Secrets

Secrets by Ian DeShils

Chapter 6

Goodbye to Mira Lida

It was 3:00 in the morning. We were parked at a lonely intersection with Ave. K, just wasting time and enjoying the moonlight. The night was quiet, not even the usual radio chatter, in fact the whole desert seemed asleep. On nights like these with time on our hands we often found ourselves out there. A rise in the road made headlights visible for miles in all directions which left us plenty of time to pull ourselves together in case a late traveler came our way. That night however we were alerted to approching car only by the roar of an engine just moments before it clipped our front bumper. I caught a glimpse of a little white convertible, its fender dragging underneath as it spun out of control. The gas line must have ruptured. The trail of sparks the car left behind turned into fl ame as it skidded down Avenue K, then like a blazing meteor it shot off the raised tarmac and out onto the desert floor where it rolled several times before coming to a halt.

Jake and I scrambled out of the patrol car and headed for the scene fully expecting to find someone trapped inside the burning wreck, only it was empty. We started backtracking through the tumbleweeds and finally stumbled across the unconscious driver no more than sixty feet from the edge of the roadway. Miraculously, the boy escaped with little more than some broken ribs and a concussion, which, as far as I could see, made young Arthur Morton about the luckiest kid alive.

Morton was transported to the local hospital where tests showed him to be under the influence of alcohol and LSD. When the kid came around an hour later he was still hallucinating so badly they had to tie him down, yet when his parents arrived he was unexpectedly released and air evacuated to a private hospital near Malibu.

We assumed the whole thing was cut and dried. The kid would get a ticket, maybe a slap on the wrist and that would be the end of it, only it didn't turn out that way. A few days later Morton's family was filing lawsuits. They were claiming that we caused the accident by running the stop sign at the intersection. The results of the blood tests never found there way into the accident report and mysteriously the records at the local hospital now showed nothing of what everyone observed that night. Suddenly everything about the accident inverted. The physical evidence, especially the skid marks which would have plainly shown what happened, disappeared. Shortly after the accident, Avenue K had been tarred and resealed. All on site evidence was gone as well and our own report were now deemed suspect.

Unfortunately for us the accident occurred at about the same time another deputy at Mira Lida, Arlin Thomas, was busted for drug dealing. That, and the fact that we were in a place beyond our assigned patrol area was all the excuse the boy's lawyers needed to descend on us like a pack of jackals. Investigators came up with a dozen different scenarios for that accident, all of them indicating we were to blame. The question arose as to why we were out there in the first place and the insinuation was we were meeting someone, a drug supplier perhaps? Even Anderson appeared to have doubts.

As it turned out Thomas had been selling drugs to inmates and now everyone was suspect, especially us. It was hell. It just kept growing. The whole facility was on edge. It was like someone was stirring Mira Lida with a stick. We were questioned over and over and it went on for weeks, it got so bad that other officers were afraid to speak to us for fear of being dragged into the mess. Adam now worked at the Hall of Justice and he remained our only link to what was going on behind the scenes. He said the pressure was coming from outside the department, not just from Internal Affairs. Finally they more or less suspended us without the formality. We were told to use our vacation days while they completed the investigation, but they capped off their investigation by having a search warrant issued for the house.

I don't know where the marijuana came from. Certainly Jake or I never used it in those days, but Bob did on occasion. At first I thought they were talking about a joint or a roach that maybe Bob left behind, but they came out of the house with four ounces in a plastic bag and that had to be planted. Who did it, I don't know, but no matter where it came from, that little plastic bag spelled the end of our careers as Deputies. We were given a choice: Resign or face charges and then Morton's lawyers turned up the pressure another notch. If we resigned, Morton would drop his suit against both us and the department. One didn't need to be a rocket scientist to know where our best interest lay. In my heart I knew that boy would never come to trial, no matter what we did, and Lieutenant Anderson admitted as much. Privately he said that he was sorry to see us go, but resigning would be the best for everyone involved. As a gesture of good will he promised that nothing about the investigation would find its way to our records, which I considered a bit of ass covering on his part. I doubted that any of it would ever find it's way into a written record. There was just too big a chance that it might come back and bite someone.

