Major Conflict (13 page)

“Sure,” he said, lifting the pack and tapping the bottom so that one cigarette pushed up higher than the others.

“I don't usually smoke. Only in bars when I'm drinking,” I said. I put the cigarette to my lips, and he lit it for me. “Thanks,” I said. I took a deep drag.

“I know it well—Giessen, I mean. I have an aunt who lives near the center of the town. I visit her fairly frequently. So how long are you here for?”

“Another two weeks or so.” The nicotine hit, and I got a little dizzy.

“Or so?”

“Well, I'm not sure when I'm leaving.” That didn't make much sense, I knew. God, how I hated all this lying. Everything would just snowball and snowball until I didn't know what I was talking about anymore. Sometimes I felt like one big walking lie. I lied to my friends on the post about these nights in Frankfurt, about the fictitious girlfriend stateside; and I lied to the men I met occasionally here in the city. I was lying now to this man I'd just met in the cool little bar not far from the Hauptbahnhof. It seemed that there was no place where I was allowed to be fully myself.

“Well, I hope you enjoy your visit. Any special plans for tonight?” He leaned forward slightly and stared directly into my face.

I smiled. I liked this guy. “Well, I thought I would just explore the city a little and see what happens.”

“An explorer!” he said, laughing a little. “That's exciting!”

And then we lifted our pints of Weizen beer and clinked them together.

“To exploration,” he said.

“To exploration,” I said, and we both drank.

I introduced myself after that, giving him, for some strange reason, my real first name. I usually told guys my name was Jack. His name was Gustav, and we spent the next few hours at the bar together, drinking, sharing his cigarettes, and talking. Toward midnight he told me he was glad I wasn't a soldier. He'd been seeing an American sergeant, and it had been difficult. He said he was swearing off army guys. And then I told him that I had been a soldier but that I'd finished my obligation about a year before. Though this was still a lie, it felt good to say it. Something about Gustav made me want to get closer to the truth. He put on a mock-weary face when I told him and then laughed, and said, “Once a soldier, always a soldier, I've heard. But maybe I can make an exception for you. You want to come back to my place for a nightcap?”

I said I did, and before I knew it we were back in his apartment having passionate sex.

In the morning Gustav made coffee, and at one point I felt so at ease that I almost told him the whole truth about my life. But something held me back, though I promised myself that when I saw him again I'd tell him everything.

Walking back to the train station, I pulled out the card he'd given me and looked at it. The few times I'd done this before I had tossed the card or the matchbook cover or slip of paper with the phone number; I had gotten rid of it even before reaching the station, convinced that it would be used as some kind of evidence, that it would bring about my downfall. This time felt different, and I decided to hold on to Gustav's card, stuffing it back into my pocket. But by the time I reached the station all the old concerns had returned; it was as if I'd crossed back over to the other side, so when I entered the Hauptbahnhof, I pulled out the card and tossed it into the first litter box I came upon. I never saw Gustav again.

On the train ride back to the post I started replaying the night with Gustav in my head. On the one hand, I felt guilty and told myself, as I did every time it happened, that I'd never do it again. On the other hand, I felt good about the night and frustrated that I'd not be able to see Gustav again. It occurred to me that I'd learned to approach every relationship with a man like a raid: identify the target, attack, and then get out as quickly as possible so as not to be caught. I grew anxious thinking how I'd entertained the idea of letting Gustav know the truth; I knew that letting anyone too far into my life would involve taking a huge risk, one that I wasn't yet prepared to make. And so I pushed Gustav out of my mind and put my “straight” hat back on, managing once again to stuff the weary genie back deep inside the bottle.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Second Spotlight

Early in June of 1990, a few months before I got my first big promotion, I was selected to be a fire direction officer for one of the gun batteries. I was still a second lieutenant, but the move was a big deal because I would be one of fourteen officers competing for a single slot. I saw it as a vote of confidence. I also knew that it meant I'd probably be selected for a platoon leader position in a year or so if I kept my nose clean.

