Don't Ask - the story of America's first openly gay Marine.

by B. K. Dell

  “Fine,” Blake said, then grabbed some dishes off another table and headed to the back.

  Passing the expo line, Blake saw the manager and called out, “Gary, the gay guy at table sixty-five wants to talk to you. He’s ticked.”

  When the manager approached the table, he asked politely and obsequiously, “How can I help you today?”

  “How can you help me? You can fire that waiter, that’s what you can do, first of all.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “First of all, I don’t like your attitude. Nothing seems to be the problem. The problem is; it doesn’t seem to be.”

  “You were unhappy with your service?”

  “Do I look happy?”

  “I understand and I want you to know how sorry we are that you had a bad experience today. One of our servers had a death in the family and that has left us shorthanded.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care about the death in his family. First of all, why should I care about that? You know what, my boyfriend is in Afghanistan… risking his life for you. He is risking his life for you, okay?”

  “I appreciate his service.”

  “Well, what I would appreciate is some better service around here; that is what I would appreciate. I understand shorthanded, but what I’m not going to put up with is the fact that every one of these tables got better service than me, that family over there…that couple over there…I sat here and watched him spend much more time with them than with us. I just feel that we were singled out. Your waiter is dead and I understand that, but I just feel like we were singled out because we’re gay.”

  “Sir, I can assure you that is not the case. As much as I hate to say it, I believe that everyone in this restaurant received bad service today.”

  “And another thing, you need to fire that bartender. Your bartender sucks.”

  “How about I just pick up your ticket today? Thank you for coming. Please come back and see us again.” The manager waited for a response from Stacy, but didn’t get one so he cautiously turned and slinked away.

  After the lunch shift, the manager called Blake into his office, “Blake, I am very sorry, but we have to let you go.”

  “You’re firing me?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Because of that table?” Blake protested, shocked.

  “No,” the manager quickly answered, “It’s not because of the table. It’s because of what you said about the table.”

  Blake’s face showed strain. As hard as he tried, he could not remember a single thing he said about the table. “What did I say?”

  “You said he was angry and he was gay.”

  Blake still looked confused. He stopped himself from saying it, but his expression easily translated to, So what?

  “The company has a zero tolerance policy against language that could be considered offensive.”

  “Language that could be considered offensive.” It was not so much a question as it was mindlessly repeating back the words. Blake’s mind had left the conversation; it was remembering all the names he had openly called tables in the privacy of the back kitchen, in earshot of the manager. He said, “But, wait. You didn’t have a problem during today’s rush when I said, ‘Table thirty-three is a disgusting fatty,’ or, ‘That woman at fourteen is a total bi-”

  “Blake!” The manager stopped him.

  “Or just last week,” Blake continued, “you, yourself, were frustrated and remarked, ‘That guy at the bar is a worthless motherf-”

  “Don’t say it,” snapped the manager.

  “Or what about our own kitchen manager? When he was late you called him an as-”

  “Don’t say it.”

  Blake was looking at the floor. He hesitated for a second, then looked up at his manager and proceeded to say all the swear words that he had ever heard in the back kitchen, one after another. The list was so jarring and so vulgar that he thought he saw the manager blush.

  Finally the manager stopped him, exclaiming, “That’s just how restaurants go sometimes!”

  Blake wanted to ask how this might have been any different, but he knew he wouldn’t get a satisfactory answer. The manger knew full well the double standard. Blake looked him in the eye and said steadily, “We have worked together for over four years.”

  The manger sighed. He said, “Listen, Zoe heard you say it. She can cause us too much trouble. I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SSgt Folsom led his men off the parade deck’s asphalt onto a field of dirt. There were sparse patches of green where grass could still manage to grow by narrowly escaping the boots of countless recruits over countless years. Caleb couldn’t be sure, but he imagined that it was about the spot where members of his own platoon had left him wrapped, broken in a blanket.