Sometimes you just have to cut you're losses and move on. The one thing we learned from that experience is that if you have enough money and clout, anything is possible, even overcoming the supposed protection Civil Service provides. At least none of those investigators found out what Jake and I was really doing out there that night and that had been our biggest worry throughout that whole ordeal.

There's an old saying; "What goes around, comes around." but I never took it seriously until years later when we again run into Arthur Morton. Perhaps it wasn't entirely his fault considering how he was raised, but he grew up to be the most self centered, detestable young man that I have ever met. He didn't remember us and had probably forgotten the entire incident, but we certainly remembered him.

Arthur was looking for a way out of his four year marriage and came to GSI thinking we could cook up something that would get him off the hook without major expense. He intimated that he didn't care how we did it, only that his wife, Susan, should look extremely bad at the court proceedings. Having been down that road myself, I truly felt for Susan Morton and then realized we might be in a position to do something on her behalf. I started giving Jake our little hand signal that meant "conference." He caught it, left the room and had our secretary make some excuse to call me away as well. Jake was none too happy that I would even consider the case, in fact he was ready to throw the jerk out, but I convinced him to go alone.

We asked for and received a huge non-refundable retainer going on the assumption that his wife was probably above reproach and that he would be willing to pay even an exorbitant amount to set her up. That guess proved to be correct.

Unbeknownst to Arthur, we tracked him as well as Susan. As we suspected, Susan was doing nothing at all except being Mrs. Arthur Morton and doing that with great beauty and style. She seemed to be loved by everyone who knew her, except Arthur.

I am constantly amazed by people like Morton. He had it all, money, a gorgeous wife, a healthy child, fabulous homes, yet it wasn't enough. Besides a steady girlfriend, he cruised the red light district's worst dives. Not just occasionally, but a couple of times a week, still that didn't explain why he wanted to ditch Susan. They didn't appear to be fighting and she seemed totally oblivious to what he was doing. His motives interested me. I thought about digging deeper, but as Jake said, we already had what we needed so why waste our time on a idiot?

We closed the case in four weeks flat. Our final report to Arthur stated that GSI could find no evidence to support his claim of infidelity and we sent that to him by US mail, but Susan Morton received an anonymous packa ge via courier the minute we closed the case. I knew it would probably shock her and I was sorry to do it, yet it was far kinder than what Arthur had planned.

After receiving our delivery, Susan evidently began searching the household mail for further clues of Arthur's infidelity and upon finding the GSI report put two and two together. She called, all her anger at Arthur directed at me. I readily admitted sending the packet and then explained the reasons why. Her anger finally gave away to bitter laughter. The irony of Arthur coming to us, of all people, didn't escape her either. We agreed to witness on her behalf if need be, but it wasn't necessary. The pictures said it all.

After the divorce, we received a nice thank you note from Susan as well as a very substantial check. It was one of the largest divorce settlements of all time, going into the tens of millions and Jake and I celebrated the occasion by having dinner at a cliff side restaurant in Malibu. We watched the sunset as we dallied over a delicious and expensive curried chicken and an even pricier bottle of wine, all paid for by the no longer quite so wealthy Arthur Morton.

Notes

Jake is fascinated with my stories and will sometimes say,

"I remember that! I remember that!"

But mostly he gives off a barrage of questions on the details of each incident, what we did or said to one another while it was happening. I try to tell him that I can't remember the exact words, but no matter what I say, he's never satisfied. I believe he is trying to remember himself as he was then, how he spoke and acted, and that gives me the incentive to work harder. I lie awake at night searching my memory, hearing in my mind the conversations we used to have, even the arguments. . . .

Leather

"What?" I yelled, turning off the cutting torch, "Run that by me again!"

"I said we've got a new job! It's only seven hours a day and it pays almost twice what you're making here. On top of that, it's evening work so you can go back to school full time, isn't that what you've been looking for?

"Yeah. . . NO, I mean the other part. Jake, I distinctly heard you say Bar, what kind of bar?"

"Remember Uncle Bill's cousin, Pete Delain? Well, he owns a place in San Pedro and he's offering us damn good money to work crowd control. Hey, you've been bitching about this nowhere job for months now. I told him we could start tonight."

