Authors: Edward C. Patterson
So he was before the city walls on platform
number ten
waiting for another train, which approached now.
It appeared more like a trolley car, but he knew it would, because
he had ridden in one like this before between Vilseck and Bayreuth.
He hoped there would be a conductor on board so he could confirm
the destination. The car slid into the station, the accordion doors
folding back. He waived his ticket at the official inside, who
resembled a band conductor at the Proms, so much brass and tassel,
but his flat, tub cap identified him as the conductor.
“
Fürth?
” Thomas asked.
“
Ja
.”
“O’Darby Kaserne?”
“Yes,” came a voice, not the conductor’s, who
examined Thomas’ ticket and ushered him into the car. The voice
came from the only other passenger — a lanky, rather square
individual with green eyes and, lo and behold, in uniform — and not
a bandmaster’s either. US Army.
Thomas smiled and slid into the seat opposite.
“Thank you. I am somewhat lost in this place?”
“Big, but easy to get around.” He reached across,
his massive paw inviting. “I’m Townsend — Florian Townsend. I’m in
from Stuttgart on TDY at O’Darby.”
“Me too,” Thomas said, grasping the hand. “Not
Stuttgart. Dye — Thomas Dye. From Grafenwöhr.”
“Grafenwöhr? I didn’t think anyone was stationed at
Grafenwöhr, I mean with the big boom booms going off all the time.
Thought that place was just for spending cartridges.”
“No. I’m at the headquarters at the 6
th
of the 60
th
.”
“Hawk Missiles. I’m with the 8
th
of the
60
th
. We aren’t much into the Handy Andy Worm Killers
ourselves. We’re mostly clerks.”
Thomas chuckled. “I am a clerk. I am here to go to
the Projectionist School.”
“Projectionist School?” Private Townsend laughed.
“I’m going there too. Been here a week. Just went in to N’berg for
some sleaze and a beer.
Drei bier bitte
. So I can tell you,
if you’re for the Projectionist School, you’re on the right
streetcar.” His head bobbed. “Projectionist School,” he murmured
again and gently laughed.
Thomas was mystified.
The gates to O’Darby Kaserne were like the gates of
hell, only without Dante’s warning sign. The buildings were gray
hulks kissed lightly by snow. Thomas trundled across the slick
cobblestones managing his duffel bag with difficulty. Florian just
waved him on to the shambles that at one time — under Kaiser
Wilhelm perhaps — could be described as a barracks. Now it was a
three-story warehouse with most of the windows broken, the wind
blowing through them to invite Thomas inside. Beyond the tile-shorn
Mansard roof, Thomas thought he spied a brick wall and a sprawl of
barbed wire. It was foreboding except that the buildings on the
other side of the wall were more inviting than the barracks. There
was also a clatter of boots and a chorus of yelling coming from
that side. Thomas paused.
“What a racket,” he said. “They do not drill us like
that in Grafenwöhr.”
Private Townsend shrugged. “This isn’t Grafenwöhr.
This is the place that time forgot.”
The foyer was dimly lit by a single light fixture.
Stairs flanked each side of the vestibule. Thomas could imagine
faded glory in their easement.
“Up here,” Florian said.
“My orders. Should I not see the Charge of
Quarters?”
“When you see the quarters, you’ll know what a silly
request that is. Come up.”
Thomas followed the sour young man up two flights.
He thought it odd that the place was deserted — not a single troop.
No activity. No loud conversation, just the yelping sounds from
across the wall. That was noise enough.
“Where is everyone?”
“You’re looking at him,” Florian said turning about
and walking backwards. “And just take a gander at me, because I’m
your other half.”
“Do you mean . . .”
“I mean nothing. These are the transient barracks
and we are the Projectionist Class — you, me and Specialist
Goodrich, who teaches the fucking class and you’ll not see him
here.”
The top floor was a line-up of bunks in a long
hallway. All empty. All denuded of linen. All probably crawling
with lice and bed bugs, by the look of them. The windows were
cracked or broken and there were three light bulbs hung at
intervals along the course.
“It is cold,” Thomas remarked.
“It’ll be colder at night, but I’m used to it and
I’ve only been here a bit.”
“And that racket?”
They had reached the only bunk with linen. The
bottom bunk was made, but the top one at least had sheets, blankets
and a pillow folded at the head nearest the window. This window was
whole, but it still didn’t block the voices of the drill
outside.
“You don’t mind the top?” Florian asked, as if he
were giving Thomas a choice.
“No.” He gazed up. “At least one of the lights is
here.”
“You read?”
“Yes, and write . . . letters and such.”
“And such? I’m big into reading and I love to write,
but nothing I’ve spawned has given rise to a litter. I have an
uncle in the trade. Still, it hasn’t given me a leg up on getting
anything done worthwhile.”
Thomas sat on the remnants of a footlocker. “In the
business?”
