“What are you, the fuckin’ chaplain? Eat your fuckin’ kimchee, Jones,” Andy said.
“You know, you’re just killin’ me here, Andy. Fred’s right, by the way, but let’s get back to the basics. One, we are all human beings. Two, you can’t go around advocating killing people or hating them just because they’re different. Blacks are different, and you don’t wanna kill them, do you? You don’t have to like other people, Andy, but you do have to refrain from killing them or hurting them. They have the right to exist and pursue happiness just like the rest of us. Nobody is saying that you have to hang around anybody you don’t want to, but they do have a right to be there.”
“No, no, McGowan, that is where you’re wrong. They do not have that right. Most Americans think that what faggots do is immoral and disgusting, and you know what, the majority rules, dude. If you got the votes, you can restrict what those immoral fuckers do.”
“Oh, Christ, I don’t know why I’m even talking to you,” I said.
“Actually, Andy,” Fred said, “I think it’s kind of one of the things about America that the government is supposed to protect the majority from, like hurting the minority, right, Jeff? I mean it’s not like I’m saying homos have rights or anything, but that’s the way it is, I think.”
“He’s right, Andy. What you’re saying is actually un-American. Your vision is a zero-sum game.”
“No,” Andy said, “that shit’s for, like, the Irish and the blacks. It’s not for fags. You’re wrong.”
“Christ almighty, Andy, you don’t know how fucking stupid you sound when you talk like that.”
“If you call me stupid one more time, McGowan, I’m going to pop you,” Andy said, smiling a little. “Don’t get so excited.”
“Look, Andy, I just can’t stand narrow-minded crap like that, okay? You don’t fucking hate people, it’s as simple as that. Didn’t you go to Sunday school? It’s like the major thing that Jesus was saying. And especially if you’re educated, and you are, Andy, you should be more open-minded. That’s how you learn and grow, by trying to see the world through other people’s eyes.”
“That’s a New Yorker for ya,” Fred said suddenly, trying to lighten things up. “Always trying to make us southerners feel like yokels, with yo ha’falutin’ intellects.”
“Ah, fuck it. Let’s just eat,” I said with a disgust, only slightly tempered by Fred’s stab at lightheartedness. But still, I felt good at having said something. I knew Andy was an idiot, but at the same time I knew that a lot of guys felt exactly the same way. The fact that I wouldn’t let him get away with that kind of talk anymore was a small step, but a significant one, nonetheless. I was finally beginning to face the fact that I wasn’t going to change and that I’d have to learn to live at peace with myself. I’d always believed that being a man meant being tough and responsible and steady. I was learning that it also meant having the integrity to accept who I was. I was moving toward a scary place now, because I didn’t know what to expect. But I was excited about the prospect of perhaps finally becoming not just a soldier, but a soldier who was also a man.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Heartbreak and Liberation
The old site, where the PX (post exchange) opened temporarily while the new facility was under construction, was conveniently located at the end of Ardennes Street, where all the units of the Eighty-second and Special Forces are located. After the PX moved, the military clothing store moved in along with a nice food court and a few other shops. What drew me there on a frequent basis was a coffee stand that made these really sweet coffees with whipped cream and caramel on top, sort of like the caramel macchiato at Starbucks. I would go alone or with a group, two or three times a week, if business took me that way.
One day in the early spring of 1995, I was enjoying a coffee after picking up a new set of uniforms for All-American Week, the annual celebration of the Eighty-second Airborne. It’s a weeklong smorgasbord of competitions, parades, and plenty of parties. The week begins with the entire division lining up for a four-mile run. It’s a pretty impressive sight. The division Artillery places cannons along the route and fires a salute as each brigade commander runs by with his flag. All the bigwigs turn out, from the corps commander on down. One of the highlights of the run when I was there was this one WWII paratrooper in his late seventies. They’d put him in a Hummer and drive him past the formation while he’d wave to all the troops and we’d applaud and cheer back at him. He had a lot of energy and would yell at the formations, especially when he saw a good-looking female soldier. “Hey good lookin’, what’s cookin’?” he’d shout, or “You’re breakin’ my heart!” Sometimes he’d jokingly ask for their phone numbers. It was hilarious, and nobody minded because he really was such a sweet old man.