"Delain? Jesus Christ, you're talking about the Sidewinder aren't you? That's a leather joint. Guys go there to tank up and pick fights. Damn it, that's a rough crowd, besides, you know how I feel about bars! As much as I hate this job, I'm not about to give it up in favor of becoming a punching bag for a room full of drunken bikers. No thanks, Jake, I'll stay right here until something better comes along."

"That might be a little difficult to do since I already told Barlow you quit!"

I thought he was pulling my leg, but a few moments later Barlow came storming up, threw a paycheck at me and yelled,

"No one quits around here, Punk. You're fired. Now hit the road!"

Barlow spun on his heel and left before I had a chance to say a word. Stunned, I looked at Jake, but he just smiled.

"Come on, Ted it's time to make a move and you know it. Now you've got a chance to go back to school and besides, we'll be working together again. Think how great that'll be!"

Jake never liked the idea that we worked different hours. His were always split shifts, including weekends while my days tended to drag on long into the evening when the work demanded it. The last few months had been pretty tough, what with minuscule pay checks, two car payments and escalating rent, we were just too busy keeping financially afloat to spend much time together.

More upsetting to Jake, however, than either the lack of time or money, was my boss, Oscar Barlow. Jake detested the man. Barlow was ex-con, who seemed all muscle and testosterone, a real hard case, but rumor had it he was gay. I didn't think that bothered Jake as much as Barlow's attitude. Oscar was a manipulator who had spent more than twenty years in the joint and who had come away from it with his prison mentality intact. If one kissed up to him you got the easy jobs, if not, shit work was all you could expect.

Barlow didn't own Austin Salvage, he just ran it, but he did so as though it were his own private kingdom. He would ostracize someone until they earned his favor by shelling out a little kick back at payday, (or whatever else he wanted), and Oscar was an old hand at getting his way. There were about twenty guys working at Austin, but Barlow managed to keep the place was so fragmented that I might as well have the only one there. At least sometimes it felt that way. I really hated that place.

Like me, Jake worked at a miserable, low paying job that he too despised, but unlike me, he was subservient to an eighteen year old prick of a manager whom Jake wanted to kill. For nearly three months he'd been flipping burgers at McDonalds and it had come to the point where the mere sight of a golden arch made him puke. I didn't blame him for jumping on another job, any job, but I was thoroughly pissed at being shanghaied as his accomplice. 'Security' at the Sidewinder required two able bodies and Jake made that deal without the slightest thought of consulting me.

Mad as hell, I was still bitching hours later as we parked behind the bar and Jake finally lost his temper,

"Shut up, will ya? I'm sick of it! If it gets too tough, just quit. In the mean time, SHUT THE FUCK UP!."

"QUIT?" I yelled, "How the hell can I quit? The God Damned rent's due! You know what's gonna happen now? We're gonna walk in there, get the shit kicked out of us and end up living in the fucking street!"

I slammed my door almost as hard as Jake slammed his, but once inside we simmered down and at least tried to present a unified front.

The first few nights were fairly calm, a few minor scuffles, the easy tossing out a couple of troublemakers and just as Jake predicted, it was a breeze. Then, the weekend rolled around and all hell cut loose.

Somehow word got out that the new bouncers were a pair of ex-cops and Friday night became a zoo. Just about everyone in the whole fucking joint tried us out and by closing time I was ready to quit. I would have too, if I hadn't of been so pissed at Jake. He'd gotten us into this mess and by God I'd stick it out, if for no other reason than to remind him of that fact at every opportunity.

It helped to know that Jake had even a rougher night than I did. Having spent my formative years dodging drunken punches gave me a lightness of foot that he seemed to lack. The next morning he shuffled about making loud, pitiful sounds while I stoically suffered in silence, thus intimating that the war zone of the night before hadn't bothered me a bit. Of course, when he wasn't looking I gulped down pain killers by the handful, but I'd have died before letting him know how bad I hurt.

There is a perverseness in me that won't let well enough alone, so when I saw him rubbing his bruises, I faked a cheerful voice and said,

"Gee, I don't know why I ever worried about this gig. That was great fun last night, wasn't it? You know, I'm really looking forward to another shot at those guys."

Jake never said a word, but as I walked away I clearly sensed him giving me the finger.

I'm sure Jake dreaded the thought of going back as much as I did, but Saturday night arrived anyway. Actually, it wasn't quite as bad as Friday, it just felt worse. Short or tall, those sons of bitches had a knack of hitting in the same spot and I kept wondering if there were targets pinned to certain parts of my anatomy.

