Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (5 page)

The line began to inch forward out of the afternoon heat and into the cool, air-conditioned theatre. The marine kept talking, narrating the story line, pointing out things he described as “fuckin’ outstanding.” Normally Tim would have been pissed off to have someone tell him the whole plot of a film he hadn’t seen, but he was drawn to the marine and to his crude commentary. There was nothing particularly striking about the soldier aside from his impeccable grooming and his uniform. His features were thick and ordinary. Out of uniform, in a crowd, he would just blend in.

The marine kept rattling on about how great the movie was as they walked down the aisle. Tim assumed they would sit together, which was fine, as long as he stopped talking once the movie began.

They found seats in the center, ten rows from the screen. As soon as the lights dimmed and the previews came on, the marine became silent, almost in a trance. Tim was thankful and a little amused by the complete transformation of this odd guy sitting next to him. Although the marine didn’t talk during the movie, he did laugh at every funny line Anne Bancroft or Dustin Hoffman uttered, as though he’d never seen the movie before. His enjoyment was infectious, and Tim was glad he’d bumped into him in the line.

When the movie was over, they filed out of the Coronet back into the oppressive heat and blinding afternoon sunlight. They flowed along with the crowd to the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Third and waited to cross. Rush hour had begun. The traffic was a tangle of cars, buses, and taxis all fighting for the same small piece of asphalt. When the light changed, they crossed Third Avenue heading west, without any destination in mind, just going along with the crowd. It was close to four o’clock. The young sergeant asked Tim what he thought of parts of the movie, like the scene where Anne Bancroft seduced Dustin Hoffman.

“That was cool,” Tim answered, “although a little strange to have an older woman and a young guy getting it on.”

“Fuckin’ right, man. Never done it with an old broad,” he agreed, with a friendly hit to Tim’s arm. They walked a few more blocks, and by now both were sweating. It was a sticky, humid New York afternoon, and the air hung heavy with grit.

“Want to stop somewhere and grab a beer?” Tim suggested, surprised at his own initiative. Walking around pointlessly in oppressive heat wasn’t appealing; cold beer would be a welcome relief.

“That sounds great.” He smiled. “It sure is fuckin’ hot.”

At Fifty-Ninth Street they went west, crossed Fifth Avenue, and were at the entrance to Central Park. The closest bar was at the Plaza Hotel, not exactly where an unemployed ad man and a marine were likely to hang out.

“I’ve got a couple of six-packs on ice where I’m staying,” the sergeant said. “What you say we go there and break open a few?”

“Where’s that?” Tim asked.

“The Hotel Manhattan, down near where all the Broadway theatres are. It’s not too far.”

Tim hesitated and then said, “That sounds fine.”

“Okay,” the marine smiled, and with that he was off the curb, waving for a cab. Although it was rush hour, he had no trouble getting one. The uniform and the medals were a help. The cab driver must have thought they were in a hurry because once they were seated he darted in and out of traffic like a cowboy. They both laughed as they gripped the hand straps to prevent being thrown around inside the cab. They pulled up to the Hotel Manhattan, and the marine gave the driver a five-dollar bill, telling him to keep the change.

“No charge, soldier,” the cab driver said, handing the bill back. “My pleasure.”

The hotel lobby was crammed with people and suitcases. Every sofa and chair in the lounge was taken. People were camped out on piles of luggage as long lines of frustrated guests tried to check in.

“Christ, what’s going on here?” Tim asked, amused at the total confusion.

“Some sort of fuckin’ convention or something.” He laughed. “Guess they have more Shriners than rooms. C’mon! Let’s get outta here.” He grabbed Tim’s arm and wedged them into an already packed elevator. When they fell out of the elevator car on the eighth floor and the doors closed, both burst into laughter.

“What a fuckin’ zoo!”

“I bet you could rent out your room for a small fortune,” Tim commented.

“Wait till you see it.” The sergeant unlocked the door and walked ahead of Tim to turn on the light. The room was barely big enough to hold the sofa bed wedged into one corner. The window held an ancient air conditioner wheezing loudly, and the view looked onto a dark shaft way with a dirty, yellow brick wall. There were no chairs. The only other furniture was a small wooden chest of drawers that looked like it might fall apart if you touched it. An old Zenith TV set was atop what had once been a metal luggage rack. The faded maroon carpet had cigarette burns and was stained with what looked like either red wine or blood. It was hard to tell.