After the run, the division would go to All-American field, which is near the original WWII barracks, and practice marching for the review at the end of the week. This final big parade usually included a guest speaker of some prominence. Of course it would be incredibly hot all week long, and we’d sweat like pigs the whole time. When we weren’t practicing for the end-of-the-week parade, we’d take part in athletic competitions, which included everything from softball to my favorite, pushball. Pushball is simple enough, kind of a combination of soccer and football, two teams fight to move a large inflated ball down the field and through the opposing team’s goalposts. Other than that, there aren’t many rules, at least there weren’t in the version of the game we played, so it got pretty rough, so rough that a few times limbs were actually broken. We all loved it.
I stood at one of the tables near the coffee concession, drinking my caramel-flavored coffee. All-American Week falls at the end of May every year, so it was getting hot. I found myself sweating as I sipped the hot concoction, wondering if maybe I should have had an iced coffee instead. I watched as soldiers and their families passed by, loaded up with bags, browsing the various kiosks that seemed to change as often as the seasons. In a way it was a pretty depressing sight. Cheap and tacky. There was a shop loaded with souvenirs and other crap no one really needs, and lots of T-shirts with Airborne-related slogans printed on them: KILL ’EM ALL AND LET GOD SORT ’EM OUT and ON THE 8TH DAY, GOD MADE THE AIRBORNE. There was a trophy shop where just about every unit on post bought plaques for departing officers and NCOs, a shop that sold African masks and kente cloth clothing, and a few no-name hot dog and burger stands thrown into the mix. It was, like so many other aspects of military life, a place that catered to a very narrow set of tastes.
Finishing up my coffee, I remembered that I had an afternoon meeting at headquarters and that the air conditioner there wasn’t working. I need a break, I thought to myself. I was making my way to the exit when I noticed a tall, blond soldier in front of me who looked familiar, even though he had his back to me. The shape of his head, the back of his neck, the way he held his body, it all looked strikingly familiar. Suddenly it dawned on me. Could it be? God, I hoped it was. My footsteps quickened a bit to catch up with him. He stopped to look in the window of the trophy shop to his right and I got a clear view of his profile. It was Paul.
A thousand thoughts exploded in my mind all at once, and I felt as if I were going to burst. I wasn’t sure what to do as I approached. Should I shake his hand, hug him? Would he remember me? After all, we hadn’t spoken since that one brief episode in Cement City right before the war.
Reaching him, I managed to quiet the trumpets in my head and keep myself from tackling him. I was even able to muster up the presence of mind to decide on a more jocular approach by positioning myself behind him and giving him a good shot in his right arm. He was completely taken by surprise, and I almost knocked him over. But as he turned and saw that it was me standing there, grinning ear to ear, his eyes lit up, and he threw his arms up in the air and moved toward me. I took a short step forward, and we gave each other a heart-felt embrace that we ended almost instantly, as if we had collided and bumped off each other, so self-conscious were we both,
I think, of the true import of the embrace. I think we both knew that had we held the hug any longer we would’ve ended up with our tongues in each other’s mouth.
“Jeffrey, Jeffrey, I can’t believe it. My God, what is goin’ on, brother? How ya been, big guy?”
“Not too shabby, what about you? Where the hell’ve you been, buddy!”
The words were mere conduits through which our excitement flowed. I had no idea what I was saying. It felt as if a huge burden had just been lifted off my shoulders and at any moment my feet would lift off the ground in defiance of gravity. I kept smacking him on the shoulder, just so that a part of my body could make contact with a part of his.
