve been banging on the door for ten
minutes.”

  “I might have gone out. Ever think of that?”

  “You’re car’s right outside.”

  “I could have walked somewhere,” I said. “You think I spend my whole life waiting around for you?”

  “Let me in.”

  “I tried that once tonight already. It didn’t take.” But I stepped back anyway, and he let himself inside and shut the door. We faced each other again, and he crossed his arms in front of him to match mine, glowering at me.

  “What?” I said. “What have I done?” I didn’t have any patience left. “There’s still some of that wine left if you need to get drunk before you can relax.” I pointed toward the kitchen, and he headed in that direction. Let him find his own way, grope along the wall for the light switch by himself. I was staying put. At least he wouldn’t be able to escape again without running past me.

  He took his time. I finally went to the doorway of the kitchen. He stood at the sink, looking all around the room, scrutinizing everything, as if to decide whether or not he could tolerate such surroundings. My Formica-topped table was a relic but still in good shape, with solid matching chairs. The wallpaper, not of my choosing, featured salt and pepper shakers and a coffee mill, in stylized drawings and muted autumn colors. The pattern would have been popular around the time the table was new. It all fit, and, unapologetically, I liked it. Until that moment, I’d never been concerned about anyone else’s opinion of it.

  Did he feel about microwave ovens the same way he did about cell phones?

  He discovered me watching from the doorway. “May I offer you a glass?” he said.

  “I’ve already had two. I didn’t like it.” So there.

  “Maybe I’ll drink two so we’re even.” One eyebrow inched itself up a fraction as he looked at me, still glaring at him. “Or three.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “But I’m not driving you home tonight. If you pass out, you’ll wake up on the couch, because I’m not giving up my bed to a drunken general.”

  “Easy, there,” he said, cocking his eyebrow even more.

  I would not be easy. “You planning to make a run for it, or do you think you might stick around for a while?” I said.

  “You asking me to?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Damned if I know, Paintbrush.” Keeping an eye on me, he slowly took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. When I still didn’t crack, he said, “Maybe I should leave my coat on.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “Go, if you want to. But see if I ever let you in here again.”

  We faced each other, defiant, our arms crossed defensively. But we could only scowl for so long before the absurdity of it overtook us. One or the other of us started grinning first, and he finally shook his head and said, “Get the hell over here.”

  I went, more willing than I’d intended to be.

  Hesitant, he brushed his mustache against me, and I surrendered immediately. It was useless. I wanted the same thing. I put my hands on him. He covered my mouth with his and sampled me thoroughly. Only when his breath became as ragged as mine did he push me away. The pounding in his chest and mine might have been Verdi’s chorus of anvils.

  Wondrously, he laughed. “I’m not finished,” he said.

  “I hope not, sir.”

  He let go of me as if he’d been burnt.

  “Look,” he snapped. “Surely you realize how inappropriate it is for you to call me ‘sir’ when you’re practically feeling me up. It’s damned ridiculous. Stop it, or I’m out of here.”

  His vehemence startled me, and my response was typically automatic. “Yes, sir.”

  “You just did it again!” he said.

  I didn’t know what else to call him. “It’s not my fault. The Air Force has trained me well. What am I supposed to do? Call you Seamus? I don’t know if I could even do that.”

  “Then find something else.”

  “Like what? I could use your middle name. Or I could shorten it to Edward, I guess.”

  “Don’t like it, in the plural or the singular.”

  “There’s Mr. O’Neill,” I said, half joking.

  He shook his head and sighed. “Of course not.”

  “A nickname of some sort?”

  “Such as?” he said.

  Nicknames are funny. A man can’t choose his own. It has to spring naturally from some character trait or typical situation, though I knew he’d recoil if I suggested “Lefty” or “Smoky,” two that came to mind immediately. I would never be able to come up with on-the-spot randomly generated nicknames as he did for me. I didn’t even propose it.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll have to find something we’re both comfortable with.”

  “But no more ‘sir,’ for God’s sake. Agreed?”

  “Yes, sir.” Reflexes are hard to counteract.

  “Damn it, Pitchfork. Don’t be insubordinate,” he said, exasperated. “From now on, every time we’re out of uniform and you call me ‘sir,’ I will demand a penalty.”

  It was my turn to recoil. “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ve had enough of that game. I won’t pay you a single dime for a mistake like that.”

