by B. K. Dell
The man in the woman’s coat struck his young face with a weathered and calloused fist. Caleb convulsed under the pain, then spit up a long stream of blood. The man who had just struck him stepped quickly out of Caleb’s line of sight. When he stepped back in front of Caleb, he had a discarded Miller Genuine Draft bottle in his hands. He said, “One more chance, faggot.”
With that word, Caleb unleashed the resentment that he had been holding since he left home, tucked away in his brain right next to the last sight of his father. At the top of his lungs he started shouting, “Idiot! You don’t know who I am inside! You don’t know what I’m capable of! You don’t know what I could have done with my life! You stupid idiot!” He wasn’t talking to the homeless man.
With two men holding his arms, Caleb had little room to move. He wrenched his neck to one side, but could not avoid the blow. As the bottle shattered on his head, Caleb was in the middle of saying, “You could have been proud of me one day.” The glass cut into his scalp above his ear, across half of his skull, and all the way to the top of his spine. He lost consciousness.
When Caleb woke up, he was being loaded into an ambulance. His fanny pack and his art pad were nowhere in sight. All his money was gone. The EMT closed the ambulance doors and found a spot to sit beside Caleb. He had a dark goatee with sprinkled patches of gray and graying hair on his temples. His eyes and his smile, however, did not give the impression that he was old enough to have any gray yet. Caleb did not know if it was procedure for EMTs to do this, but the man placed his hand gently on Caleb’s chest. He said soothingly, “Everything’s going to be alright.”
The next time Caleb saw the man with the salt-and-pepper goatee, Caleb was leaving the hospital. The man had been waiting just outside the exit, a couple of yards past a crowd of smokers. He was smoking also and Caleb had no idea he had been waiting for him. Caleb, not thinking the man had any reason to recognize him, kept his head down as he passed.
“I almost didn’t recognize you with your head wrapped up like that,” the man said after Caleb was just a few feet past him.
“I look like an Arab,” Caleb smiled meekly as he stopped and turned around.
The man shrugged. “Looking like an Arab never killed anybody. My name’s Dane by the way.”
“I’m Caleb.”
“You have nowhere to go, do you?”
“I have everywhere to go.”
“You have no place to sleep.”
“I have everywhere to sleep,” Caleb motioned from one street corner to the next.
“I meant like a bed?”
“What good is a bed?”
“I have a bed.” Dane’s tone took Caleb by surprise. This was the first time he had stopped to really look at the man. His smiling eyes did look young, but were surrounded completely by fine wrinkles. He was obviously far older than Caleb, in his late thirties, possibly early forties, but his mannerism and expressions were young, maybe even hip. His lips were full and when he smiled, his top lip drew up to the very top of his gums. He had whiter teeth than Caleb had ever seen on a man.
Just like the pastor, Caleb knew that Dane had an agenda; the difference was that Caleb understood what Dane’s agenda was. Dane said, “My bed is safe. My bed is warm. In my bed you’ll have nothing to fear.”
Only it wasn’t true.
Within the first month of staying with Dane, Caleb started to really look up to him. He graduated from SMU with a degree in philosophy, and had shelves and shelves of books along every wall of his home. He introduced Caleb to thinkers like Arthur Schopenhauer and Karl Popper, and to new ways of thinking about things like freewill and the existence of God. Caleb impressed him with his front to back knowledge of Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity as well as random facts about black holes. Caleb began to wonder why an older man who was so sophisticated had chosen a mere child like him.
Then came the evening in which Caleb discovered that the gentle, good-hearted EMT was only around when Dane was sober. After a twelve hour shift Dane would hit the bottle hard, and Caleb soon unraveled the mystery of why this grown man was attracted to him. It was not just Caleb’s youth; it was the fact that Caleb had no one to look after him and nowhere else to go, no one to see the bruises and no one to listen to his side of the story.
Until he met Stacy.
