Immediately they began to chatter, and of course in a moment the volume rose too high, and he had to impose silence.
Lunchtime followed the flower-arranging class, and as Cornell led his boys to the dining hall, he saw what looked like Harriet’s group some distance ahead, though since most of its members were taller than she, he spotted the yellow cloche only intermittently. And it could have been another group altogether. The camp was a great big one, and there were dozens of barracks—he caught himself by the elbow of the mind: what a silly thought, with a typical masculine lack of precision. Great big, dozens: to think in terms of that kind was the internal equivalent of the empty chatter to which too many men were given; it could be said that most boys didn’t think at all. No wonder that women claimed authority.
“Georgie,” said a voice at his elbow.
It was Jackie. “Georgie, do you really want to be called Al?”
“I want you to do what I tell you to,” Cornell snapped. “And when we’re marching somewhere, I want you to stay in ranks.”
Two tears appeared in Jackie’s eyes, but didn’t fall, just hung there, quivering, on his sticky mascara.
Cornell saw his men seated, then with the new assurance of his office, boldly left the dining hall. He had no intention of eating another of those enormous meals. The mess officer, a robust, red-faced woman, nodded at him as he left. It was nice to be included in the sorority of power. He went across a patch of scruffy lawn to the recreation building, which was off limits this time of day to ordinary conscripts. Two other barracks leaders were sitting in the lounge, which was comfortable enough but a far cry from the one shown in the movie entitled Introducing the Sperm Service.
En route to the telephone booths at the rear of the central hallway, Cornell saw a candy machine, placed a zinc dollar in the slot, punched a button, and received from the hopper a bar of what appeared to be chocolate, but proved rather to be, when bitten, a tasteless, brittle compound—identified on the wrapper, which he looked at only now, as Hi-Protein Energizer.
He spat it into a refuse container, found another zinc in his shoulder bag, and used the third phone booth after trying in vain the first two dead instruments. There was a weird whistle on the line, but he got through.
It was extraordinary that one could call the headquarters of a revolutionary underground organization, and perhaps as odd that, having so done, one must wait for a response through many rings. Could they have been raided? It suddenly occurred to Cornell that in such a case his troubles would be over—or at any rate, different.
But Frankie answered at last.
“Bon Ton Boutique.”
“The assistant credit manager, please,” said Cornell.
“Speaking.”
“I bought a pair of patent-leather shoes last week, and they are cracking and peeling.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
This exchange was to identify Cornell, “Patent Leather” being his code name. The disintegration of his mythical shoes referred to his having run into trouble.
“Of course, we’ll make that good,” said Frankie. “Either through replacement or refund. But you should talk to the manager of the shoe department. Let me switch you over.”
The booth was nice and clean, in this all-male facility, with no phone numbers or filthy epithets scribbled on its walls. Booths to which women had habitual access were invariably defaced. Cornell wondered why females tended to be dirty. He remembered that when he was a child little girls were always saying “peepee” and “doodoo.” And once two of them locked him in a school closet and wouldn’t let him out until he pulled up his dress and took down his panties. And then they laughed, pointing at the thing that dangled between his legs. And then the teacher caught them—Mr. Roberts, gray hair piled high with the eternal pencil stuck in it, and his sneezy odor of dusting powder—and blamed Georgie: “You led them on.” Which wasn’t true I Just because he had winked and stuck out his tongue!
Stanley came on the wire.
“Shoes.”
“Patent leath—”
“I’ve been told of your complaint,” Stanley said impatiently.
“Maybe I’m exaggerating,” said Cornell, a bit guiltily. “Maybe I can do something here at home, treat them with Vaseline, or something.” He was trying to think up a way to tell Stanley about Harriet, using the awkward code. It was standard revolutionary operating procedure to consider every telephone as bugged by the female authorities. He had been supplied with a number of prearranged messages, covering, it seemed, almost any contingency but this.
“I can’t get down to the store myself, but my girl friend might bring them in so you can take a look.”
“Any way you want to do it.” Stanley was being no help. He sounded as if he might hang up at any moment.
“She works at the Men’s House of Detention, which is near the store.”
“Uh-huh.” There was no evidence of understanding in Stanley’s voice.
“Actually, she’s joining the Army soon. She’s going to be a staffer in a sperm camp.”
“Sounds like a fine young woman. We’ll take care of the matter, sir. Thank you for giving us the business.” Stanley hung up.
What was that supposed to mean? Also, Cornell couldn’t imagine any wiretapper’s not being suspicious of such a preposterous conversation.
Well, he had done his duty. Harriet did not really worry him. The chances were that he would encounter her rarely. Their classes might be adjacent only once per week in this large camp. The mimeographed sheet given him by Sergeant Peters applied only to his group, but in some central office there must be a master schedule for all the barracks. As a precaution against surprise, he might just go there and copy down all the other places and times, if any, that he and Harriet would coincide.
