by Gore Vidal
The others agreed that the general was too tough and not particularly bright. Or as another sergeant, whose past was mysterious with unspecified success, put it, “I’d like to see him hold down a job in civilian life. I’ll bet he couldn’t make thirty-five a week.”
The others agreed solemnly that in their world the general would be far less than they, unable to make thirty-five a week.
Then the conversation turned to women.
Some liked plump women; some liked small women; some liked blondes, others brunettes, and a few liked red-haired women. But all were agreed that they liked women and as they talked their eyes brightened as they recalled wives, lovers, dreams. Jim was amused and puzzled: were these clerks really successful with women? None was attractive physically. They were either too fat or too thin, and he wondered how any woman could care for them. Yet they talked incessantly of conquests, boasting in order to impress other men who boasted—proof of what they said must be true. Even so, the thought of clerks in love was depressing.
Then one mentioned fairies. As far as Jim knew there were none in the barracks, except possibly the soldier who had started the conversation. He was small and round, with a flat unpleasant voice. “Just the other day this queer came up to me in the can in the movie house in town and wants me to go with him. Me! Well, I told the bastard what I thought of him. I told him if he didn’t get out of there quick I’d break his neck, that’s what I told him, and boy, he got out of there fast!” The others nodded solemnly when they heard this story, and each told an identical story, although in some instances the outraged man had indeed slugged the fairy. Jim tried not to laugh. It was always the ugliest and most suspect of the men who was invariably propositioned.
Jim glanced across at the young corporal. He was a dark-haired boy with gray eyes and a small slim body that looked strong. Watching him through half-closed eyes, Jim felt desire. For the first time in months he wanted sex. He wanted the young corporal. Mentally, he raped him, made love to him, worshiped him; they would be brothers and never parted.
“This town is full of those damn queers,” the bald soldier droned on. “A guy can’t be too careful.” But since another conversation had started, no one except Jim heard. The soldier looked to Jim for support. “Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” said Jim, continuing to look at the corporal, who yawned sleepily.
* * *
—
Jim was soon a friend of the corporal, whose name was Ken Woodrow, from Cleveland, aged twenty-one, in the Army a year and a half. He was a graduate of a secretarial college, and his ambition was to work for an important industrialist. Preferably in the Midwest, “where the people are real.” Ken told him everything about himself and Jim listened intently, infatuated, unable to think of anything except how to get Ken to bed. Not since Bob had anyone so excited him. But with Bob there had been a sense of identity, of twins complementing one another; with Ken what he felt was absolute lust. He must have him.
They saw each other daily. Yet Ken seemed serenly unaware of what Jim wanted. Leading questions were invariably deflected by innocent answers. It was hugely frustrating. Meanwhile, Sergeant Kervinski observed them darkly and suspected the worst; he was particularly angry with Jim, who continued to refuse to have dinner with him in town.
At last, unable to bear the waiting another moment, Jim talked Ken into going with him to Colorado Springs. It was a sharp November night. They had an overnight pass. They would sleep at a hotel. Something would have to happen.
Colorado Springs was crowded with soldiers. They came not only from the air base but also from a neighboring infantry camp, crowding the streets, bars, movie theaters, poolrooms, bowling alleys, looking for sex and a good time.
Jim and Ken had dinner at an Italian restaurant. At the next table two pretty girls dined alone.
“See that girl staring at me?” Ken whispered, delighted. “You think we ought to ask them to join us?”
“Oh, no,” said Jim as though the thought tired him. “I’m not up to it. I worked hard today. And I’m beat.”
“Gosh, you never go out with girls, do you?” said Ken as though the thought had just occurred to him.
Jim had been waiting for this question for weeks. He had a lie ready. “Well, I got this one girl here in town, and I see her regularly, alone.”
Ken nodded wisely. “See what you mean. Keep it to yourself. I figured you must have a setup like that, because you’ve been here quite a while and it wouldn’t be natural not to have a chick somewhere.” Ken nodded several times. They ate their spaghetti. Then Ken said, “She doesn’t have any friends, does she? You know the kind I mean.”
“Does who?”
“Your girl in town, does she…well, have friends?”
“Oh, no. At least I don’t think so. That is, I’d have to ask her. She doesn’t go out much.”
“Well, where’d you meet her?”
Jim was irritated by the necessity to invent. “I met her at the USO, but like I told you she doesn’t go out much. She works for the telephone company,” he added, attempting verisimilitude.
“Oh.” Ken was silent for a moment, his long fingers playing with a fork. “I met a girl last week. She was really stacked, and she had this apartment out by Pikes Peak. But I got so drunk I couldn’t remember where it was when it was over, and she didn’t tell me her name, so I don’t know how to find her. Boy, I’d give anything to see that chick again. It’s awful being in a town full of GIs and not knowing anybody.”