  SSgt Folsom said, “The United States Marine Corps has its very own advanced fighting system. It is designed to hone your mental, physical and character discipline, ultimately culminating into the warrior ethos. Every Marine is a rifleman, and now every Marine is a martial artist.” As he spoke, the recruits could not help but notice he was holding in his hands a KA-BAR knife. “It’s called the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program or MCMAP, affectionately known as Semper Fu. I will be demonstrating its power and effectiveness.” SSgt Folsom paused and looked over his men. With a burst of energy, he yanked the KA-BAR from its sheath, producing a menacing sound. He flipped the knife one half turn in the air and caught it by its blade. He extended it out, inviting, “Now which one of you degenerates wants to stab me with a knife?”

  The recruits’ eyes widened. SSgt Folsom knew – they all knew – the voices in the recruits’ heads were answering simultaneously, I do, but no one actually said it. They were all wise enough to know that there would be no stabbing today. The second a recruit brought that knife close to SSgt Folsom, he would tie him in a knot like a pretzel. To volunteer would only be inviting pain.

  Caleb noticed the belt SSgt Folsom was wearing. It looked very similar to a standard issue belt – it even fit through the belt loops of his pants – except his was black and it had one red stripe. Caleb stepped forward. “Sir, this recruit would like to volunteer, sir.”

  SSgt Folsom looked appalled. He could not tell if Caleb was acting insolent or just stupid. The muscles on SSgt Folsom’s square jaw flexed angrily, but with a shake of his head, he whipped all expression off his face. He sighed and simply said, “Idiot.”

  SSgt Folsom stepped to Caleb and placed the knife in the palm of his hand. He forcefully wrapped Caleb’s fingers around the grip and yanked his hand forward, knife and all, hard enough to pull Caleb off his balance and force him to shuffle his feet. SSgt Folsom let go and pointed to an area of dirt where Caleb was supposed to stand. Caleb promptly stepped to that spot. He was examining the feel of the knife in his hand. It felt solid. Its minimalistic design radiated both power and masculinity. To Caleb it felt correct.

  “Stab me.”

  “Sir, how would you like me to stab you, sir?”

  SSgt Folsom laughed. “Will my enemy ask me how I would like to be stabbed?”

  “Sir, but this recruit is not your enemy, sir.”

  “Are you sure about that, recruit?”

  Caleb breathed deep. He shuffled his feet. Like a slow-motion tennis back hand, he swung the knife at SSgt Folsom. SSgt Folsom swatted the knife away like it was a butterfly, then rushed fiercely toward Caleb and grabbed him by both lapels, nearly lifting him off the ground. He screamed, “Hertz! If you do that again I will kill you! This knife is a deadly weapon! This KA-BAR is a Marine Corps weapon! It was made for killing. That attack did not have enough force to break skin. Don’t insult me by waving a knife in my face unless you plan on cutting me open.” SSgt Folsom’s face was less than an inch from Caleb’s. “Now try it again!” SSgt Folsom pushed Caleb backward. Caleb stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet.

  Caleb’s heart was pounding. He realized something: Despite the awesome power of the
weapon, SSgt Folsom did not put it into his hands to empower him, but to ridicule him. The smug way that SSgt Folsom stood untrembling before him, when it was he, Caleb, who held the lethal weapon – the whole thing was a mockery and Caleb was its victim.

  He stood there trying to figure out his next move. What does SSgt Folsom want from me?

  “Stab me!” yelled SSgt Folsom.

  He wants me to stab him, Caleb said slowly in his mind, still piecing the whole surreal situation together. Well, I guess…maybe I should stab him.

  “Use that rage. I know you’ve got some rage. Use your hatred for me...and for all those like me…” SSgt Folsom began to provoke him.

  Caleb shifted his weight. He was beginning to think he should do it. He was beginning to think that he could do it, actually stab him. That is what he wanted from him. That is what everyone in his life ever wanted from him – more rage, more aggression. Is this what it takes to act like a man?