Funny thing was, he resisted thinking about why Harriet was there at all. Looking at it objectively, he would have thought that was the important issue. Undoubtedly she was on some sinister mission. But what could he do about it, in any case? There was no way he could warn others without exposing himself. The obvious worry was whether she was on his own trail, had been assigned here to frustrate his mission. If so, she was doing a terrible job; couldn’t recognize him when she fell over him. In their competitions he always won. The other thing that occurred to him was how strange a career she had. It might be exciting, but it was fundamentally bleak, negative. He could understand what would send a woman into the open police force or even the Army. The imposing of order by violence seemed a natural feminine need. But the sneakiness of spying, the living of a lie, the practice of incessant deceit—there must be something wrong with her, some real warp of soul.
He left the phone booth and went into the lounge, saying “Hi” to the two barracks leaders on the couch. They too were passing up the noon meal. When men got authority, they made the most of it.
The larger, fair-complexioned one immediately returned the greeting. The other, a sallow-faced brunet, lowered his pale-green eyelids once and raised them. Finally he uttered a sullen “Hello.”
“Say,” said Cornell, taking the duty sheet from his bag—he detested carrying that feminine clipboard of Peters’ and had detached the document—“do you boys know where they make these up?”
The brunet was scanning his attire in a critical manner, even though they all wore the same uniform. Cornell wondered whether his pantyhose were wrinkled at the ankle—then remembered he wasn’t wearing any. Stupid that another man’s stare could automatically produce self-doubt.
The larger B.L. said phlegmatically: “Darned if I know. Or care.”
But the brunet raised his eyes from Cornell’s flat bosom and said: “Headquarters, the planning section.” He smiled. He was a decent person after all. “Come here.” He led Cornell to the window, pushed the dotted-swiss curtain out of the way, and pointed. “See the big building across there? Between the camp theater and the water tower?”
“Thank you very much,” said Cornell. He told him
self he must stop making these snap judgments about people. His first impressions were usually wrong. They were the product of insecurity. Which was absolutely irrational in this instance. He had as much authority, the same rank, as these two men. Their acceptance or rejection of him should be a matter of indifference. It was a new and peculiarly gratifying thought, even though it might be interpreted, technically, as unmasculine. But you couldn’t let narrow sexual interpretations rule your life. As did the men in the Movement; as did Harriet. It was hard enough merely to be human, just to survive.
Cornell checked the time on a wall clock in the lobby. He still had a quarter hour before he must return and collect his men. From the dining hall he would take them to the barracks for their nap. Interpretive dancing was next, at three P.M.
He decided to go over and at least reconnoiter the headquarters building. On the way there he passed a post exchange and hesitated for a moment. He could have used a vial of My Sin. No scents were issued, but it was permissible to wear one’s own. Now that, after the weeks with the Movement, he was again dressed as a man, he missed the cloud of fragrance in which he had once moved. But duty called, choosing that moment to suggest that he might well discover, at headquarters, some information far more important than the whereabouts of Harriet at any given moment. When was the first semen collection scheduled?
Headquarters was the usual one-story building of raw wood, and because it was occupied exclusively by women, no effort had been made to soften the harshness of practicality. No flowerbeds outside and scarcely any grass. The entrance hall was decorated only with a directory board: the titles of offices and accompanying arrows: to the right for the Planning Section. None of the listings seemed to refer to semen collection.
Cornell went along the right-hand corridor, passing doors lettered with designations such as Adjutant, Judge Advocate, and the like, and at the very end reached the one he sought. He passed no one en route. It was lunchtime for the staff as well. He pushed open the planning-section door and entered a room of which one entire wall was an enormous comprehensive duty chart. The vertical columns indicated days of the week; the horizontal boxes, the hours of the day. The designations for the various barracks groups and their scheduled activities were printed on movable cards, which adhered to the chart, as Cornell discovered by peeling one back, by reason of three dots of self-stickum on the reverse. He stuck it back.
He traced the line of his interest and found, next to the card listing his own group (B-3—Flower Arranging, Bldg. 6, Rm. 11) that which was obviously Harriet’s (K-1—Embroidery, same bldg., Rm. 12). He fetched out the mimeo’d schedule and laboriously went through the whole week, comparing it with the big board. There was not another juncture, in all seven days, at which their groups would be neighbors. And Barracks K-1 was presumably halfway across camp from his B-3.
That was that. He snapped his bag shut, and then looked for evidence of the semen-collection times. The big board had told him nothing. Along the opposite wall was a bank of filing cabinets. Every drawer he opened was filled with old mimeographed schedules of years past. Time was growing short now, and he was nervous. He caught his pinkie when closing a drawer. Sucking it, he left the room. Collections simply went unlisted, unless under some code name he could not detect.
At last he met someone, a young lieutenant carrying a briefcase. They passed in the entrance hall. Cornell modestly lowered his eyes. He wondered whether she turned to look at his legs.
Cornell had taken his boys back to the barracks after lunch, and now they were napping. Most of them, anyway, but not he and not Farley, across the aisle. He and Farley were staring at each other from their respective cots, where each lay supine, head just high enough on the pillow to see the other. This went on for a long time, but, because of the distance and the comfortable situation, it was not, at least to Cornell, the defiant, exhausting kind of contest it would have been at close quarters.
