He was happy. His parents didn't depress him anymore. He started studying for tests again, and his GPA rose.
Arthur was about to graduate, so they talked about the future.
They made plans.
And then it ended. Mysteriously.
* * *
So here he was, years later, lying in the shadow of the Tyler compound.
Depressed--suicidal, actually--once again.
The bumps on lay-Z-Boy Rock were starting to press uncomfortably into his back, so he slid off the boulder and made his way down to where the sliding waves turned the dry, beige sand a glistening cocoa brown. He looked up, scanning for some blue to signal that the gloom was burning off, but found none. He so wished it had been a prettier day-- that perhaps a blinding white sun and some shimmering, cobalt water might have salvaged his spirits.
So he began padding back toward home, thinking--
What bounty might life offer to a young man like him? It was almost 1989, and the only fate that seemed certain was death by AIDS, just as his father had so viciously reminded him. So even if he didn't kill himself ina week, that horrible virus would most certainly accomplish the act he'd been contemplating--in slow motion. In fact, he could already be infected; there'd been that guy at the Frat House coffee bar last summer, and they'd been pretty quick to...
So suicide would just be getting a jump on the inevitable.
Suicide. Suicide. Suicide.
He was depressed, to be sure. But could he really, actually do that?
Probably.
Because if he didn't, he'd have to face his fucking parents and work somewhere dull and somehow finish school and get some sort of career moving...but then he'd just wind up as a lonely, disease-ridden fag.
Annie, get your gun.
But something in him, some little morsel of his soul, still believed that happiness could be his, and he could, somehow, find someone to build a life with.
But not if you blow your head off.
His grandfather's words came back to him, when he'd explained that creatures have a craving to live--from all of humankind to the lowliest insect. To illustrate his point he'd found an ant on a wall, and tapped his finger behind the tiny creature.
It leapt into a microscopic gallop.
"It wants to live," he told him. "All creatures are the same."
OK. So maybe he wouldn't do it. Yet. But then where could he go, and what could he do that would pose as a life until he figured out what the hell his real life was going to be? He was already almost a month behind in his rent, with no prospects for a roommate; he'd even put an ad in the Recycler and had interviewed the few people who'd responded, but the thought of living with any of them was dismal, and none seemed interested in sharing his pitiful apartment. And tuition could never be scraped together in time and his phone was already shut off, and working at electronics Galore sucked and his van was a piece of shit...
Where the hell could he go, a young man with a death wish who craved the company of men and had no family to speak of and no home of his own and few possessions and even fewer prospects for a happy, healthy future?
Yeah.
It wasn't the perfect solution, by a long shot. But it was something worth looking into.
Better, at least, than looking into the barrel of a rifle.
Chapter 6
He startled awake as the bus pulled into the parking lot of the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, so he glanced down at his watch and saw, with some effort, that it was nearly four a.m. Then he heard the air brakes fart and saw the door swing open and a burley man wearing green pants, a khaki shirt and a funny round hat that looked too small for his big bald head jump into the bus.
"From now on the last word in your mouth is yes, sir! " he yelled at them. "Do you understand that?
"Yes, sir!" they all yelled in unison.
And Arthur thought, But "yes, sir" is two words...
"What is the last word in your mouth?" he screamed even louder.
"YES, SIR!" they all hollered back at him.
"Go stand on those yellow footprints," he ordered, throwing his arm out from his side in the direction of the parking lot, like a cop directing rush-hour traffic, "front to rear and left to right! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?"
"YES, SIR!"
And so Arthur and the rest of the young men scrambled off the vehicle as if it were on fire, and took their places outside next to a rambling two-story redbrick building, and each placed his own feet atop a pair of jaunty yellow footprints arranged in long, precise rows in front and in back of one another.
"You'll do what you're told to do, how to do it, and when to do it without a question. Do you understand that?" the drill instructor demanded.
"Yes, sir!" Arthur nearly screamed along with the others as the thought What've I gotten myself into? raced through his brain.
And he would have this same thought countless times over the next twelve weeks.
And many more times over the next ten years.
* * *
For the ensuing thirty-six hours he, as well as the other recruits, was not allowed to sleep. And they were subjected to every sort of medical examination imaginable--
DNA and blood samples, inoculations, teeth cleaning--as well as that famous identity-obliterating buzz cut, and the issuing of uniforms. And along each step there was no one to let him, or anyone else, know what was coming next--he knew only that the next step in the process would be tough, and he had to get through it, no matter how scared or confused he felt.
It was all too clear, by the end of the second day, that he had bought himself a purpose in life, and had paid for it with his free will.
By the beginning of the fourth day, the philosophy of what it means to be a Marine was starting to sink in: I do not exist except for the role I play on this team. It really was perfect for Arthur; he discovered that when he thought about what was happening, he was utterly remorseful for the decision he'd made, but when he shut off his brain and allowed himself to be nothing more or less than a "player" on this team, he excelled.
It was high school football again, but from now on the opposing team would be Death.
And Death always has the home field advantage.
So he decided to shut off his brain, or, more accurately, his emotions, permanently.