Stacy worked at a coffee shop three blocks from Dane’s house. Caleb used to walk over there with an art pad while Dane was at work. The first time Caleb came in with bruises on his forearm in the shape of a thumb and four fingers, Stacy asked about it. Caleb explained that he had been working with chalk pastels and put dark red marks on his own skin when he went to massage his muscle. “It must have been a sad sketch,” said Stacy, not believing him.
“Why do you say that?” Caleb asked.
“That color. It’s the exact color of a dying rose.”
“That’s what it was actually,” Caleb claimed, “a dying rose.”
“That sounds tragic. Are you sure it wasn’t a self-portrait?”
After a while, Caleb stopped trying to hide the increasing number of bruises that would appear on his body. Caleb was obviously crying out for help and Stacy was there to answer. Stacy insisted that Caleb leave Dane and come live with him. And one day when Dane came home after a long shift, Caleb was gone. There was no evidence left in the house that Caleb had ever been there at all.
Stacy never meant any harm. It was Stacy who encouraged Caleb to get his GED. It was Stacy who taught him to drive. Where Dane’s outbreaks were violent, Stacy’s were rather comical. When Stacy would cook food for the two of them, Caleb had to worry about doing so much as adding salt. “What? My cooking’s not good enough for you?” Stacy would snap. Once it even went as far as Stacy locking himself in the bathroom all night crying. Six hours later, Caleb discovered that it was because he had mentioned he didn’t really like squash when Stacy put a bowl of it on the dinner table, but Stacy clearly remembered him eating it at a restaurant the month before.
Caleb learned to handle these outbreaks, even the ones that were very hurtful, by imagining Stacy was doing a comedy sketch about an angry gay guy. Some of Stacy’s lines became very funny when Caleb pretended that they were intended to be so. Stacy would say in his garish tone, “Just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you can’t pick a movie that we’d both enjoy,” or, “If you don’t like romantic comedies, it’s probably because the plotlines are too complicated for you.” Caleb would have to try to keep a straight face while in his head pretending it was only satire.
One day while in a fitness equipment store, Stacy accused Caleb of ogling the shirtless man in one of the advertisements. This sent Stacy on a long flamboyant tirade. Stacy could do a perfect Stacy impression. Caleb made a mistake when, at the height of Stacy’s tizzy, he let out a small but audible laugh. Oops. Stacy turned to leave instantly. He was forced to drop everything that he had intended to buy right inside of the anti-theft scanners because he was too furious to complete his purchase or return the items to the shelf. In the parking lot, Stacy jumped into his car and locked Caleb out. Caleb sighed and patiently knocked on the window. “C’mon, I know you are not going to leave me here,” Caleb said just before Stacy put the car in reverse and left Caleb there. Caleb watched the car for the length of the entire large parking lot, expecting to see him turn around at the last minute. He didn’t.
Caleb stood dumbfounded in the parking lot and could not help but do something that he usually tried to avoid – he thought about his life. He wondered how he got to where he was, what it all meant, what was the point, and what he actually wanted from life. Caleb believed it was fate when a car pulled up not far from where he was standing. The man in the car got out and headed for the Marine recruiting office. He was in uniform. His shirt sleeves were pressed and starched. There were two long, impossibly perfect creases running down both of his pant legs. His shoes were shined like mirrors. His stride exuded confidence and his eyes looked like a clear Texas sky. In contra
st, Caleb’s shoulders were hanging low and his movements were slow. His face carried a melancholy bewilderment that resulted from years of refusing to claim his life as his own. The two were the same height, but when the Marine stepped closer he cast a shadow over Caleb that one would expect from a giant. As the man passed, Caleb turned his face away as if he was suddenly distracted by something on the asphalt that he just had to look at. The Marine, however, looked straight at Caleb, gave a casual nod, and said, “Good morning.” When the Marine disappeared through the glass doors, into the clouds, Caleb had completely forgotten about Stacy’s tantrum. He had even forgotten that he was stranded with no ride. He was focused on a mystery: What causes a man to walk that tall? He realized right then and there that within the answer to that mystery was all the meaning he was seeking in his life as well.