“Uh, well,” Paul said, “I left Cement City pretty quickly because of my orders. What about you? Where’re you at? Are you in the division?” Then he did what everybody does at Fort Bragg. He swayed lightly to check out the patch on my left shoulder and then gave my uniform a once-over to see the badges I had. Simple Airborne wings are not enough. To have credibility, you must have a star or a star with a wreath around it, signifying either senior or master parachutist status. Sometimes when somebody achieved master parachutist, they’d say he got an “afro on his wings.”
“First of the Three hundred nineteenth,” I said. “What about you?”
“I’m at COSCOM [Corps Support Command], in the G-3 shop. Writing orders and doing slides, you know the drill, same as every other post command captain.”
“Cool. So . . . maybe we . . . could go out to dinner or something and catch up on old times.” My heart was racing as I waited for his response. I was pretty sure that he would say yes, but I wanted him to say it with the kind of enthusiasm that matched my own, that wouldn’t leave me guessing.
“Are you kidding me?” he said, actually looking a little confused, far surpassing my enthusiasm requirement. “What are you doing tonight? Let’s go to Bennigan’s or the Outback,” he said.
“Tonight,” I said, thinking I was gushing, though I’m pretty sure I wasn’t. I was worried, however, that my face would split open from smiling so big. I’d never experienced this kind of joy at seeing another person. There was something spectacular about this feeling. All of the yearning would be fulfilled, and the thrill of it far outweighed any fear I still had about being discovered. “Yes, tonight.”
“Let me give you my number,” he said.
Just before I was about to take the slip of paper from his hand, he pulled it back a little and looked into my eyes and said very simply and quietly, “Wait, promise me, Jeff, that you’ll never lose it, okay?”
“No, I won’t. I promise,” I said.
“So, whaddya say, Bennigan’s then, at seven?”
“I’m there, Paul.”
“Okay, see you then.” And he walked off.
Heading back to my car, I was floating on air; I was defying gravity. It didn’t seem real. The whole thing felt almost scripted. I just couldn’t believe that he was back in my life again. Suddenly, I was in a different world. The tacky shops, the drab T-shirt stands, the whole dull mediocrity that so often infects army life had been transformed into something endlessly fascinating and meaningful. How love supplies meaning! It’s truly amazing.
That day was an agony of waiting. I went through the motions of my day, playing in my mind this scenario, then that one, confident here, then unsure there, bursting with hope, then crushed with uncertainty. It was, I think, in some respects, a kind of adolescent experience of love and desire, but it made sense in a way since I’d been denied the experience during my real, chronological adolescence. Like other gay men who come out later in life, I had some catching up to do.
Once again Paul had me entirely in his thrall. His presence made me feel helpless and vulnerable; it had the power to break through all of my delusions and defenses. I was no longer in control when he was around, and what a relief that was, to relinquish some control, to relax into a kind of easy abandon! Seeing him could literally silence me, and I’d become incapable of resistance. He was, in every sense of the word, irresistible. Physically, emotionally, mentally, I wanted all of him. He made me reckless and hopeful for the first time in my life. Indeed, that proverbial light switch had once again been flipped on, but this time it felt more like a whole wall of switches, an entire bank of them capable of lighting a skyscraper, or even a whole city.
I was at Bennigan’s a half hour early because I couldn’t stand sitting in my apartment any longer. I was nervous and figured I would have a Guinness or two to loosen up and take the edge off. As I sat at the bar, watching a basketball game on the television behind the bar, the door opened and in walked Paul. I was surprised to see him so early, and when he saw me he looked a little sheepish. The moment felt terribly awkward, as if we’d caught each other doing something wrong.
“Great minds think alike, I guess,” he said. “We’re both early!” He pulled up a bar stool and sat down next to me.
“Yeah, wanna drink or something? I don’t think there’s a table yet.”
“Great, uh,” he said, as the bartender stepped in front of him, “a Rolling Rock, please.”
We chatted mostly about work, filling each other in on the different assignments we’d had. By all accounts it seemed as if he’d been successful by getting an early command. We felt a little bit exposed, I think, sitting up at the bar like that, in plain view, so we were both kind of stiff, more like coworkers than anything else. We were relieved when they finally seated us in a booth. It felt more private, plus the beers had loosened us up a little.