That I was moving ahead in my career, that the army seemed to be placing its mark of approval on my forehead with increasing regularity, served only to exacerbate the conflict in myself over my sexuality. I'd proven them wrong and in the process proved to myself that a gay man could be a valuable asset in the armed forces. For so long I'd believed that these two things were mutually exclusive. And they seemed to remain that way as long as I insisted on trying to squeeze my gay self into a straight mold in order to fit my preconceived notions of what it was to be a soldier. Once it became clear that I was succeeding despite failing to straitjacket my sexuality, it became clear to me that they weren't, in fact, mutually exclusive at all. Phrases like “fine gay soldier” and “outstanding gay officer,” and “excellent gay major” no longer seemed oxymoronic. They were becoming phrases that might, in fact, apply to me.

But this all came slowly. And I knew that my own private enlightenment, while it might make my life a little more bearable, wouldn't change anything in the U.S. Army. And I also knew that, as things stood, I simply wasn't going to be able to have everything I wanted. Unlike my straight comrades, I'd have to choose between my work life and my private life. And this realization often left me feeling lonely and empty. In quiet moments, when I was unable to focus on anything else, I'd often experience a yearning that was so palpable, so real, it hurt. I wanted to open myself up to someone else and let down my defenses; I wanted to be vulnerable, to be loved and to love, intimately. But no matter how obvious it became, no matter how much I knew deep in my heart that I wasn't straight, a part of me still believed that I could simply overcome it by focusing on other things or by simply ignoring it. I'd manage for a few weeks, but the quiet moment would always, always return, that whisper of accusation, Greg's calling me a hypocrite, and there it would be, staring back at me, plain as day. I'd rush to compartmentalize. And I became expert at compartmentalizing nearly every single aspect of my life, each separate part sealed tight in its own little box. If I wanted to have sex, I'd opt for an impersonal encounter, which at the time was an act of world-class stupidity, considering that the AIDS epidemic was in full swing and we were still years away from the big drugs that would change the face of the disease in the mid-to-late nineties. An impersonal encounter was preferable to the Gustav-like encounter, though, which had scared me: the box was too big, too loosely sealed; I feared if I had another encounter like I'd had with Gustav, I'd lose not just the battle, but the war itself. I was just about to learn how easily all the compartments could break apart and get blended together.

To celebrate my selection as a fire direction officer, a bunch of us decided to go to Alt-Sachsanhausen. Our favorite place was Kyalami's, a South African bar located catty-corner to the Irish pub that drew a young, upscale mix of Americans and Europeans. We went to the Irish pub, too, sometimes, but that was just about pounding beers, and it was always pretty loud and raucous. Kyalami's was more subdued; you could actually hear what the person next to you was saying. The decor was cool: zebra skins and Zulu regalia. And there were little private nooks set apart from the main room that made things more intimate and allowed for good conversation.

That night we drank quite a bit and talked shop endlessly, as we always did. I remember thinking early on, We had this exact conversation three weeks ago. We were all dressed the same, in jeans and polo shirts, with the same clean buzz cuts, and Bariglia was complaining about the same guy he was always complaining about; it felt as if we existed in some perfectly sealed bubble in which our work lives and social lives were so seamlessly connected that sometimes I really just wanted to scream, crash straight through, and get the hell away from these guys and army life in general.

And the truth was we were, in a very real sense, in that perfectly sealed bubble. The army at that point, American military culture in general, was the only place left where LBJ's Great Society had been allowed to flourish fully and take hold. The army provided everything, literally everything—housing, food, clothing, health care, entertainment, recreation—all the basic human needs and more. It acted as a massive safety net for those who were a part of it. But it often felt less like a net stretched out beneath you and more like a net strung up all around you, like a cage, restricting your every move.