Sunday and Monday was our weekend. . . Thank the Lord! It took those two days of soaking in tubs of hot Epsom salts to feel half way human again. I hurt all over, my left eye now sported a prodigious shiner and Jake wasn't in any better shape. One more night like the last two and Pete would be out searching for replacements while our friends read all about us in the obituary column.

On Tuesday night the Sidewinder was again quiet. Pete said the guys had just been testing us and I guess he was right because after that things calmed down and most nights became manageable. That first weekend, Jake and I learned the hard way the cardinal rule known to all people of our new trade; never split forces, and from then on we stuck to each other like Siamese twins, but it took Jake's confession to bring us wholly back together again.

He contritely admitted that he had taken it upon himself to get me away from Oscar Barlow because he worried I might become enamored with the guy. Jake was jealous! It felt so good to know how much he cared, I couldn't bring myself to call him an idiot. Oscar? Good God! Even after being denigrated like that, it was beyond my ability to stay mad at him. Those nights on the couch had been pure misery and making up became a wonderful rekindling of that which had been suppressed by our money problems of the last few months. I swore never again to let finances become a factor in our relationship. Hell, living beneath an overpass would be bearable as long as Jake was there beside me.

As the weeks rolled by, I actually began to enjoy the job. The bikers were fairly decent guys once you got to know them and fights among the regulars were rare. It was out-of-towner's who caused most of the trouble, especially when came in groups.

Several biker clubs frequented the joint, but the Sidewinder was more or less home base for a club called the Devil's Own. The Devil's had several hundred members in affiliates scattered throughout California and Arizona with four branches in the LA area alone, but how they gained new members remained a total mystery to me. Unlike other clubs, the Devil's did not recruit and they rebuffed all would-be disciples in no uncertain terms. They were a tight knit bunch with a kind of weird religious angle that was hard to figure, a sort of brotherhood that promoted great familiarity among the members and their women, but shunned all but 'business' contacts outside the club. They all wore a silver skull ring as heavy as a brass knuckle and if anyone showed up wearing one, he was received like a long lost relative. Almost everyone else however, remained a total stranger as far as they were concerned.

The Sidewinder held an unsavory reputation as a place for drugs and easy sex, which it was, but I'm sure that rep brought in more people than it scared off. Biker magazines pictured it as the 'in' place in Southern Cal, so we had a constant dribble of tourists stopping by. Even celebrities dropped in from time to time. Drugs did flow as freely as the beer, yet for some reason we never saw a raid. Either Pete had an arrangement downtown, or else the cops thought it a good idea to keep the greater portion of San Pedro's vice concentrated in one small spot.

Our job was narrowly defined; protect Pete's investment in fixtures, break up fights quick enough to keep the cops away, and keep our noses out of the customers private affairs. The last part suited me just fine. I had no yen to know what went on in darkened corners where packages changed hands and envelopes slithered across beer soaked tables. It was tough enough just keeping peace among the patrons without inviting trouble home.

Next in line behind drugs and shady dealings, came sex. It was pandered for money, traded for drugs, given away for free and it was offered in any variety one could think of. The Sidewinder was by no means a gay bar, yet that element was there in a distintively butch way. In that respect, a biker bar is no different than any other, but at the Sidewinder it was much more open and I was surprised at how well the regulars tolerated gays. I suppose it was their attitude. Bikers were the studs, the kings who took any pleasure they wanted, so they saw no more threat from the gays than they did in the women who hung out there.

A lot of hustling went on at night, especially on the weekends when the place filled up with women looking for a little exotic thrill. Add them to hookers and the gays that normally hung around, and the place fairly seethed at times. The bikers had their own terms for it. An Allnighter was a good looking babe out for a wild ride, while a Pop was five minutes in the parking lot with anyone handy.

One of the funnier incidents I saw was when a tourist confused sex with drugs. He overheard someone hustling a pop and immediately wanted to make a buy. Of course the regulars worked that for all it was worth, stre tching out the 'sale' as long as possible, then finally leaving the guy totally confused as they walked off laughing.