“It’s rough.” Jim realized that he was getting nowhere. With each piece of new evidence, Ken’s normality became more and more established. From the beginning, Jim had known that Ken was engaged to a girl in Cleveland, and that as soon as the war was over they would be married. But despite the engagement, Ken enjoyed talking about other girls and more than once he told Jim, solemnly, that he wondered if maybe he wasn’t oversexed because he couldn’t stop thinking about women. Since there was no evidence that Ken was interested in men, Jim’s only hope was to trust in the ambivalence of a young man who liked him.
“Well,” said Ken at last, eyes straying again to the two girls, “I guess we better go somewhere and get drunk, if you’re sure you don’t want to pick up something.”
They toured the bars. Jim was careful not to get drunk. He had one drink for every two of Ken’s. Wherever they went, Ken invariably struck up a conversation with a woman, but because Jim had said that he was tired Ken did not make a date for himself; he was going to be a “good buddy” and get drunk.
Shortly after midnight Ken was indeed very drunk, slurred speech, eyes glazed; he clung to the bar for support. The moment had come. “Maybe we better stay in town tonight,” said Jim.
“Sure, sure…good idea,” mumbled Ken.
The night air was reviving. Jim helped Ken to walk without stumbling. They went to a hotel frequented by soldiers with overnight passes.
“Double bed or two singles?” asked the desk clerk.
“Which is cheapest?” asked Jim, who knew.
“Double.” They registered. The room was like all other rooms in similar shabby hotels.
“Jeez, but I’m drunk.” Ken stared at his own reflection in the mirror, face red, sweating, dark hair tangled over bloodshot eyes.
“So’m I.” Jim watched him, wishing that he was drunk enough to do what he wanted to do.
“Jeez.” Ken sat down on the large bed, which sagged in the middle. “I sure wish I had a date. I mean that I had a date with one of those girls we saw, and you had a date, too. That’d be something, wouldn’t it? Four in a bed. I had a buddy once who liked to do that. He tried to get me to do that with him and a couple of girls, but not me, I like it private. I’d hate to have somebody watching, wouldn’t you?”
“I sure would.”
Ken stretched out on the bed, fully clothed, and shut his eyes
. Jim shook him. He mumbled incoherently. Boldly Jim pulled off Ken’s shoes, then the damp socks; Ken did not stir. But when he started to undo his belt, Ken opened his eyes and smiled; he looked like a corrupt choirboy. “Now that’s what I call service,” he said, wiggling his bare toes.
“I thought you’d passed out. Come on. Get your clothes off.”
They both undressed down to their olive drab shorts. Then Ken flung himself on the bed. “You sure sleep good when you’re drunk,” he said happily, and shut his eyes once more, and seemed to sleep.
Jim turned out the light. The darkness was complete. His heart beat rapidly. He was conscious of the warmth of Ken’s body close to him. Slowly he moved his hand beneath the covers until he touched Ken’s thigh; he waited, fingers resting lightly on the firm flesh.
Ken moved away. “Cut that out,” he said in a clear sober voice.
A pulse beat furiously in Jim’s temple. Blood rushed to his head. He turned over on his side. In the morning he would have a hangover.
III
THE WINTER WAS COLD and bitter. Snow came and went but the desert remained dry, and dust was forever in the wind. Jim was cold most of the time. During the day he spent as much time as he could in the hot sun, out of the wind. But at night he was always cold.
Neither Ken nor Jim acted as if anything untoward had happened, but Ken was plainly embarrassed, and Jim was furious. They avoided one another and now Jim found himself disliking the boy who had once filled his dreams with such intense passion. It was a lonely time. He had no friends. Even Sergeant Kervinski had proved fickle, transferring his affections to another physical-training instructor, newly arrived.
During the hard winter, Jim surrendered himself to an orgy of self-analysis. He thought continually about himself and his life and what it was that had made him the way he was. He pondered his early life.
Jim had disliked his father; he remembered that more clearly than anything else. His first memory was one of bleakness and unfair punishment. On the other hand he had liked his mother. Yet he found it strange that he could not recall her face although he could remember her voice: soft, Southern, tired. Far back in memory, he could recall a wonderful safe time when he was held in her arms while she kissed and fondled him. But all that ended when his brother was born, or so he supposed. She had never been demonstrative again.
School memories were vague. Jim had once been attracted to girls. When he was fourteen he was very interested in a heavy-breasted girl named Prudence. They exchanged valentines and the other children giggled that they were in love. He had sexual fantasies involving Prudence, but they stopped when he was fifteen and became interested in athletics and Bob. From that time on no one existed in the world except Bob.
Then came life at sea. He still shuddered when he remembered the night with Collins and the two girls in Seattle. He marveled now at how little he had understood then. Yet even now he wondered what might have happened if he had gone through with that adventure. He still half-believed that should he ever have a woman he would be normal. There was not much to base this hope on, but he believed it.
Memories of Shaw were pleasant and he smiled whenever he thought of him, despite the drama of their parting. He had learned much from Shaw; and through him he had met interesting people who might still be useful to him. Also, he found himself pitying Shaw, always a gratifying emotion, since it diminishes pleasurably the object.