In the United States the army was a separate culture. This separation was even more pronounced in Germany and, I imagine, Korea and elsewhere around the world where the United States had army bases, since we were a distinct military culture within a foreign culture. Not only were we military, we were foreign military. As a result we were even more insular than any post in the States. This is why my leaving the post alone to go to Frankfurt was such a big deal. Not only was it a red flag to those on post, but being the lone American among Germans made me stick out even more.

So this was definitely one of those times when I wanted to break through the bubble of army life. I was basically just going through the motions that night at Kyalami's, nursing my Weizen beer, nodding my head occasionally at whoever was talking to let him know I was listening. I knew what they were saying, after all. I'd heard it all before. To pass the time I looked at the other people in the bar, watched the door as people came and went, wondered about their varied civilian lives outside the bubble.

At one point a group of four walked in, two men and two women, two Americans and two Europeans, it looked like. I'd quickly developed an eye for this—distinguishing the Americans from the Europeans. It had to do with dress and manner, mostly, and it wasn't a science, but after you spent enough time in Europe it became almost second nature. The last person in the group was an American guy, and when I saw him, I literally almost dropped my drink.

I'd seen good-looking men before, of course, and just like anyone else I'd been impressed by the especially good-looking guys, but this was completely different, something I'd never experienced before. It was as if the room had narrowed to just this one person, this one face, this one body, as if the restroom had suddenly gone black and a spotlight had been turned on this one stunning individual. I saw him immediately with such clarity that even to this day I can remember the smallest details of the features of his face, his body, his bearing.

He was about my height (six feet three inches), with thick blond hair parted on the left and fairly short, two inches long, tops. He had a high, high forehead, and a very straight nose with a small indentation at the top that traveled effortlessly down the center, creating a perfect symmetry with a full set of moist, pink, sensual lips. His cheekbones were high and firm and set just above them were a pair of deep blue eyes from which an unusual warmth emanated, not the usual iciness that often comes with such clarity of color. He wore a red button-down shirt and a pair of very dark blue jeans with a nice pair of loafers. His face gave the impression of a vague cruelty that was somehow pardoned, or perhaps enhanced, by his beauty and his youth.

I was finding it a little hard to breathe, looking over at him. My mind was racing. When I could finally form a clear thought, I instinctively recoiled from him (a defensive move, no doubt), telling myself that he wasn't really my type, that he was probably totally self-absorbed, a shallow pretty boy. But this struck me as hollow right away, the defensive reaction of one who had just been literally struck dumb by another man's beauty. And I never looked away. I kept staring at him, as if the room had remained dark and he was now doing a solo performance in the spotlight. There was nowhere else to look.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Roger, a tall (six feet five inches) officer, newly arrived in the battalion, asked me, nudging me hard with his shoulder and causing me to spill much of my beer down the front of my jeans.

“Nothing, dickhead!” I snapped, too loudly. “Damn—fuck—look at this fuckface—you made me spill my brew! I gotta go to the head now and dry this shit off!”

The front of my jeans were covered so that it looked like I'd pissed myself.

Normally this wouldn't have been such a big deal, and everyone knew it. That's why they all looked at me as if I'd lost a nut or something.

“Whoa, chill, dude,” Roger said, as I pushed him out of the way.

It felt as if he'd caught me with my pants down or something, the way his voice had popped into my fantasy, and then the beer all over my pants, and the newly arrived pretty boy going out of my view. I felt so raw all of a sudden. Normally I would've just laughed it off and probably popped Roger on the shoulder or something, but this wasn't normal, and the bathroom break was a much-needed respite. I felt a little dizzy when I walked in. I splashed some water on my face, tried to get my bearings, then wet a paper towel and wiped the beer off the front of my pants. I knew this would only make the stain worse, but I wanted to get the smell out. I tried to figure out what had just happened to me, but nothing made sense in light of what I'd just experienced. All sense had been trumped for a moment by something far greater, and I was still vaguely in the throes of it.