No doubt about it, the Sidewinder was a den of iniquity, yet strangely enough they accepted two ex-cops without much rancor, far less than I expected anyway. In the past, Pete hired bikers for security, guys who spoke the language, yet despite our being ignorant of that, we found many backers for our brand of crowd control. Perhaps because we showed no partiality, had no axes to grind and made no enemies by being downright nasty, we eventually gained a certain amount of respect.

Even stranger than our general acceptance was the fact that Devil's Own club seemed to take a liking to us. They were difficult to know at first, very standoffish until a few like, Ripper, Tanglefoot, The Bear, Wolf and Sammy began jumping in to guard our backs when things got rough. It appeared we were making friends and and I have to say that some nights it was mighty comforting knowing those guys were there.

It felt great going to school full time. I loaded up with classes and found I needed only two semesters for my Bachelors, a far cry from the three years of nights that previously faced me. At twenty-six, I was already a tad old for most corporate entry level jobs but I had hopes. I wanted stability again, a job with a future and Civil Service was out of the question. That message came through loud and clear when every opening we applied for suddenly dried up. There was nothing derogatory in our files, nothing that should have kept us off the hiring lists, but I think our names had found their way to one list we never saw. A little black one.

It was funny how the bikers treated me when they came in and found me doing homework. Suddenly, all disruptions stopped and for an hour or so the place got quiet as a tomb, then, one of the Devil's, usually, T.F., or Rip, would come over, slam my books shut and say,

"That's enough Collage Boy. It's time to PARTY!"

And the juke box would start blasting again. I appreciated what they did. I also appreciated the fact that by proving ourselves to these guys, Jake and I had become part of the Sidewinder 'family'. It hadn't been easy, nor was it something I would have done of my own accord, but now that it was over it gave me a genuine feeling of pride. I was also feeling a greater confidence in my relationship with Jake. We had weathered our first real argument and it actually brought us closer.

Things went well at the Sidewinder for the next few months and I began sorting out the biker clubs. The smaller ones seemed to be playing catch up by adding new members as fast as possible and that caused fights within each club as the members tried establishing some sort of pecking order. Those little clubs kept breaking up and reforming into new ones, some with so few members that it didn't seem worthwhile. Of the larger local clubs, the Dragons and the Sharks were the most trouble. They seemed to live to fight, but even they didn't mess with the Devil's Own. That club held a rep even worse than the Sidewinder's, and while I never saw them work anyone over, there were some fairly gory rumors going around.

The Sharks were into drugs big time, lots of money floating around and the Dragons were too, but I think they used as much as they sold. The Devils also got some of their money from drugs but they were small time traffickers compaired to the Sharks. What's more, the Devils seldom came in stoned. A little pot, perhaps but nothing else. From what I gathered, the real parties took place back at their clubhouses and I also heard that when the Devils used anything stronger than booze or pot, it had something to do with that weird religious aspect of the club. Those were only rumors. Being outsiders, the Devils never told us anything specific, but they did speak quite freely in front of us and only clammed up when others came near. Jake and I took that as a compliment, as we did the nicknames those guys pinned on us; CB and The Slugger.

Many a Sunday morning found a Devil on our doorstep with a six pack and an invitation to some shindig or other, but it was never at a clubhouse. Those places were strictly off limits to anyone but members. Instead, we partied with them at the beaches or at private homes and sometimes toured the desert riding double on their bikes. Rip became a particularly good friend whom I discovered was not only well read and extremely intelligent, but possessed a wry wit that I thoroughly enjoyed. He could discuss at length the writings of Plato, Kant and Nietzsche and once tried putting me on by professing a believe in the philosophy of human preordination like that espoused in the poems of Omar Khayyam.

Rip stated human beings have no control whatsoever over their own destiny, then pointed to Government as a prime example by saying that no matter how well thought out the plans of the various agencies, or how deftly executed, the end result was always exactly the same as if they had started with no plan at all. Throughout the whole excruciating exercise his demeanor remained so intently serious that I nearly missed the oxymoron's.

Winter was a comparatively quiet time at the Sidewinder. After Christmas came a long period of heavy rain which slowed touring considerably and that meant fewer strangers drifting in, but as we came to work one Thursday evening, I did spot a new face at the bar, a stranger. . . To everyone but me. It was the one person I hoped never to see again, his handsome, square jawed profile unmistakable even in that dim light. Sergeant Charles Bailey!