He reported to that same office later that week.
CHAPTER NINE
Punishing an entire platoon for the mistakes of one man is a military tradition, and sometimes the entire platoon would be punished except for the one who made the mistake. However, since the day that SSgt Folsom called Caleb into his office, it was common for him to punish only Caleb for the mistakes of everyone else. When he had the entire platoon do physical training, he would have Caleb do twice as much. “To a Marine, two pushups is one pushup. To a homosexual Marine, four pushups is one pushup,” SSgt Folsom liked to repeat.
Caleb could not figure out his motivation. His preferential treatment from before almost got him killed, but the way SSgt Folsom was treating him now made Caleb wonder if he preferred death.
One day, as Caleb finished scrubbing the head in his squad bay, SSgt Folsom called him into his office where he was laughing it up with Sergeant Ward, a drill instructor with another platoon.
Caleb stood at attention as the two finished their laughing. Caleb assumed it was about him.
“Recruit, this is Sgt Ward. We had ourselves a little card game last night and it just so happened that I ran out of chips. And you know what I did?”
“Sir, this recruit has no idea, sir.”
“I bet Sgt Ward the use of your personal expertise. I told him all about your rare talent at cleaning the head.” When the head needed to be cleaned with a toothbrush, it was always Caleb who did it.
“Sir, the recruit appreciates the compliment, sir.”
Both drill instructors laughed. Caleb’s eyes remained forward.
“Well, I felt pretty good; I had a full house.”
“Sir, something tells this recruit that you still lost, sir.”
“You bet your sorry butt I did, recruit. To a straight flush.”
“Sir, it sounds like you bet my sorry butt, sir.”
Both men laughed.
“Dismissed, recruit,” said SSgt Folsom. “He’ll be inspecting your work in one hour.”
As Caleb turned to go, something on the corner of SSgt Folsom’s desk caught his eye. SSgt Folsom made no attempt to display it to Caleb, and yet no attempt to hide it. Caleb’s eyes stopped only for a second. He could not believe what he saw.
Both men laughed again when they saw the expression on Caleb’s face. On the corner of SSgt Folsom’s desk was a crinkled letter on US Marine Corps stationery that had been flattened. Caleb recognized his own handwriting and knew of only one thing it could be. It was the letter Caleb had written to Stacy, then thrown away.
SSgt Folsom added just before Caleb walked out, “Oh and recruit, don’t forget to do the duck walk on your way over there.”
While the other men would walk or march, Caleb was often instructed to do the infamous duck walk, where he would waddle in a squatting position with his rear against his ankles and his hands behind his head. Caleb would have to quack like a duck as he did this, which made it particularly embarrassing to have to enter the squad bay of Sgt Ward’s platoon with toothbrush in hand, sent to clean their toilets. The rival platoon had already given him the nickname Daffy.
The duck walk was banned from use on military recruits when it was discovered to cause permanent damage to cartilage and tendons. SSgt Folsom simply did not care.
Days seemed to drag on forever for Caleb. The crumpled letter hung like the Sword of Damocles over his head. He knew that was what SSgt Folsom wanted – to keep him in constant fear of the moment he would have to answer for it. Eventually Caleb forgot about it. SSgt Folsom was going to punish him whether Caleb deserved it or not. If not for the letter, then it would be for something else.
When Terrence’s girlfriend made the mistake of sending him contraband – a batch of cookies – SSgt Folsom forced Terrence to stand in front of the entire platoon and eat every last one of them, paced to his count. Terrence was able to finish the entire batch but promptly threw up. “Thank your girlfriend for the delicious cookies,” SSgt Folsom said as if delivering a one-liner from an action film.
It was Caleb who had to clean the vomit up.