“So how come you never called me and told me where you were?” I asked quietly.
“Well, when I got back from the desert, it was hectic because I had orders that were put on hold so I could deploy. I got back and literally had to outprocess almost immediately.”
“Yeah, but you could have sent a letter or a card or smoke signals,” I said, laughing a little. “It’s like you just dropped off the face of the earth, Paul, like you died or something. I didn’t know what happened. I was worried.” Was this too obvious? I wondered. But I hardly cared anymore.
“That’s nice, Jeff, but . . .” He smiled, though he looked a little nervous, too. “Well . . . I came back to the States and went to the Advanced Course and got caught up in my life here. I mean, it wasn’t like I didn’t think of all of my friends and you in Germany, but you know I just don’t call anybody, really.”
The way he said “all of my friends and you” was a classic example of how he often spoke in phrases that required careful interpretation. Did he mean he thought of me differently from everyone else, or was he signaling that he thought my question was weird and he wanted me to back off? I played the phrase over in my head, trying to remember the tone of his voice when he’d said “and you.” Had there been a hint of sarcasm in the phrase, or had it sounded like almost everything else he said, light and simple? I decided it had been the latter because his face had remained so open and he seemed so obviously happy to see me. I couldn’t remember his ever being sarcastic about anything. I pushed all the doubts from my mind and simply tried to savor being with him again. He’d not changed at all, except his body seemed a little more toned, the result of his newfound passion: sprint distance triathlons.
“Come to think of it, though,” he said, “I have to admit, out of everybody, I really wanted to call you the most. I mean . . . I just had the best times hanging around with you.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I said. There it was. No doubt about it. I thought I’d burst.
“So I promise, now that I have your info, I won’t disappear again.”
Both convinced, now, that we were back on the same page, we felt at ease to simply enjoy each other’s company again. We ordered the Bennigan’s margaritas and a couple burgers. We talked about the war, of course, but also about our childhoods again and our favorite foods and our favorites movies and where we’d like to live eventually. We talked about politics and Frankfurt, about the sex shop in the airport, about the b
ars in the Kstrasse, about New York and Washington State. We talked about everything. Well, nearly everything. The huge pink elephant of our desire for each other was about the only thing not discussed, but we both knew that it was there, and even that knowledge was a kind of progress. The restaurant all around us disappeared as we flew off once again in our own private bubble. Before I knew it, I looked at my watch and it was a few minutes past midnight.
“Dude, I gotta hop. PT is a four-mile run,” I said.
“You can drive okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
But I wasn’t sure about that. I’d had a few more than Paul, and I was feeling no pain, as they say.
“You know, I don’t mind driving you back to your place,” Paul said.
“No really, Paul, I’m fine. I’m fine,” I said. But I knew I probably shouldn’t drive, and when I thought about it, I liked the idea of Paul coming back to my place. I imagined his coming upstairs and the two of us jumping each other’s bones.
“What about PT in the morning?” I said. “I’ll need my car to get to work.”
“I can pick you up. It’s actually on the way for me. And then we can have lunch here together and get your car.”
“And you’re okay to drive?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m cool, don’t worry.”
He had it all figured out, I thought. In my mind we’d moved from just inside the apartment door to the bedroom, and he would be in my arms, and then he would be in my bed. “Sounds like a plan, dude,” I said. “Let’s blow this pop stand.”
He drove me home in silence, the two of us comfortable enough, now, simply to be in each other’s presence without feeling the need to talk. I’d noticed his scent before, but had never had a chance really to stop and take it in for any extended period of time. Now here it was, enveloping me inside his car. It was extraordinary—a clean, fresh, healthy musk—and I found myself breathing it in deliberately, through my nose, my mouth, and thinking (there was no mistaking I’d had a few) about how scents are composed of particles, really, tiny particles, that odor is matter in the end, and that by inhaling the scent of Paul’s body I was, in fact, taking pieces of him inside my own body.
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