  His mustache started working. “Hmm…maybe we can work out some sort of penalty that doesn’t involve a cash transaction.”

  Now, there was an idea. “What do you have in mind?”

  “The punishment should fit the crime.”

  “You could call me ‘sir’ too,” I said.

  “That’s hardly adequate compensation.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “It took you so long to learn to be punctual,” he said.

  “And it was expensive,” I reminded him.

  “But unless the penalty is sufficient, you’ll throw ‘sir’ at me all the time, just to wear me down.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past me,” I said.

  “The penalty must adequately compensate me for that aggravation.”

  “Don’t forget your pain and suffering.”

  “Of course. Perhaps some sort of service rendered.”

  “Hmm…what sort of service?” His crotch had been telegraphing his impatience for some minutes. “Can you think of some service I might render that would be of particular use to you at a time like this?” I reminded him he had pointed out to me on more than one occasion one might do better things with one’s mouth than talk. He raised his left eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and his mustache quivered ever so slightly, A wicked laugh told me he had caught on.

  “You’re suggesting that I demand, if you’ll excuse the vulgar vernacular, a cocksucking as a penalty every time you call me ‘sir’?”

  “Your vernacular is forgiven. What do you think?”

  “You’re shameless,” he said.

  “Is it a deal?”

  His mustache bristled. “It’s hardly fair. As much as I enjoy being on the receiving end, I also very much enjoy—oh, hell,” he said. “I like sucking cock myself.”

  “They say it’s better to give than to receive,” I said. “If fairness is what you want, I would be happy to demand an even trade, one-for-one,” I said. “Deal?”

  He took a deep breath. “Deal.” We shook hands. “Jesus,” he said. “What am I getting myself into?”

  “The best bargain you’ve ever made.” He grinned. “I will make every effort to remove the offending ‘sir’ from my vocabulary as quickly as possible, sir,” I said.

  “You,” he said, “are a liar. And I’m a goddamned fool.”

  “Yes, sir. You are, sir. I hope you’ve been counting. I’ve got at least five or six to pay off already tonight.”

  He picked up a note pad and pen from the kitchen counter, wrote “SIR” across the top and made six O’s on the page. “I’ll mark an X through each O as the debt is paid,” he said. As he attached the sheet to the refrigerator with a magnet, he noticed the row of postcards, six of them by now. Temporarily distracted, he examined each one. “You kept them.”

  “I neve
r told you how much I look forward to those postcards when you go,” I said. “I miss you a little less when I know you’re thinking about me, too.”

  He turned to look at me. “You mean that,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Tell me, Sharpshooter,” he said. “What have I done to deserve you?”

  “You’re just lucky. Sir.”

  He made another mark on the paper. “You think I’m kidding.”

  My turn to smirk. “Not at all. Sir.” Another mark. “Shall we begin crossing them off?” I said. “I’m ready if you are.”

  He reached out, hooked a finger in my waistband, and pulled me toward him. “I could wander around this Taj Mahal of yours until I find the bedroom, but if you lead me to it, we’ll get there quicker,” he said. “I’m going to wrestle you out of your shirt and trousers, and God knows what I might do after that.”

  “You’ll think of something,” I said. “As for me, I’ve got debts to pay. Sir.”

  He made another mark on the paper and then turned his attention to me, and who says a kitchen is just for cooking?

  *

  Afterward, our initial hunger satisfied, he retrieved a small suitcase from the car, as if I needed proof he would be content to stay the night with me. Back inside, I led him down the hall, and we undressed and climbed into bed. In the warm dark, I wanted only to explore him as if he were some Braille text. To learn him by heart: his strong arms, his flat fuzzy belly, the jut of his ribs as he breathed in. I ran my fingers across his dense mustache and sandpapered jaw, even his eyebrows. I moved slowly, deliberately, in no hurry. He responded, catlike, pressing himself against me and muttering under his breath, a combination of satisfaction and impatience. I didn’t have to ask if I were doing the right thing. It brought on a slow, simmering kind of arousal that didn’t require immediate release. Its theme was itself, pleasure taken in travel rather than the destination.

  And he wasn’t U.S. Air Force Brigadier General Seamus O’Neill. He wasn’t my boss or the commander of Sixth Air Force, or a military pilot. He wasn’t an airman at all, and neither was I at that moment. He was just a man, one I liked very much and who aroused me like none I’d ever known, and he was entirely under my power to persuade.