“Not exactly the Waldorf Astoria,” the marine joked as Tim looked around the room. “But it’s cheap. This is the kind of room they give you on military rates. But what the hell? I’m not gonna spend much time here.”

“It’s better than sleeping in the lobby or the bus station,” Tim offered.

“Not much,” the marine said and went into the bathroom. “A cold brew?” he called out from the half-open door.

“Sure.” Tim heard a hard splash and gurgling sounds as the soldier took a prolonged piss. The toilet flushed, then Tim heard two hissing sounds of beer cans opening.

They sat on the edge of the sofa bed, the only place to sit
in the small room. The sergeant had taken off his uniform jacket in the bathroom and unbuttoned his starched shirt. It fit him like a second skin, and he now showed the well-developed body of a weightlifter, not apparent when he was in uniform.

“I always keep a couple of six-packs on ice when I stay in hotels. I picked up a cheap Styrofoam cooler at the ten-cent store and bought beer and ice at the deli. It’s a lot cheaper than having to call room service every time you want a goddamn beer, and you don’t have to tip those uppity room service guys either.” He toasted Tim with a beer and flopped down on the bed next to him, kicking off his shoes.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he invited as Tim folded his suit jacket on one end of the sofa bed and loosened his tie. They finished the first beer in a few minutes, and the marine got up to get two more. They sprawled on the sofa bed like two college roommates. Any uneasiness Tim might have had earlier disappeared as he downed the second beer.

The marine asked what Tim did for a living.

“I just got out of the army two months ago, and I’m still living at home with my parents, which really sucks. I’m trying to get a job in advertising here in the city. I had an interview this morning, but it didn’t go well.”

“Don’t worry. A smart, good-looking guy like you shouldn’t have a problem.”

Tim blushed at the compliment and then changed the subject. “And you? Where are you off to after the Hotel Manhattan?”

“I’m on my way to Morocco … a candy-ass gig as a guard for the US Embassy.” He told Tim that he’d landed the assignment because he’d been shot up pretty bad during his second tour of duty in Vietnam. After four months of treatment, he’d just been released from the Oakland Naval Hospital.

“You look healed to me,” Tim observed.

“I try to keep myself up by workin’ out a couple of times a week.” The marine got up off the sofa bed to retrieve more beers from the bathroom cooler. Tim had to chug-a-lug the last half of his second as the marine handed him another. “Once I was patched up good enough, they made me exercise in the hospital.”

“What happened?” Tim asked, wondering if it was a touchy subject, but the marine didn’t seem reluctant to talk about it.

“I ate a shitload of shrapnel two weeks before I was scheduled to be shipped back home.” He didn’t sound bitter.

“Too bad,” Tim said, at a loss for words.

“In some ways it was a lucky break. I wouldn’t be getting this cushy assignment in fuckin’ Morocco if I hadn’t sucked a little lead.” He looked pleased with himself as he stood by the sofa bed, taking a long swallow of beer. Tim stared at the marine, thinking he was different from anyone he had ever met, even in the army.

“And I got a little souvenir to remember my last tour in Nam,” he said, looking down at Tim, who didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you.” He drained his beer, and then he crushed the can in one hand, folding it like a paper cup, and tossed it into the bathroom, sending it bouncing across the chipped tile floor. He pulled his shirttails out of his pants and slowly started to undo the lowest buttons. He stripped off the uniform shirt and then his T-shirt.

“See, I’ve got my own patchwork quilt,” he beamed pointing to two prominent scars. One ran the width of his chest, just above his ribs, and another sliced vertically down one side of his torso right of his navel, disappearing below his belt. The scars were red against the smooth whiteness of his skin; they looked like train tracks carving out routes across his body.

“Pretty, huh?” he said sadly.

“Christ!” Tim stared at the disfigurement on this otherwise perfectly formed body. His skin was smooth and hard like marble. The crawling scars of his wounds were like the violation of a slashed masterpiece.

“Touch it,” the sergeant challenged, staring at Tim mischievously.

The thought of physical contact with the marine’s scars rendered Tim immobile, although he was fascinated.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged.

