Calliope: Voice of the Writers
The Great Novel Race 2008:
Untitled
by Joshua Bumgardner
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Chapter 2: Another Guy
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A thick cloud of dry ice vapor leaked through the vents in the ceiling drifting to the floor along with the thump thump thumping bass line of the start of his favorite song. A shrill cry of “oh my god,” was heard coming from the dance floor in a distinct German accent. He felt his hips pull him in that direction vodka tonic in one hand the other held high over his head swaying to the beat.
With the wobbling world and the sense of general appeasement he knew he was drunk, but he had been ok with that.
A smirk of bravery stretched his lips as he pushed through the throng of people to arrive in the middle of the assortment of swaying bodies.
In front of him he finds a bespectacled blond haired man with strawberry highlights and a tiny bit of mascara under his eyes, he moves to the beat also. Lifting one foot then the other he feigns rhythm hoping that it masks the fear that has paraded itself deep inside his chest.
Someone cups one of his buttocks and squeezes.
The blond in front grabs his hand. And for the first time in his life he is dancing with a man.
His heart pumps what feels like a million gallons of blood through his body, all rushing to find one flaccid organ and extend it. He loses the beat and steps on the toes of a man he doesn’t see, but does hear a sharp “fick du vater.”
He looks to apologize, but sees nothing more then the collective happiness of a good song and lots of people to dance with, without commanding his legs to do so he feels them slow to a stop.
Trying to lift them again to dance is impossible.
In front of him the strawberry blond had found a new partner. His hand where the other man’s hand had been feels cold and clammy. Pretending to be annoyed at the cluster on the floor he turns back to where he was standing in the shadows far from the dance floor. Inside he was ecstatic. He had come closer to heaven in his mind then any other time in his life.
Father, soldier, officer, son, lifelong student, brother, nonliving member of the human race, uncle, hell bound spirit, or so his mother would tell him if she knew, cousin, and a complete failure at it all.
This is Captain Josephine’s internal monologue as he lifts the steaming iron from the desert camo BDU top he works to smooth on his knees in the 747’s narrow aisle, before returning it to the carpeted floor.
A flare of frustration surges at what a degree in industrial psychology and a liberal arts master’s degree has earned him.
A stint as a personal slave and sneak.
Nothing but a fucking hiding twofaced piece of shit sneak.
He was not trained by the Army to fetch coffee, clean and iron uniforms, or any of the other crap he subjects himself to on a daily basis. His mother did that job. The thing that really gets his blood boiling is that he is good at it, better then plotting azimuths for MLRS rockets to scream from the pasta makers they sat in on top of the almost normal five ton 8X8 trucks in the hope they hit and destroy enemies.
But he tries harder at domestic pursuits.
A slight pocket of turbulence knocks the iron and the can of starch next to it over. He stretches his six foot six frame for the rolling can first to prevent it from escaping further then the beginning of the next row. Returning the iron upright, he spurts a stream of starch on to the jackets collar creating a nice pool of white foam over the three stars sewn there with the off post precision only the German’s can manage. Exchanging the can for the iron he presses down hard smoothing the starch into a nice symmetrical sheen.
His eyes water as the smell of acrid starch steam hits him in the face. It reminds him of the dry ice in the club. That was his first foray into a gay club. He didn’t want to enjoy it. He didn’t want to long to go back after leaving. He wanted to stop thinking about the blond German with strawberry highlights. But as his loafer clad feet hit the Frankfurt street his mind would not turn away from where he just was, even though in as little as twelve hours he would be deployed to war.
A crackling from the planes public address system supersedes, “We have just been given permission to land, the fasten seat belts light is turned on, please stow your dinner trays in their upright positions. The weather at King Fahad Airport is a balmy 40 degrees, the Saudi’s express their deepest sorrow their American allies can’t experience their country in more positive weather conditions, thank you for flying United Air.”
The announcement sends the plane into motion. The Corp commander stirs from his nap, tapping the colonel next to him on the shoulder and whispering something near his ear.
In almost a collected movement the smokers stow their reading material for their lighters and cigarettes. And everyone takes stock of where their carry on luggage has fallen eschew during the flight. Some soldiers even grip the barrel protector of their M-16’s as if they think a fire fight will ensue once the plane doors are flung open.