Sullivan and Maria Verlaine were still too close to him for analysis. But he was aware that each had been important to him. Of the two he cared more for Maria, even though he now realized that he would never be able to make love to her, if only because they had talked too much about it. Words had taken the place of the act. Sullivan, too, had tended to vanish behind a screen of words, of emotions overstated yet undefined.
As for Bob, he had vanished. No one knew where he was, according to Mrs. Willard, who wrote Jim irregularly, giving him news of his father’s illness, Carrie’s marriage, John’s admission to the State University. Yet Jim was positive that one day Bob would appear and they would continue what was begun that day beside the river. Until then, his life was in suspension, waiting.
Unable to bear the winter cold any longer, Jim went to Kervinski. He was at his desk, surrounded by the theatrical sergeants, soft young men who knew a thousand unpleasant stories about famous people.
“Well, Jim, what can I do for you?” Kervinski smiled brightly.
“I was wondering, Sergeant, if there’s any chance of my going overseas.”
Kervinski sighed. “Really, Jim, you don’t know when you’re well off. As it is, according to current orders, you’ll be shipped out in April. But who knows? Anyway, there isn’t a thing I or anybody can do. It’s up to Washington.”
“I was wondering if maybe I could get assigned to one of the bomber outfits they’re forming here.”
“Possibly. But they’re not going overseas until spring. Anyway, why do you want to leave?”
“It’s too goddamn cold. I’m freezing to death.”
The sergeant laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to rough it with the rest of us. You Southern boys are so…sultry,” he added, amusing the sergeants. That was that.
* * *
—
Christmas came and with it a blizzard. For two days wind and snow raged about the base. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Men were lost going from building to building. Day was like night. When the blizzard stopped, the base had become a white lunar land with snowdrifts higher than buildings and craters that glittered in the sun.
In the club for enlisted men, a Christmas tree had been set up and the men gathered around it to drink beer and speak bitterly of past Christmases. Jim, bored, wandered over to the piano, where a corporal was picking out a tune with one finger. Not until Jim was at the piano did he realize that the corporal was Ken.
“Hello,” said Jim. The moment was awkward.
“Hi.” Ken was flat. “Kind of dull.”
Jim nodded. “And I don’t like beer.”
“I remember. You been busy?” Ken continued his one-finger piano playing.
“Just trying to keep warm.”
“I thought you were in Alaska once.”
“But since then I was in the tropics too long. I hate cold weather.”
“Why don’t you transfer to Louisiana? We got a new base there.”
“How?”
Ken was now playing the Marine Corps Hymn. “Well, if you want me to, I can fix it up with the sergeant in personnel. He’s a good buddy of mine.”
“I wish you would.”
“I’ll ask him tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” Jim was grateful, also suspicious. Why was Ken so willing to help? Did he want him to leave Colorado?
The next day, by accident, Jim met Sergeant Kervinski in the post library. The sergeant was reading a movie magazine.
“Hello, Jim.” Kervinski blushed. “I expect we’re both goldbricks today. By the way, Ken told me he spoke to you about Louisiana.”
“That’s right.” Jim was startled. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Oh, yes!” Kervinski beamed. “As a matter of fact, we’re going into the Springs for dinner tonight. Why don’t you join us?” The invitation was put in such a way that it was perfectly clear that the last thing in the world Kervinski wanted was for Jim to join them.
“No, thanks. Not tonight. He’s a good guy, Ken.”
“I think so. I first noticed him when you and he used to go around together when he first arrived, remember? Such a sincere person.”
“Yes.” Jim was suddenly angry. “Yes, he’s OK.” He paused, searching for a way to wound his successor. The best he could do was “I guess Ken’s going to be married soon.”
Kervinski was serene. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any immediate danger. He�
�s having too good a time. Besides, it’s a lot cheaper to buy milk than keep a cow.”
Jim looked at Kervinski with perfect loathing. But the sergeant gave no sign that he was aware of Jim’s dislike. “You know that we’ll be shipping quite a few men down to Louisiana.”
Jim got the point at last. “Yes, Ken’s going to see if I can be one of them. Do you think it’ll be all right with Captain Banks?”
“Of course it’ll be all right. We’d hate to lose you, naturally.” Jim was baffled. He had failed with Ken. Kervinski had been successful. It seemed impossible, yet obviously something had happened and both were now eager for Jim to be shipped out.
“Thanks,” said Jim, and left the library, contemplating murder.
But Jim was not transferred to Louisiana. On New Year’s Day he caught a chill. He went to the hospital and was put to bed, with a streptococcic infection of the throat. For several days he was delirious, tortured by memory, by certain words and phrases which repeated themselves until he swore aloud and twisted in his bed. He dreamed of Bob, of a menacing, subtly distorted Bob who retreated when he tried to touch him. Sometimes the river was between them, and when he tried to swim across, he would be dashed against sharp rocks, Bob’s derisive laughter ringing in his ears.
Then he would hear the voice of Shaw talking and talking and talking of love, saying the same things in the same way, until Jim knew how each sentence would end by its first word; yet there was no way of silencing the voice; it was literally maddening.