It had been nine long years and the bastard still chewed SenSen, I smelled it in that instant of recognition. For a moment the stench seemed overpowering, then Rip yelled,

"HEY, CB, Slugger, come on over and sit awhile!"

The shout made Sarge glance our way, but only for second. . . He didn't even recognize me!

The evening found me drifting in and out of conversations as restless as a cat, avoiding Bailey whenever he drew near. Finally, at the far end of the bar I found a place to be alone and turned my back to the crowd, pretending to watch the rear door. Suddenly, cloaked in a murky fog of SenSen, Bailey settled on the stool beside me. Jake had been eyeing me all evening, sensing something wrong and to my everlasting relief, he came up behind Sarge and just stood there so quietly my old nemesis was unaware of him.

"You remind me of someone," Sarge said, erotic licorice filling the air with every breath, "Were you ever in the Army?"

Suppressing a mighty urge to either run or deck him on the spot, I said,

"Yeah, but I used to be a cop too, so maybe I gave you a ticket sometime."

"No, it was the Army. Fort Riley, Kansas. You look just like someone I used to know."

"And you look just like an asshole." I replied, "The kind that can't remember anything after he sobers up."

If he hadn't mentioned Riley, I might have let it pass, but he wasn't about to hustle me with that old army buddy bullshit. Sure, I reminded him of someone and so did everyone else in the bar! It was a safe bet that Sarge had hustled at least one hot recruit out of every training cycle and being a career soldier, that meant lots of cycles and a lots of kids. I really thought he had no memory of me at all, not as a person anyway, maybe as a type, but he surprised me by whooping,

"By God, Gibson, it is you! Damn, it's good to see you again!"

That last was even more shocking. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect Sarge to say he was happy to see me. He once threatened to kill me and afterwards took great pains to show how much he hated my guts by humiliating me in front of the whole platoon. How many times had he singled me out as a 'sorry fucking excuse for a soldier' then, marched me off for hour after hour of extra duty drill. I thought he must be half crocked already, the only time he ever acted even remotely glad to see me was when he got snockered. I never could figure out that guy. Five days a week I was his dog meat slave doing extra duty every night until I dropped, then on the weekends I was supposed to show my appreciation by cuddling up and having mad passionate sex with him. Damn him to Hell! I think he had me brainwashed, a whiff of that sweet SenSen was all it took to get me into bed. It had to be some sort of trained response!

It was my own fault I suppose, I should never have let him have that much power over me, but power was what Sarge was into and he took over before I knew what was happening. I guess having me always crawling back for more made him feel like some sort of god.

Sarge looked at my sour, unsmiling face and said, good naturedly,

"Hey, Gibby, don't tell me you're still mad? I'm sorry kid, but I thought you'd have it all sorted out long ago. Look, I couldn't have you making cow eyes at me during formation. The Army frowns on merely fraternizing with a recruit, to say nothing about fucking one. I had to make it clear that whatever happened on pass didn't relate to duty hours in any way. A little scare with an empty gun kinda puts things in perspective."

"Yeah, sure. Just a little scare to keep me in line, Right? What about all the extra duty bullshit, the humiliation you put me through. What was that? Just a little something to keep the love light burning? You Bastard! I wonder how many other kids you fucked over with your power trip. I'll bet it's in the hundreds."

Sarge looked at me in astonishment.

"You think I made a habit of hustling recruits? Good God! Most of those unsavory little dweebs had a face full of pimples and shit for brains. No thanks, I like my men a bit older and a whole lot smarter. No, Gibby, you were an exception, a rarity, one of maybe two in twenty years. You were the kind of kid who knew exactly who he was, but didn't let that run his life. Not some little flit who wished he was a girl, but a natural born gay boy completely comfortable with who he was. In you I saw someone worth the chance I was taking. You were a lanky, kinda beat up looking kid who I could read like a book and who reminded me of myself at that age."

I was flabbergasted. More by the fact that he had found something in me that he liked than by his assessment, but that too surprised me by being right on mark. I had always known I was different and that fact never bothered me. Oh, I tried to hid it, naturally, but not from myself. And from what Sarge was saying, I hadn't hid it very well from others. Sarge shook his head,

"Rare as you were, a man in the Army can't act even a little bit faggy without running into trouble. You had to be taught how to disguise it. I worked my ass off whipping you into someone who would pass for an average Joe and just remember Gibby, I put in every extra duty hour you did."

Oh, I remembered it OK. His constant yelling, the harassment, the misery . . . the weekends. . . the fragrant smell of SenSen.

"Bullshit! You enjoyed humiliating me! You got some sort of sadistic pleasure out of it, didn't you?"

Yet, even as I made that accusation, other memories surfaced. He used to tell me to think about how my body moved, to walk flat footed and if I lost concentration he'd yell,

"You're not a God Damned ballet dancer! Get off your toes, put you're heels down, think. Think!"

And suddenly I knew that Sarge was telling at least part of the truth. Why, I must have been obvious as hell in those days. Basic training was absolute torture, but it was during that time that I started looking at myself as others might see me. Cascading back came emotions I had no name for, feelings I didn't want and suddenly I was seventeen again and loathing it.

"Then, you didn't hate me?" I finally asked, my voice much steadier than I felt.

"Hate you?," he laughed, "No way! I was just trying to bury a bit of your fagginess and by damn, it looks like it took. If I didn't know better," he said, grinning that same old rascally grin, "I'd swear that you were a guy who had never met the business end of a cock before."

He was just as raunchy as ever and it tore a laugh from me, at least it sounded almost like a laugh. I remembered then that all his vulgarness had been used in a sexy, humorous way, never for belittlement. Those weekends could have been wonderful had I only known what was going on.

"Why didn't you just talk to me?" I asked, "All you had to do was tell me."

"I was going to, on our last weekend together, but you remember what happened. They canceled all passes and two days later you graduated. I had plans for us, Gibby, short term ones anyway, you can't make long term plans in the service. I expected you to be at Riley for at least three more months. When I talked you into becoming an MP, the training was right there on post. Then the shake up came and before I got the chance to see you again, they moved it to Knox."

This time I did laugh. Bitterly.

"You didn't talk me in to becoming an MP, you told me. You were yelling about something and right at the end, said, 'You're going to be an MP, so God Damnit, straighten up and act like a soldier.' I didn't have any choice in the matter."

Sarge smiled blandly,

"Well, you could have refused."

"Bullshit! When you chewed out a recruit, your face got red, the veins on your forehead popped out and you spit on everyone for three rows back. You scared the shit out of everybody. What kid would have the guts to refuse?"

Sarge laughed,

"It was all an act, Gibby, it's something anyone can learn and I was damn good at it. Like I said, I was going to explain everything, but you were gone before I had the chance and you never answered my letters. I know they didn't say much, it was too dangerous, but if you had called the apartment like I asked, we could have talked it out."

He still didn't understand!

"I never received your letters. I was only at Knox for a few days, then they shipped me to Ord and a short time later on to Japan, but I'll tell you honestly, even if I had gotten them I wouldn't have answered. You have no idea how miserable I was.Damnit, I wanted you to like me. . . And I ended up as your weekend whore. I was a kid with absolutely no experience and you put me through hell! Why didn't you just talk to me? Did you think I was an idiot who couldn't keep my mouth shut without having a gun to my head?

He sat for a long moment with an uncomfortable look on his face, but when he answered he finally told the truth.

"I couldn't take that chance, Gibby. I had twelve years invested in the army with only eight more to go. I had to cover my ass somehow and nobody rats on a raving maniac. It just ain't healthy. Maybe you didn't understand what was happening, but damn it, I never treated you like a whore! Everything was mutual, I never once asked anything of you that wasn't reciprocated. Think about it. Sure I told you where I'd be on a Friday night, but I never ordered you to meet me. That was always your decision."

I nearly called him a liar, but it stuck in my throat.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore!" I said, a hoarseness to my voice I hadn't counted on, "It's all ancient history anyway."

"It doesn't have to be. I'm out of the army now, we could start over, this time on the up and up." Then, with a heart wrenching grin, he added, "Maybe a shower just for old times sake, that would be a great place to start."

The thought of that reached to the very center of my being and left me shaken, but I finally answered,

"Well, Sarge, nowadays I never know what I'll be doing from one minute to the next. I'm afraid you'll have to speak to my social secretary."

Right on cue, Jake stepped forward saying,

"Sorry, mister, he's booked solid!" "Jesus Christ!" Sarge exclaimed as he spun around to face Jake, "Where the hell did you come from? Gibson! Why didn't you tell me there was a man standing behind me?"

"Oh, sorry about that, I forgot. Let me introduce you to my social secretary, Jake. He makes all my plans now, sort of like you used to, only Jake never held a gun to my head. As you can probably guess, starting over with you is out of the question. . . But then, Sarge, it always was. You took care of that nine years ago you murdered Gibby with an empty gun. Well, that kid is dead and buried now, beyond all hope of resurrection. Rationalize it all you want, but after that how could any explanation revive what you killed? No, Sarge, it don't wash. Whatever you thought your intentions were, you turned me into your whore and you enjoyed the power that gave you. Every God damned minute of it! If I had really been worth the chances you were taking, you would have talked to me that first night. You would have told me what to expect at camp and why. You should have just talked to me, Sarge. My God, didn't you know? I would have done anything you asked."

I walked away, trying not to run and a moment later Jake trailed me out to the parking lot.

"I'm going home." I said, "Tell Pete to write down my time, I don't feel very well."

"He doesn't need us either of us tonight, Teddy. Get in, I'll drive." Jake pushed me toward the car, but once inside it was worse than in the parking lot. The cloying smell of SenSen still clung and I cranked down the window with tears streaming down my face.

"God damnit, why am I blubbering after all this time?"

"Why, that's simple Teddy, you've just discovered that you once loved him and maybe still do."

"I don't! I never. . ."

My throat refused to utter the word and I lapsed into silence.

"Maybe not, but whatever that was, it sure looked like love to me. Remember, I could see your face. For a while there I was worried that you intended to take him up on his offer."

"When Hell freezes over!"

Sliding across the seat to sit next to him, I slid my hand beneath his shirt running my fingers across that curly chest, reaching for the warmth he exuded and Jake slipped an arm around me,

"There is only one person in my life, only one person I shower with and Sarge can go straight to hell!"

Working his belt loose, I slipped my hand down to find a familiar object waiting, then pulling down the zipper, I exposing my prize and played with it a moment until a sudden realization made Jake laugh.

"Do you intend to do me right here on the freeway? He asked. "We've got trucks all around us!"

"Fuck 'em, They should be so lucky," I said, dropping down to take him in, . . . all of him. . . . just the way Sarge liked it, the way he did to me..

Later in bed, Jake pulled me close and whispered,

"Are you OK now? Can you forget him?"

"No, I can't forget Sarge, but I'm over him. It was just the shock of running into him after all these years. Jake, you know how I feel, I'm not about to let anyone come between us, I promised that a long time ago and I meant it."

"I know, Teddy, but just the same, are there any more old flames I should be aware of? It was an awful shock hearing that guy talk about the two of you. I was so jealous I could have killed him where he sat."

I kissed his face, his eyes, his lips,

"No others, Babe, none that matter anyway. Hell, none of them ever mattered after I met you. Jake, you're the best thing that ever happened to me and I keep you always, right here in my heart. I don't know how else to say it, but I love you, Jake. I love you!"

And I realized then that this was the first time I had ever voiced those words to him. In my heart, a million times repeated, but not once to my beloved.

"And I love you Teddy" He said, nuzzling tenderly as the last bitter traces of SenSen dissipated into the night. . .

Notes to myself

I said this would be my own personal odyssey and so it seems. In writing about Sarge, I realize now that what I felt for him was so twisted and obsessive it nearly destroyed me. Did that experience taint all my later intimate relationships? I'm not sure, I only know that it was more than three years before I could tell Jake in plain words how I felt about him, yet I had known it from the very start. "I think I love you, Teddy" were words I waited for all my life and no matter what the future holds for us, that statement will remain etched in my heart forever. Six simple words I will joyously carry to the grave.

Strangly enough, this story has affected me more than any I've written so far, and yet I feel better now for having relived it. I think certain things fester in our soul until we pull them out and look at them. Time heals all wounds, they say, but I wonder if some don't simply scab over.

I'll finish up the Sidewinder saga for Jake. There were great times ahead and scary ones as well and we need to get on to these events. . .