  “…You know what I mean when I say all those like me…”

  Caleb nodded. He knew. His eyes were still staring off, unfocused. He was picturing himself reunited with his father, “Dad, I stabbed the Drill Sergeant! I stabbed him for you, Dad.” Caleb lowered his stance and evaluated the distance between him and SSgt Folsom.

  “…I’m talking about all those people who have called you a…”

  Before he could finish, Caleb lunged forward with all his might, blade first. All his strength and all his rage were focused sharply at the tip of the knife and that knife was aimed hungrily for SSgt Folsom’s soft intestines.

  The next thing that Caleb knew, SSgt Folsom was no longer in front of him, but somehow behind him. SSgt Folsom’s back was turned to Caleb and Caleb’s arm was tucked underneath SSgt Folsom’s armpit. SSgt Folsom was pulling Caleb’s arm upward with both hands into a position that an arm was never intended to go. He felt a hot sharp pain indicating that his elbow was about to break. Caleb attempted to step out of this hold, but when he did, SSgt Folsom swung his stance around and twisted Caleb’s wrist at such an angle that it caused Caleb’s body to lift into the air and come crashing down on his back. The back of his head hit the ground and Caleb saw a flash of white. For a second he felt like he would pass out, but then another shock of pain surged up his arm as SSgt Folsom – who still had a hold of his hand – placed his knee against Caleb’s elbow and rotated his wrist counter-clockwise.

  “This position is what we call control,” SSgt Folsom spoke very slowly while Caleb twitched with pain. “I have total control over the enemy. I have successfully incapacitated him without causing any lasting damage…that is unless I decide to give him an extra twist.”

  Caleb worried that he had already reached that point of lasting damage. He felt like the tendons in his forearm were about to snap completely. That would leave my wrist as limp as Stacy’s, Caleb thought.

  “When you are ready to begin training with partners, you will be expected to bring your partner to control, then slowly apply pressure until he taps out.” SSgt Folsom slowly applied more pressure, which flooded Caleb’s senses with more pain. Caleb drew his eyes tightly shut and grit his teeth, but otherwise did nothing.

  SSgt Folsom sighed and dropped Caleb’s hand. Angrily he said, “Idiot, tapping out looks like this…” SSgt Folsom tapped his own leg quickly twice, enough to produce a sound. Caleb staggered wearily to his feet.

  SSgt Folsom turned to the men and asked, “Now, what did the homosexual do wrong?”

  “Sir, volunteered, sir,” called out Terrence Brown.

  SSgt Folsom did not laugh. He asked, “Does anyone else know what he did wrong?”

  No one answered.

  “He didn’t resist me nearly enough,” SSgt Folsom told them. “He did not respond the way the enemy would. He did not struggle for his life; he went along with my motions like he only cared about receiving the least amount of pain.” SSgt Folsom shot a menacing look at Caleb. “Your partner can not help you train unless he can act like a real combatant and act like a real heterosexual.”

  ***

  Before lights out, SSgt Folsom would line up the recruits in front of their racks and force them to drink two large canteens of water. This was more water than their bodies were used to consuming so rapidly. He would count off the motions for this, just as everything they did was counted off – a count usually too rapid to keep up with. Inevitably, someone would throw up, and it was always Caleb who had to clean it up.

  Then, upon the appropriate word from SSgt Folsom, they would lie on their racks above the covers without moving. They were basically expected to stand at attention, only horizontally and in their racks. This is where SSgt Folsom would meander through some irrelevant story about what it was like growing up in the Pacific North West, or gripe about no longer being able to order a rare steak at what once was his favorite restaurant. “Lousy cowards. Everyone is afraid of the blood-sucking lawyers. Dirt bags.” Caleb figured that he probably rambled so much because he knew how badly all of them had to pee, or else he was just lonely. Possibly both.