I took a few deep breaths, and things began returning to normal. I reminded myself that I would not give in to this, that I couldn't give in to it. It simply wouldn't do to be so obvious about it. Don't fuck things up, I told myself. You want to get married, right? You want to be an officer, right? I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror, searching for any remaining signs of the awe I'd just felt. Had they all seen it? Did they all know? And then I saw the guy's face again, that perfect nose and those perfect cheekbones, those deep blue eyes. He couldn't possibly be a fag, I told myself. I mean, he's perfect, he's probably got a girlfriend, probably had a 4.0 at school, probably captain of the baseball team, right? Probably an asshole anyway, right? But Christ, why are you acting like a love-struck cheerleader? Geez, get a hold of yourself, stop being an idiot and go out there and order yourself another beer and get yourself hammered good.

With my composure somewhat regained, I walked out of the bathroom and rejoined the group.

“Didums Jeffy change his diaper okay?” Lostrapo said in his level-best imitation of a concerned, doting mother.

“Shut—your—fucking—head—you!” I replied, hoping I could just cut the whole thing off right away.

But by now everyone had turned toward me and was laughing about the stain on my jeans. And for the next ten minutes or so they all felt the need to pile on in classic army/frat-boy fashion. Finally, somebody put a fresh beer in my hand and the razzing subsided, and I had a chance to look around the bar again. I found him immediately, standing on the opposite side of the bar. I kept him in my vision as I started talking and laughing with the guys again, and then slowly, as the night moved forward, I felt a deep melancholy creep over me like a thick fog. I wanted so desperately to go over and talk to the guy, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. And so, in order to dispel the fog of sadness, I opted instead to concentrate on getting seriously hammered.

A bit later on I was listening to Lostrapo, who was a platoon leader over in Charlie Battery, tell me about a new shotgun he'd just bought. Then, as he joked about buying a pistol grip to pimp out, one of the women from the group of four walked over and broke into our conversation. She was a lieutenant from a support battalion in Hanau, and she and Lostrapo knew each other. We talked to her for a while. She was cool, had a wicked sense of humor, and I liked her right away. For the first time since the group of four had entered, I was able to put her friend out of my mind and focus entirely on something else. But not for long. A few minutes later he appeared directly in front of me, seemingly out of nowhere, with a huge smile on his face and his hand extended. The look on my face must have been priceless. I blinked like an owl, switched my beer to my left hand, and put my right hand in his.

“Hi, I'm Paul,” he said simply.

It felt as if my hand had disappeared. I worried about the wetness of my palms, which had turned clammy the moment he'd appeared before me.

“Jeff, uh—my name's Jeff,” I stammered, realizing immediately that I'd not heard his name. It was as if I'd gone deaf; I could only see his face, watch his lips move, but I couldn't hear the words coming out of them. “I—I didn't catch your name?”

“Paul,” he said again, still smiling, then “Paul,” again, as if I were a slow schoolchild learning something for the first time, but smiling, still, as if he understood perfectly why I was having trouble hearing him, the language of flirtation being universal, gay or straight, and instantly recognizable by those engaged in it.

“Paul? Okay man, sorry, it's kind of loud. It's loud in here. I couldn't hear you.” I felt like a supreme idiot.

There was a brief moment when we didn't speak, and he looked at me steadily without blinking until finally his friend, the female lieutenant from Hanau, asked him a question and he answered her, still keeping his eyes on me until Lostrapo said something in response and he blinked again and looked away. I tried to focus on Lostrapo and the girl from Hanau, tried to follow the conversation the three of them were having, but I found myself unable to concentrate for very long, distracted by his face and the sound of his voice, and suddenly so intensely self-conscious about the way my own voice sounded and the way I looked, the way my hands moved when I spoke, the way I was standing, and intensely aware again of the stain, just about dry, though still slightly visible, on the crotch of my jeans.