Indeed, Cornell did not feel it was a contest at all. He had Farley’s number, and he was considering a bold stroke. At last he smiled, and Farley answered in kind, though not with good humor. Their neighbors were fast asleep. Jackie, on Cornell’s right, was snoring softly.
Cornell nodded in the direction of the washroom, rose, and went there quickly, quietly, in stocking feet. He sensed, rather than heard, that Farley followed. Having gone along to the last basin, the cement chilling his soles, he turned and saw the man, who, more self-protective than he, was wearing velvet slippers.
Cornell opened a faucet and gained the obscuring sound of running water. The room and the booths were empty. They would have a moment’s edge on anyone entering from the dormitory.
Farley proceeded to run a faucet of his own. And again he proved more practical than Cornell. He had brought along a towel.
“Farley,” said Cornell, “I’ll come right out with it. Why are you sleeping with Sergeant Peters?”
“Georgie,” Farley replied instantly without a hint of embarrassment, “why have you changed your name to Al?”
Cornell was taken aback. He had lost the initiative on which he had counted.
“I asked first.”
“Like you,” said Farley, “I feather my own nest. A boy has to look out for himself in this world.” He had dropped the plug in his basin and it was filling rapidly. “Unlike you, I don’t have access to the captain.”
Cornell gasped. “You don’t think I—”
Farley closed his tap with a decisive twist.
“Come on, Al, at our age we can’t claim to be virgins any more.”
“Look, Farley, I thought I explained in our little talk the other day. I accepted the B.L. bonnet for two good reasons. One, it was offered to me. And I assure you, whether you believe it or not, I did nothing whatever to get it. The captain didn’t touch me or try to. Second, it seemed to me that in a position with a little authority I might make it easier on the rest of the boys. And I think I have done that—like getting that toilet hassle worked out this morning.”
Farley wore a derisive expression.
Cornell said indignantly: “You don’t know what I went through for that!”
“You’re quite the hero.”
“You’re being bitchy.”
“Up yours.”
Cornell felt like slapping his face. Instead, he breathed deeply and touched his fingers to Farley’s forearm.
“We’re being silly, do you know that?” He drew his hand back and put it on his bosom. “I’m as bad as you. We should be friends and work together instead of competing. I agree with you that a boy has to look out for himself, but that concept should be widened to include other men as well. We all must look out for each other.”
Farley flipped his thumb contemptuously at the door. “I should be concerned for those slobs?”
“They are our Brothers,” said Cornell, parroting the Movement line. “We’re all in the same boat. We’re being used shamefully, Farley. We’re prisoners here. Worst of all, we’re treated like children. As if we were schoolboys again, with embroidery and flower arranging.”
Farley closed his eyes, lowered his face into the basinful of water, and brought it out into the waiting towel. He gently blotted his eyes, then looked in the mirror to see whether the liner had run. It had, slightly. “You never find one that’s really waterproof,” he said.
“We’re denied all pride, Farley.” Cornell stamped his stockinged foot. It did not produce the dramatic sound that he had wished, and besides it hurt his sole. “We men are in a lifelong prison, really. We’re used from the time we’re born. When do we get to be the users? I ask you.”
Farley said: “You’re exaggerating. I agree that maybe things aren’t always what they should be.”
“What kind of job did you have?”
“I’m a beautician,” said Farley.
“In a shop owned by a woman, right?”
“I don’t see anything weird about that.”
“Why don’t we ever own businesses?”
&nb
sp; “Because we’re men. That just isn’t the kind of thing we do.” Farley’s face was close to the mirror. He was concerned about his eyes. “We’re not soldiers, either. Do you think we ought to be? And kill people?”
Cornell was beginning to regret having chosen Farley to politicize. The Movement’s arguments simply did not appeal to such a person. Cornell could understand that because he was himself much the same kind of boy—in a general way. Of course he would not have gone to bed with Sergeant Peters. He was also impressed by the fact that Farley had a real profession. He was not a whiner, a loser, who, because he never got anywhere personally, wanted to change the social order. Among the Brothers there were a few men like Jerry, nurse and self-trained surgeon, but even Jerry seemed motivated largely by spite. He had to prove he could do whatever a woman could.
Cornell smiled. “Well, personally I’ve never really been very political. I think men who are tend to be on the faggy side.”
“That’s something else I don’t really understand,” Farley admitted. “Exactly what a fag is.”
“A homosexual.”
“Oh, I know that, but I don’t know what homosexuals are supposed to actually do. I mean, you hear the word all the time. But what does it mean except ‘effeminate’?”
Cornell was wryly amused at this ignorance, given Farley’s looseness of morals; but Farley was normal enough.
Farley added: “I mean, I’ve heard the word all my life, and yet I never met a man who tried to feel me or anything.”
Cornell had to confess that neither had he. He was beginning to hit it off now with Farley.
Farley said: “Was this all you wanted to talk about, Georgie?”
“Al. Please. I’ll explain some other time.” He touched Farley’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to criticize you earlier. Your private life is your own business.”
They returned to the dormitory, where Cornell lay down again and Farley redid his eyes. In a little while Sergeant Peters came out of her room and cried: “Everybody up!”
Regiment of Women Page 17