Sensing his shyness, the marine gently took Tim’s hand and traced his forefingers across the jagged slash of the scar that cut across the top half of his chest. His skin was tough with irregular knots of tissue not visible to the eye, but detectable to the touch, like small, hard beads or tiny pebbles. Tim’s fascination combined with the marine’s domineering manner smothered any impulse Tim might have had to resist. The marine was pleased with his control over Tim, and seemed to enjoy sharing his wounds with a stranger.

The intimacy was oddly stimulating and even sensuous. Tim wasn’t repulsed by the scars. If anything, gliding his hand along the irregularities of flesh and muscle, sewn into twisted knots, was erotic. Tim’s hand jerked when he realized what was happening. If the marine noticed, he didn’t pull back. Instead, he released Tim’s hand, and looked at him with a sad, almost detached, expression.

“Most people are disgusted … makes ’em sick,” the marine said as though talking to himself.

“You should be proud,” Tim said nervously. “It could have been worse.”

The sergeant forced a smile. “At least I have all my moving parts. Lotsa guys come back missin’ arms and legs—all kinds of heavy shit. I guess I’m a real lucky son of a bitch.” The sadness had passed, and he regained his friendly, slightly crude manner.

“Ready for another?” the marine moved toward the bathroom door to get more beer.

“Thanks … I’ve still got this one. Boy, you can sure put them away.”

“They go right through me,” he called from the bathroom. Tim could hear a hard stream of piss hitting the toilet water. The whoosh of the flushing echoed as he came back into the room and stood in front of Tim.

“Yeah! I guess I was pretty goddamn lucky. Came close to having my fuckin’ leg blown off.”

“Oh?” Tim looked at the marine, his scarred bare chest inches away.

“Look,” the marine said as he unfastened his belt buckle and let his pants flop open. He hadn’t bothered to zip up his fly. Tim sat up on his elbows.

“Here … feel this.” The marine took Tim’s hand, pulling the elastic band of his boxers, pulling his shorts down inches to where a few dark, curly hairs protruded below a lump the size of a golf ball on his abdomen. “Feel that.” He pressed Tim’s fingers against it. The long vertical scar on the right side of his upper body ended in a hard knot that Tim was now touching.

“A couple more inches and I woulda lost my fuckin’ right leg.” He gently tucked his shorts so Tim’s fingers touched his hair. He led Tim’s hand over his body in a sensuous exploration, moving Tim’s hand in slow, circular motions like a masseur’s, as the bulging arch of his erection strained against the elastic of his white shorts. With a slow, sweeping motion, he set his beer can on the floor next to the sofa bed, and with his thumb pulled on his shorts until they were lowered to his thighs, revealing a fully freed erection. His head arched back, his eyes closed, as he whispered, “A couple of inches more … woulda lost my fuckin’ leg.”

Still cupping Tim’s hand, he pressed Tim’s fingers tight, and with his extended middle finger barely grazed the flesh between his legs in slow, rhythmic strokes, sending blood through his bulging veins. Tim’s fingers probed until they joined the marine’s in a pulsating stroking motion, back and forth. Tim slid off the sofa bed and knelt before him. With a quick, violent motion Tim ripped open the zipper on his own pants, and with his other hand he created the same stroking motion upon himself.

Afterward, they lay like fallen soldiers on the soiled hotel room carpet, the panting of their labored breathing slowly returning to normal. A few moments passed as neither spoke or moved. The marine broke the mood, suddenly standing, disappearing into the bathroom. Tim heard water running and vigorous splashing. The marine poked his head out and tossed Tim a white washcloth, asking, “Another beer?”

“No thanks.” Tim hastily cleaned himself. “I’ve got to be going.” Tim stood and zipped up his pants, tucking in his shirt.

The marine came back all neatly buttoned up in uniform, another beer in his hand. He must have forgotten he had a nearly full one on the floor, next to the sofa bed. He seemed as nervous as Tim.

“I’d better be going.” Tim picked up his suit jacket from the end of the sofa bed. “Have to catch a train back to Westport. My parents get pissed off if I’m late for dinner.”

“Some things never change,” the marine smiled.

“Thanks for the beer,” Tim said, tossing the washcloth into the bathroom sink.

“Any time.” He was as friendly as when they’d met in the movie line. “Good luck with the job search.”

“Thanks. Good luck to you in Morocco.”