  About an hour after lights out, recruits would gradually get out of bed, deciding that the coast was clear to visit the head. These times were even harder for Caleb because he always waited for the moment that the fewest men were in there, fearing their taunts, or worse. The recruits would linger in the head, not only to use it, but to taste just a few moments of free time. Mail call only allowed for enough time to receive letters from home, never enough time to actually read them, so recruits would often hang onto their letters for days before they had a chance to slip into the head and tear them open. There were no doors on the bathroom stalls, so the recruits would often use the toilets for chairs, sit in two facing stalls, and talk to each other across the aisle. If a third recruit wanted to join the conversation, he would lean on the frame of the missing door.

  Tonight, Caleb wanted to write a letter. He waited until he figured most of the recruits were out of the head and back in their racks. He was careless, however, because he forgot to watch for the one man he wanted to encounter the least – Jackson Brooks. When he walked through the door of the head, he discovered that Jackson was just leaving. They found themselves only a few feet apart. Caleb did his best to put on a mean face; he looked Jackson straight in the eyes.

  Jackson smirked. He said warmly, “I think it’s horrible the way that you’ve been singled out.”

  Caleb didn’t move a muscle. He was trying to figure out what kind of trick Jackson might be playing. He said, “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s dehumanizing,” Jackson continued boldly as if he was the one who had to inform Caleb, “to be simplified and dismissed. They don’t want to see you as a human; they want to reduce you to a label.”

  Maybe it was too much time spent with Stacy, but that specific trigger word had just tripped Caleb’s radical side. He said accusingly, “What do you know about labels? What do you know about being simplified or dismissed? Do you know how many times I’ve been called a-”

  “Bible thumper?” Jackson interrupted.

  Caleb looked confused, “No, why would I be called a-”

  “Fundamentalist whack-job?”

  “No,” said Caleb.

  “Oh,” Jackson continued, “Well then, how about racist, sexist, chauvinist, misogynist, Islamophobe, xenophobe, close-minded, bigoted, judgmental, or intolerant? Any of those?”

  Caleb was starting to understand, but all he did was shake his head slowly.

  “Oh and I almost forgot…homophobe.” Jackson added, “Yeah, I know a little bit about labels, too.” He continued in the direction he had been walking, careful not to brush shoulders with Caleb, and stepped out.

  Caleb splashed some water on his face and looked for a place where he could write. He chose the furthest stall on the end and crouched over his Marine stationery. He was having trouble getting the exchange with Jackson out of his mind and was trying to figure out what his perfect cutting response should have been. Nothing came to him.


  He decided to forget it and focus on the task at hand. Caleb wrote:

  Dear Stacy,

  I am so sorry about the way we left things. I was taken off guard by all the press attention in the parking lot. I was, in my shock, upset with you for not honoring my wishes. But I now realize that you only did it because you were proud of me. I know that you want me to say what we both know – so here it is: Sometimes I get so caught up in my own life that I have a hard time seeing and appreciating the feelings of those closest to me, those I love the most. I’m sorry.

  Yeah, I thought you would like that – me admitting to being wrong. Better keep this letter because it doesn’t happen often :)

  Caleb actually wrote a colon and a closing parenthesis, just as naturally as if he was texting his mother, despite the fact that this letter was handwritten.

  I am sorry that I have not written for this long. BTW, if you have sent me any mail, I have not received it. It’s possible that you wrote the address down wrong. Just use the return address on this letter. But, I have to warn you that it is probably more likely that your letters are being confiscated by my drill instructor. I have been receiving letters from my mother, at least, but I fear that he is intercepting yours because he knows you are my boyfriend.

  Things here are…

  He had too many words all contending to be next. He immediately scratched that line out and wrote:

  I miss you. I keep thinking about your comforter – the lavender one – the way it smells after you wash it, how soft it feels. Last night as I was freezing, I dreamt I was snuggled warm underneath it.

  Love, Caleb

  As Caleb wrote those words he imagined SSgt Folsom calling the entire platoon, if not the entire company, together and reading it aloud to them, but he just did not care.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN