Читать книгу Code Of Conduct - Rich Merritt - Страница 11

“Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.”

After studying the ground from thirty thousand feet for over an hour, Patrick McAbe questioned how a city existed between the vast barren desert and the Pacific Ocean. His first impression of the Southwest was that it resembled an extraterrestrial world. As the plane approached San Diego, though, he was happy to see lush green suburbs, creeks and ponds and a large park near downtown, signs that life thrived at the edge of a hostile environment. His new home looked nothing like Chicago just as his new life looked nothing like his old one.

Nearing his destination, his mind raced back in time eight months.

Hundreds of cars filled the parking lot, leaving four spaces open in a corner. Patrick parked but remained seated for ten minutes. His pulse raced and the heat soared. I’m thirsty. He searched for a bottle of water. Shit! What kind of Marine forgets water? His flight instructor had advised the students to steer clear of Pensacola Beach over the weekend, or else thousands of guys from all over the South would hit on them. The conservative religious town in Florida’s panhandle seemed like an unlikely gay destination but he said it happened every Memorial Day. What kind of Marine goes where everyone knows the place will be packed with gay men?

It doesn’t matter because I’m not—I’m not—but he knew better. Now that he’d decided not to marry Karen and had broken their engagement, nothing stood between him and the truth. He could be it, do it or even say it out loud if he wanted. “I’m—g—gay.” His voice was sheepish but he’d said it, and saying it aloud gave him new energy. Each breath was deeper and easier, and his shoulders and spine felt relaxed. He’d said it! He started laughing. “I’m gay!”

A voice with a heavy Southern accent outside his open car window said, “Well, honey, I’m just overjoyed that you’re gay but I need to know if you’re coming or going.” The remaining three spaces were taken and a large man in a red Cabriolet convertible wanted Patrick’s spot.

Patrick opened the door and waved apologetically. “Staying,” he said as the man sped away. There’s nothing wrong with this, he assured himself. I’m at a warm beach on a sunny day and I’m just looking for a concession stand to buy a bottle of water. That’s all. As he stepped onto the pavement, he grabbed his towel—just in case he wanted to stay—and headed for the ocean. Several cars had Department of Defense decals. Are there other military guys on this beach?

Before May 1992, Patrick had never cared much about politics and he didn’t know anyone who paid attention to the subject of gays in the military. By now, though, everyone in the armed forces was aware that the Democratic Party’s nominee for president had vowed to end the ban that prevented gays and lesbians from serving. Although the Arkansas governor’s promise had set off a firestorm within the military, no one believed he stood a chance against President Bush.

Patrick glanced nervously at another DoD sticker. Why are military people here? Are they investigators? Ignoring his fears, he walked toward the pounding surf. With each footstep, he grew more comfortable about his decision. To his surprise, most of the men on the beach seemed to be in decent physical shape—excellent physical shape actually. He liked what he saw. Guys emerged from the sea, and saltwater glistened as it rolled down their hardened six-pack abs. Twenty feet away two men kissed out in the open. Patrick smiled. He’d wasted too much of his life feeling guilty for his desires. Beginning now, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, he’d pursue what he enjoyed. He regretted that he hadn’t experienced this epiphany ten years earlier.

The afternoon was sunny and beautiful. Except for the absence of kids and the skewed ratio of men to women, the crowd seemed like most other places. Given the abundance of twenty-and thirty-something in-shape guys, the resemblance to a military crowd was striking. Everyone was having fun. A few looked like Sailors and one or two sported a Marine haircut.

Patrick hadn’t satisfied his thirst but no concessionaires were nearby. Not wanting to risk being spotted by a military person, he stopped walking, spreading his towel close to the vegetation near the parking lot. He stripped off his T-shirt. A clump of weeds partially shielded him from the view of the men between him and the ocean. He tied a bandana around his head, making him feel incognito, and he leaned back to watch the parade of people. There sure as hell are a lot of them—I mean a lot of us. Thinking of himself as part of this group seemed bizarre at first, but oddly, the more he saw, the more he liked the idea. Maybe I can be gay.