He learned how to hold a gun. How to load a gun. How to fire a gun.
He passed all of the strength tests and met the corps' stringent minimum fitness standards.
And he did his best to internalize the moral code that the drill instructors expected them to adhere to: A Marine never lies, he never cheats or compromises, and he never, never, never gives up.
Of course he had no problem with cheating or compromising, and he would certainly never give up--but he was afraid that lying was an irrefutable part of this here deal.
After all, he was a homosexual.
And a gay Marine was about as feasible as a straight makeup artist.
So he needed to make everyone believe that he was as much a man as they were.
He needed to pass.
For the rest of the first week, he went along with the routines for forming, or getting rid of bad habits. He did thousands of sit-ups and dips and back extensions; his muscles screamed during the hours of resistance training on the circuit course; and his hands were raw from traversing suspended metal bars and climbing rope ladders. But with the ensuing countless hours spent on the parade deck learning to march in perfectly perfect formation, the days seemed to go on forever.
At the same time, his very worn-out, very conflicted mind did its best to "form"
around the ideals of honor, courage and commitment, as well as how best to demonstrate admirable ethical and moral behavior.
Even if he was a homosexual.
But there was only one event each day that he enjoyed: their hour of free time before bed each night, when they could read and write letters or square away gear.
And they could even socia
lize.
A little.
* * *
"Jeff Earl," the kid had said to him, and thrust out his hand.
Arthur shook it, trying not to notice how blue the young soldier's eyes were. "Art Blauefee," he replied. "Where're you from?"
"Tulare, up north a' Bakersfield. You?"
"LA." He didn't want to say Ballena Beach, as it might sound grandiose or poofy.
"What's it like there?" Jeff asked him, and then grabbed his shoe brush and began scrubbing away at one of his boots.
Arthur smiled. "Crowded mostly. And the traffic's a bitch. But the beach is nice."
"I never been to the beach until now," Jeff confessed. "That's why I wanted San Diego instead a' Parris Island--it's got a real California beach with real California girls." He leered at Arthur and Arthur did his best to mirror his expression and chuckle knowingly. "Why'd you join up?"
Arthur had been expecting this question, but he couldn't really come up with any answer other than the one he'd decided to use now. "Seemed like a good idea; nothing better to do," was what he said, but It seemed like a better idea to blow someone else's head off instead of my own was what he thought.
"Yeah, me, too," Jeff replied absently, his attention focused on his boots.
Arthur watched the muscles in his shoulders ripple as the black shine on the leather became more mirror-like with each stroke. "You ready for 'Snapping In'
tomorrow?"
Jeff laughed and looked up at Arthur. " Shee-it, I been shootin' since I was four. I betcha I got a better trigger squeeze than that old DI."
Arthur laughed. "I bet you do. That old drill instructor couldn't hit a garbage truck comin' at him through a one-way alley."
"Hee-hee." Jeff giggled as he looked up at Arthur. "Just don't better let Sergeant Riley hear you say that about hisself."
Arthur saw that when Jeff laughed his eyes sparkled, and his grin revealed flawless teeth.
Why does God torture me?
He looked away. "You get any letters yet?" Arthur asked him, and then bent to straighten the blankets on his bunk.
Jeff went back to brushing his boots. "Naw, ain't no one out there who's missed me. My ma don't even know I did this yet."
Arthur looked at him quizzically, his eyebrows raised high. "Are you serious?
nobody knows you enlisted?"
He shrugged. "Ain't no one who cares, anyhow." He picked up his finished boots, examined them one last time, and then slid them carefully under his bunk, as if they were glass slippers. "So you got any letters yet, then?"
Arthur shook his head. "Nope. Not yet."
"Not even from your girl?" Jeff asked, grinning slyly.
"No," Arthur replied absently, trying to think of what to say next. "She died. In a car accident a couple years back."
Jeff looked up, startled. "Jesus Christ, man. I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head.
"So that's probably the real reason you're here?"
"Yeah, pretty much," Arthur replied, allowing his mask to slip just enough so that some true emotion actually registered on his face.
And based upon that half lie, Private Arthur Francis Blauefee made his first friend in the United States Marine Corps.
* * *
At chow time Arthur and Jeff sat next to each other and laughed or complained about the day's events while they ate. They even volunteered for the very dreaded laundry detail, as well as the sought-after mess detail, together. And when one had to rappel down a forty-five-foot wall, the other held the rope taut; and during pugil-stick jousting practice they smacked and slashed and jabbed and butt-stroked each other with their long, thickly padded sticks as hard as they could. They practiced their hand-to-hand combat on each other, and Jeff even showed Arthur some pointers on the best way to tear up a man's guts with a bayonet. And in a short time they became one of those mythic anomalies particular to the United States armed forces: "brothers in arms" who are neither brothers, nor spenders of time in each other's arms.
Much to the chagrin of Arthur, as he was developing quite an appreciation for Jeff's homespun, country-boy companionship. And he took pleasure in Jeff's simplicity--he reminded him of one of those Chevys from the 1950s, where you pop open the hood and you can see the air cleaner and the screws and the hoses and exactly where the oil's leaking or if your radiator hoses are about to explode. He was a piece of Americana--a good ol' boy who was actually a good guy. And likewise, he seemed to be gaining affection for Arthur--he actually listened to him and laughed at his wry observations and punched him playfully on the shoulder and almost became what Arthur thought a little brother would have been like.
Then one day everything changed.
The recruits were practicing their water maneuvers: one by one they jumped from a high dive into a frigid swimming pool while fully dressed and carrying a heavily stocked backpack, as well as a loaded rifle. Having grown up by the ocean, Arthur leapt off the diving board without a second thought, and then began paddling his way across the water toward the ladder on the opposite end of the pool. Jeff came after him--the picture of self-confidence--dropped from the diving board into the deep end of the pool and then proceeded to drown.
He hadn't disclosed to anyone that he didn't know how to swim.
By the time Arthur had wrapped his hands around the metal bars of the ladder, Jeff had already been down for almost a minute. Then, after he'd hefted his soaked frame and backpack (and rifle, which he'd managed somehow to keep dry), out of the pool, his new best buddy had been down for nearly two minutes.
He looked around for Jeff and couldn't see him, but then saw the dark form underwater and knew immediately what had happened. He dropped his backpack and rifle and jumped in.
In six strokes he was at him; he grabbed him and then pulled him to the surface.
Their heads broke the waterline at the same moment.
Arthur gasped.
Jeff did not.
By this time, two other soldiers had jumped in and were swimming over to the pair. But Arthur wouldn't let them near. He pushed past them, dragging the lifeless hulk on his back over to the shallow end of the pool, where he pulled Jeff's pack off him and then pushed his body up onto the deck and pulled himself up and kneeled over him to begin performing emergency breathing on him.
Expertly.
With his right hand he pinched Jeff's nostrils shut and with his left he lifted his neck up and tilted back his head just far enough so that his own breath would go into his lungs and not down into his stomach, and then he locked his lips with Jeff's and pushed his breath into his mouth and then pulled his mouth away, but nothing came out, so he tried it again and their teeth clicked against each other's and Arthur's breath went into him and he pulled away, but still nothing happened, so he did the same thing a third time, and that was when Jeff regained consciousness, felt Arthur's mouth on his and then pushed him away with as much force as a straight man recovering from a near-fatal drowning might muster while having another man's open mouth actively engaged with his own.
"What the fuck?" Jeff managed to whisper, and then turned his head to gurgle up some water onto the concrete decking.
Arthur looked stunned, but he had to catch his breath before answering. "What...do you mean... 'What the fuck'? " he said at last, his own chest heaving. "You...almost drowned!"
By this time a small crowd had gathered around them.
"Earl!" barked Sergeant Riley. Arthur's head snapped upward.
"Yes, sir!" Jeff managed to reply, weakly.
"When did you plan on informing the Marines that you can't swim?"
He tried a nervous smile, in between racking coughs. And then he glanced at the concerned soldiers looking down at him, and his eyes shifted from face to face.
Arthur could tell that he was trying to think of a plausible explanation for what had just happened but could not.
"Aw, he can swim OK," came a voice from the gathered recruits. "I think he was just tryin' to get a kiss from his best buddy."
Arthur felt his face flash with heat. "You almost drowned, you dumbshit," he growled, and then pushed himself up from the wet concrete.
"Blauefee!" the sergeant called out.
Arthur turned around.
"You drop your rifle again and you're out of here," the man scolded. "What would happen if the enemy was in the bush and you did that?"
"It'll never happen again, SIR! " Arthur hollered back at him, and then hung his head as he made his way over to where his rifle and pack lay on the deck. And as he bent over to slip the soggy pack onto his back and to retrieve his abandoned weapon, he was surprised to discover that he had a lump in his throat and his eyes burned.
* * *
That evening at chow time they sat together as usual but ate in silence until finally Arthur couldn't stand it anymore. "The least you could say is 'thanks," he told Jeff, trying his best to not sound bitchy.
Jeff chewed his hamburger noiselessly, and then washed it down with some milk.
"Uh, Artie," he began, not looking his way. "You're right. Thanks for helpin' me out. I was stupid not to tell anyone." And then he picked up his burger and took another bite.
"Then what's crawled up your ass?"
Jeff bit off another mouthful and began talking through his food. "I got restricted to quarters this weekend for what happened," he mumbled sourly. "It's graduation, and I was plannin' on going into San Ysidro with some of the guys after."
Some of the guys? What about me?
"Hey, Earl," Chad Rubin, a big redheaded potato of a man whom Arthur detested, asked Jeff, "what does your best buddy do for you when you're restricted to quarters?"
Jeff shrugged his shoulders and threw him a bored expression, and then popped the rest of his burger in his mouth.
"Goes into town and gets two blow jobs, then brings one back and gives it to ya."
Every man at the table howled and hooted except for Arthur and Jeff, who couldn't make eye contact with anyone.
"That's real funny, Rubin," Arthur told him finally, after the hubbub had died down. "But can you really afford to keep paying for more than one at a time?"
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