Anti-hazing laws forbade denying recruits food, but SSgt Folsom made it a habit of calling Caleb out of line in the chow hall to ask him some inane question, which was usually some variation of, “Are you really homosexual?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“You don’t like women at all sexually?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“So, if (fill in the name of the actress that SSgt Folsom was thinking about that day) was standing in front of you naked, you would feel nothing?”
“Sir, I would ask for her autograph, sir.”
In this fashion, he would return Caleb to the back of the line, assured that he would be the last to receive food. Then the second Caleb sat down with his tray, SSgt Folsom would order the entire platoon out of the chow hall and on to some other task – thus, never denying him food, just the time that it takes to eat the food.
Not only would Caleb go to bed hungry, but he never did get his blanket back. During every inspection, SSgt Folsom would quarterdeck him for not having one. Caleb was too stubborn to ask for another one; besides, he knew he wouldn’t get it. The winter turned colder and Caleb wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn that they were running the air-conditioning. Every night Caleb would lie awake shivering. Thanks to his poor blood circulation, the pain from the cold felt like ice picks piercing his skin and piercing his bones. He would roll over to give the exposed part of his body a break from the biting air and a chance to be warmed against the mattress, but this would expose the other side. Caleb tossed and turned, alternating the discomfort all night.
As SSgt Folsom continued to focus his wrath exclusively on Caleb, the practice started to become routine. Both of them pretended they saw nothing out of the ordinary about it. Caleb never breathed a word of complaint – not to SSgt Folsom, not to Sgt Ward, not to any other Drill Instructor, not to the recruits, never even in a letter or phone call home. Caleb fought on with blind, stubborn – and perhaps foolish – determination. Tenacity that he did not know existed in him, coursed though his veins. He pushed his muscles to the point of exploding, but they did not. He pushed his bones to shatter, but they did not. He provoked his patience to bristle and break, flooding his mind with black hatred, but he hated no one.
Had he been given any time to catch his breath, he might have discovered that he was losing the will to live. Luckily, he pushed on not knowing.
***
“How come I feel like you are singling me out?” Stacy’s voice slurred as he began to berate his waiter. Stacy was out to lunch with Martin, a friend of his and Caleb’s. Stacy had been drinking Tequila Sunrises and he was on his fifth one. It was thirty-five minutes after noon and Blake – the befuddled waiter – found himself smack dab in the middle of an unusually hectic lunch rush.
“Excuse me?” Blake asked, confused. There were three empty glasses on Stacy’s table, containing only melting grenadine-colored ice, the empty remains of his Tequila Sunrises that Blake hadn’t had time to remove. The list of what he didn’t have time for was getting longer as he stood impatiently still, waiting for Stacy’s point.
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“I had to walk over to the bar to order my last drink. Where were you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. How come you-” His sentence was interrupted when Blake saw another patron jiggle his tea glass. “I am not finished!” Stacy yelled. “Don’t you look over there at them; there is nothing you can do for them. It’s high time that you pay a little attention to me. I am one of your customers too, you know. You are helping me now.”
“Okay, what can I help you with?” Blake said with all the courtesy that he could muster.
Stacy froze for a second. He hadn’t intended for the waiter to give in. He had geared up for a fight. Stacy quickly surveyed the table and said, “You can refill my water.” Stacy extended the glass that Blake had originally placed on the table with Stacy’s first bar drink. The ice cubes in the glass had all but completely melted and were swimming around on top. Blake grabbed the glass and looked at it. The level of the water was less than one inch from the rim.
“Sure thing,” Blake said as he walked the water over to the bus-stand. He pressed the water button on the soda gun for the shortest amount of time that he possibly could. A quick hiss topped the glass off to the point that some spilled down the sides. Blake walked slowly over to Stacy’s table trying not to spill a drop.
Stacy said nothing more to him, so he quickly ran to fill the other table’s tea.
The next time Blake came to Stacy’s table, he spoke with the same straight-to-the-point urgency that he had used with all his tables for the last hour, “Are you ready for your ticket?” He smiled.
“My ticket? No, honey, I am ready to talk to your manager.”