Captain Josephine smoothes out the front right side of the BDU jacket and starches the embroidered name Franks sewn above the right breast pocket.
Franks is VII corps’ commanding Lieutenant General.
Franks looks like what everyone’s grandfather should with his perfectly manicured white mustache and soft tousle of white hair cropped short but which somehow maintained an unruly quality that gave him a youthful spunky appearance.
Josephine has come to enjoy the man’s elderly traits, especially the small silver bifocals the General allowed to dangle from a silver chain from his breast pocket. It was no secret the man needed them just to get through his day seeing, but not one person on the general’s staff could ever remember him actually wearing them.
Of the 600 soldiers aboard this flight chalk to Saudi Arabia Josephine has come to enjoy General Franks the most. Maybe it was his life long affliction of fatherlessness, or his predisposition for men who did not appear threatening, but he liked this soldier, he expected kindness and acceptance from him.
Taking one last swipe at a persistent wrinkle he settles for almost perfect as he lays the jacket in the seat next to the General and stands to relief his bladder which has been screaming for such action for the last hour or so.
The line outside the airplane’s toilet is impossible, stretching half way down the aisle. He falls in behind a colonel with the apropos last name of Hatchet. He is Frank’s acting S1, intel officer.
Josephine hates the very sight of Hatchet and his short bull dog appearance where forehead and nose seem to be on the same level, and scrunched to the point an observer feels they could play with the wrinkles and find things they shouldn’t. His eyes are the color of turkey gravy and always hold a glint of knowledge that bothers the living shit out of Josephine.
Freshly promoted to colonel he was Josephine’s battalion commander when he was given the reigns of Bravo Company at the beginning of last year. As battalion commander he pulled Josephine from that command with such speed that rumor suggested it was the shortest command ever for an officer not killed in combat.
Probably not the shortest stint, but nothing to be proud of.
The need to piss keeps him in line though and judging from the developing one behind him the wait will be intolerable if he falls out.
The word hits him sometimes when he isn’t ready for it, like moments such as this one when he feels out of place or uncomfortable.
He wonders so many things, and has wondered about them for so long he has begun to believe that that being gay was like finding God, an impossible mission better left to those with a stout heart.
He only allowed instances where he tested his sexual resolution to emerge when he was drunk. Every time they had been disastrous too. Like the time his ex-wife caught him begging another drunk soldier for attention.
They had gone their separate ways.
He had been drunk way before stepping a single foot in that Frankfurt club by the way. But felt sobered the moment he entered the building. At the bar he ordered, “ein wodka, und ein wodka stärkungsmittel.” Then spilled half the shot down the front of his shirt in the excitement of pronouncing the German word for tonic as close to perfect as he was capable.
The line for the bathroom moves fast enough that he feels reassured he will be relieved soon.
One after another the occupants are replaced.
But before the colonel enters the stall he turns around and yells directly at Josephine, “General Franks, the latrine is yours sir.” gesturing for the commanding officer to take his place. After a terse moment of eye contact the colonel turns back to face the door but not before letting Josephine know he is overjoyed to fuck with him.
As if it were normal to be whisked to the front of the line Franks takes the vacated latrine and closes the door behind him.
From outside the door the small tinkle of several swollen prostate forced drops of urine strike the toilet water and then the loud vacuum flush and franks returns to view with a small smirk that suggests satisfaction was not reached within the sanctum.
“Better luck next time sir,” Hatchet says before replacing franks in the latrine.
From outside the door it was a mild bit of bewilderment and an over salting of anger that Josephine greets the first grunt and splash that resounds within.
It was the longest shit ever he was sure to be recorded in the annuals of bathroom lore. A healthy splash laden one in fact. It sounded so satisfying that Josephine even felt the need to shit himself.
If it weren’t for the feeling of insult that bruised his heart.
When the door reopens a horrific smell fills the plane and so did the hulking short form of Hatchet.
Eye contact is made and a look that seems to threaten Josephine with a “say something bitch,” attitude.
Quickly averting his eyes Josephine takes his place in the gas chamber and does his business after flushing the immense pile of turds left in the toilet.
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