“I knew you’d be the one!”

An electric shock rushed from Patrick’s lower spine to his neck and his lungs wouldn’t take in air. He thought he’d been hit with a stun gun but his reaction came from inside. As his head cleared, he recognized the voice. He turned to face its owner. Think, Patrick. Why am I here?

“Second Lieutenant McAbe, leader of Marines. What brings you out to Pensacola Beach?”

Patrick reflexively jumped to his feet to address his instructor. “Sir, I—is this—what beach did you mean? Pensacola? I haven’t been—?”

“Hey! McAbe! Relax. Call me Chris.” Navy Lieutenant Ashburn—Chris—started to sit. “Mind if I use a corner of your towel?”

“No sir, not at all. Pl—please be my guest.” Patrick’s mouth had gone from dry to parched.

Chris sat cross-legged and Patrick followed, facing the other man across his beach towel. The instructor held out a bottle. “Want a drink?” Patrick nodded and grabbed the water.

Patrick forgot his bewilderment as he enjoyed the ice-cold liquid going down inside him but the feeling was temporary and his questions returned with urgency. Why is Lieutenant Ashburn, the instructor who warned us about this beach, here? Why did he say I would be “the one”? Does he think I’m—gay? Chris looked at him blankly. As Patrick returned the bottle of water, he inadvertently let his eyes roam over Chris’s tanned and muscular legs, his flat stomach and his appealing upper body. When he looked up, Chris was smiling at him.

“Your first name’s ‘Patrick,’ isn’t it? Mind if I call you ‘Patrick’?”

“Um, yes sir, you can call me Patrick.”

“You have to stop that ‘sir’ shit.” Chris laughed. “Answer the question.”

“I—it’s, um, what was the question? Why am I here?”

“No need to turn it into an existential crisis. What I meant was, why are you here—on this beach?” Chris smiled and winked as he tilted the bottle to extract the last drop.

Patrick inhaled and launched into his rehearsed explanation. “It’s Memorial Day weekend. I’m at the beach and there’s nothing wrong with that.” As awkward as it might’ve sounded, Patrick relaxed. It’s a free country and an open beach. If Lieutenant Ashburn wants to tell the other pilots he saw me at a gay beach, then, well—what the hell is Lieutenant Ashburn doing here? Patrick suddenly realized what should’ve been obvious from the start. Why is he here? “So—Chris,” Patrick said, his courage strengthening by the second, “why are you here?”

“Because I like this part of the beach the most. How about you? With miles of beaches to choose from, why pick this one? Don’t you rent a place with Tim Roberts on the beach at Perdido Key? That’s right, you do. Why drive twenty miles to this beach?”

“Thirty, actually,” Patrick offered absently.

“Is Tim here? Why didn’t he come with you?”

“Because Tim’s not—” Thankfully, Patrick stopped before he said “gay.” “Because Tim’s not in town this weekend. He’s in Seattle. Getting engaged. To Melanie.”

“I see.” Chris dragged out “see” until it faded into the sound of the birds and the waves.

Patrick hypnotized himself with the rhythm of the surf. Crash, come in, cover the sand, ebb, go out, repeat. He felt calmer than before. Can I trust Chris? I feel like I can—but can I trust anyone? A hard crash of the waves brought him back. He still hadn’t answered the lieutenant’s question but it didn’t matter because Chris also seemed to be in harmony with the waves. Patrick thought he knew his instructor well but now he realized he didn’t know him at all. Chris was friendly, good-natured and well liked by his students but he rarely talked about himself. Maybe that’s why he was their favorite. Most Navy and Marine Corps aviators—especially the ones proficient enough to train new pilots—talked about themselves a lot.

“Don’t worry. I’m not with the Naval Investigative Service.” Chris scanned the beach and squinted into the sun, which was on its downward arc. He removed his sunglasses, inched closer to Patrick and stared into his student’s eyes. “I’ll start a special friendship between us by saying that I’m a very open-minded type of guy. You can tell me anything you need to. I’m sure I told you who comes to this beach on this particular weekend and most of my students wouldn’t go near a gay beach. But you chose to come here, and I ask myself ‘Why?’ Are you a gay-basher here to beat the crap out of some ‘fags’? I’ve known you for eight months and you don’t seem like the Neanderthal type. Or are you a fundamentalist Christian here to tell the sodomites about Jesus?” Chris leaned forward. “Or are you ‘curious and confused’? Isn’t that the expression?” He brushed sand off his leg. “I don’t care—unless you’re a Bible thumper. Now that would really annoy me.”

“You haven’t told me why you’re here.” As Patrick’s trust grew, his suspicion that Chris was toying with him diminished. “Which are you?”

Chris mulled over the different groups. “None. I’m a nonviolent agnostic combat-ready helicopter pilot. All that I’m curious or confused about is why Second Lieutenant McAbe is at a gay beach. Now that puzzles me.” The sun’s rays penetrated the outer layers of Patrick’s skin but the Gulf breeze kept him cool. He returned Chris’s stare. The man had vocalized the “g” word, and for the first time in Patrick’s life, he hadn’t heard “gay” uttered as a slur. Chris moved closer. “Mind if I take these off?” He removed Patrick’s sunglasses. “You’re handsome. I’ve never seen a man with such sparkly green eyes.”

Patrick suddenly felt his temperature rise in a wonderful way. He was immobilized. All he could do was smile at Chris, a man whose face seemed warm, friendly and, best of all, sincere. Chris wasn’t playing a game. The rules required him to use vague words. Maybe Patrick really could tell him anything. “I—I guess—”

“Shhh.” Chris covered Patrick’s mouth with his hand. In a strong swift motion, he leaned forward, put his lips firmly against Patrick’s, and gently placed his hand on the back of Patrick’s neck. Patrick wanted to melt. His body tingled as he felt Chris’s fingers brush his ear. Before this kiss, Patrick had planned every move his muscles dared to make. But in this instant he willingly surrendered to his instructor. For the first time in his life, Patrick was spontaneous and it felt natural. Finally, he understood the meaning of the word “euphoria.” He moved his lips against Chris’s and let Chris’s tongue ply its way into his mouth. Chris’s mouth tasted salty and gritty, but it was also hot, and Patrick loved the whole experience of kissing a man. As he wondered how high this natural rush could go, Chris backed away. “So you’re not a homophobe and obviously not a fundamentalist. What are you? Besides an excellent kisser.”

“I—” Patrick tasted his lips and grinned. “I don’t think I’m ‘confused’ anymore. But you’ve—aroused—my curiosity.” Patrick almost added that “curiosity” wasn’t all Chris had aroused but the comment seemed too overt and, given the tightness of his shorts, unnecessary.

Chris seemed flattered and smiled. “Don’t take this wrong—I mean it in the best way, but I had you pegged from the start. When you’ve been around awhile, it gets easier to spot family.”

“‘Family’? What do you mean by that?”

“That’s what you are now, right? Family? Or do you plan to spend the rest of your life in this ‘curious’ phase?” Patrick nervously scanned the area for military spies. Chris threw his head back, laughing. “You’re hysterical. Considering what we just did, eavesdropping is the least of our worries. And do you mind if I take that stupid-looking bandanna off your head? You have a great energy about you. You shouldn’t hide it.” Without waiting for Patrick’s permission, Chris slid around, put his arm around the younger man’s waist, and slipped the bandanna off. “That’s much better. Now I can see you. Completely. And I mean this sincerely—you’re very easy to look at.” He whispered, “Don’t be so nervous. We’re safe here. No one’s listening, no one’s watching—except a few voyeurs, but no one to worry about.”

The other man’s embrace felt comfortable and secure. “Um, th—that’s not why I’m nervous. I—this is—new—” He realized then how much he loved the warmth of Chris’s tough skin against his own softer exterior. Patrick felt safe with Chris because they were both under the military’s rules. Rules that we’re both breaking.

“Do you want to go somewhere and talk? Let’s go downtown for a drink at a little place I know. I’ll introduce you to people.”

“Sure.” Patrick knew his life would never be the same and that he’d never regret this day.

During Patrick’s final seven months in flight school, he and Chris forged a close friendship, slipping into the roles of mentor and protégé. In mid-December, on Patrick’s last day in town, Chris treated him to a high-class dinner celebrating Patrick’s graduation from flight school and promotion to first lieutenant and, sadly, to bid each other farewell. “I can’t believe you’re leaving Pensacola a virgin,” Chris joked. Before Patrick could protest, Chris held up his hand and qualified his statement. “I’m sorry, I mean a gay virgin.”

“I’m just—I don’t know, Chris—”

“Patrick, I’m kidding. I admire how patiently you’ve adjusted to gay life. Promise me you won’t get bitter. The gay world has enough jaded old queens—many are under the age of twenty-five. All of us were cheated out of our adolescence. No use trying to get it all back in one circuit party weekend. Take it slow and easy—stay young and naïve as long as possible.”

“I’m usually not this much of a prude.”

“You’re cautious. Deliberateness is a valuable skill. It’s what makes you the top pilot in your class. It also makes you think about sex before you do it, a very good—but rare—trait these days. Too bad some others I’ve known weren’t as deliberate. They might still be alive.”

“Do you mean pilots? Or gay men?”

“Come to think of it, both.”

“I still feel guilt over breaking my engagement with Karen, without telling her the truth.”

“The rules are wrong and they force us to keep secrets. Sometimes they cause us to hurt the people we care about without explaining why. It’s not your fault. Do like I do—blame it on George Bush. Makes me feel better.” Chris poured more wine. “I predict you’ll get over that guilt when you see the men in California. Which reminds me.” He fished in his pocket. “Here’s my buddy’s number. Look him up.” He handed the paper to Patrick. “Told him all about you.”

“Thanks.” Patrick glanced at the number suspiciously. “‘Don Hawkins.’ So you told him about me—what’s his deal?”

“Thought I taught you better than that. I didn’t tell him anything about you, except that your good looks are both boyish and manly. But no, I didn’t tell him your rank, or what you do, or anything like that, although Don’s smart enough to figure out a lot of things. Coming from here—and knowing me—he’ll assume you’re a pilot. You two can share all that girly chitchat when you meet. Besides, it’ll give you something to break the ice. Don isn’t—let’s just say he’s not the most socially sophisticated person. But he is one of the best all-around guys—honest, loyal, dependable—a real Boy Scout, except with gigantic muscles and a hairy chest. Oh, I can hear you two Marines now—‘what’s your MOS’? ‘I’m a pilot. Ooh, what’s your MOS?’”

Patrick laughed. “You love to crack yourself up, don’t you?”

“Someone’s got to do it.” Chris added somberly, “Especially now that we’re leaving. Wish I could take you to Patuxent River, Maryland, to be a test pilot with me.”

“I should learn how to fly the Cobra before I try testing stuff that hasn’t even been built yet.”

“You’re right,” Chris said. “I’m going to miss you, though, and I don’t say that to very many people. I can tell that someone in San Diego is going to be the luckiest guy alive.”

“Flight attendants, please take your seats for landing.” The captain’s voice brought Patrick out of his thoughts. Going to the beach that beautiful day in Pensacola had changed his life forever. As he looked out onto sunlit Coronado Bay and the palm-tree-lined streets below, he couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises—maybe some lucky guy—were in store for him.