“Publishing. Well, what they call a boutique press.
He owns a bookstore — a very old and distinguished bookstore in New
York.”
“I am from New York. Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn. You don’t sound like you’re from
Brooklyn. What did you do to your accent?”
Thomas smiled. “I have one, but I have spent some
time suppressing it.” He smiled. “But dotcha go pokin’ fun at my
mudder tongue, or I’ll change yer earl fer ya. D’ya understand?” He
laughed.
“I’m rather glad you’ve suppressed it,” Florian
said.
The outside noise, which had softened, was in
crescendo again.
“I guess I will need to get accustomed to that
racket.”
“You can get used to anything. And,
that,
next door, is a Prison . . .”
“Prison?” Thomas said. He went to the window “Well,
damn me.” He turned to Florian. “So, we are it?”
“We’re it,” Flo said. “Relax. Enjoy the quiet or the
noise, and get ready for a week of sprockets and film repair; old
newsreels and other shit.”
“Sounds boring,” Thomas said.
“Do your bunk up. Throw your shit in the lockers and
let’s eat.”
“They must have a lousy mess hall, if the barracks
are any indication.”
“I know a place.”
“I remember,” Thomas said to the dark ceiling. He
thought he heard Philip snoring, but he was still awake. “Yes, I
remember, we ate in a Bulgarian restaurant. Old saddles hanging
from the wall, native instruments — cowbells and the like.
Afterwards, he took me to a few bars, and then to a
risqué
movie. While in the movie, I noticed that Flo, being beyond his
saturation in Cognac, let his hand stray in the dark. His leg
rubbed against mine.”
“Floozy,” Philip said.
“I assumed it to be the beer. Still I enjoyed it.
And when we returned to that shit hole of a barracks, I undressed
him and got him into bed. Then, he kissed me.”
“You should have seen that coming,” Philip
remarked.
“The next morning, except for his headache, he did
not remember a thing. I did. I remembered that kiss. It made me
feel alive; and nothing any woman ever gave me could compare.”
“You mean you didn’t know before Flo kissed
you?”
“I had known that I was different by age eight or
nine. I peeked at friends whenever I got a chance. I scrounged for
all those Muscle Boy books, those meager lot of flesh we had in
those days to inspire the sexual imagination.”
“Long before my time.”
“Yes, but a historic legacy that you should absorb
to understand the nettles of your current perch.”
“Lost me.”
“Not to worry. I stayed in the closet until Flo’s
drunken kiss woke the wonder in me. However, that next morning, he
never mentioned it. So we went to this boring Projectionist class,
and on the last day, perched atop my bunk writing . . .”
“Hey, Tee,” Flo said from the bottom bunk. “You’re
no fun today. Let’s go drinking.”
“I think I would like to finish what I am working
on.”
“You’re always writing. What now?”
“You do not want to know,” Thomas said.
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” Flo bounced to
his feet and leaned on the top bunk, his nose sniffing as if the
ink and Thomas were one, and the paper some sultry rival.
“If you laugh . . .”
“I won’t.”
“It is a poem,” Thomas said.
“Dick-head. Fire it up.”
Thomas sat at the bunk’s edge, the blue-green paper
held loose in his hand. He seemed reluctant to recite, but Flo
rubbed his knee and patted the bunk. Thomas began:
“
They march and drill all day
Like fire kept at bay.”
“I still remember that poem,” Thomas said, almost in
a reverie. “Piece of crap, but a cathartic moment.”
“Let’s hear it,” Philip said.
“No. I shall feed you some of my best stuff first
before you choke of the offal of my youth.”
“No, I insist.”
“Very well:
.
“
They march and drill all day
Like fire kept at bay,
Left to smolder in the sun,
To quench their sense of burning.
I hear them and am filled with yearning
Not to be inside them
But to have them inside me
To drill and march on my prison soul,
To smolder in my sun.
Locked away in a dark place,
A fetid place that knows no growth
Or truth be told,
This high wall holds my soul from flowing
To the ebbing seas.
Not the prison marchers drilled.
But, the soul that speaks of me.”
“It sounds beautiful,” Philip said. “I don’t
understand a word of it, except you were inspired by that prison
and all. You must have felt imprisoned to write such a thing.”
Thomas smiled. “You may not have understood a word
it, but whatever word you did catch, you hit a home-run with a
perceptive bat.”
“I’m known for my bat.” Philip laughed.
“So is Flo, you smart-ass. So I had read this poem
and when I finished reciting it, Flo kissed me again. One thing led
to another and . . .”
“Your first time?”
“Yes.”
Philip sat up. He pushed Thomas’ arms, a bit harder
than a love tap. “You were lovers then. I asked you if you were
together and you said you weren’t.”
“We are not lovers now. We have not been lovers for
twelve years.”
“Are you sure? I believe he thinks you still are. I
can tell.”
“That is Flo’s way.”
Philip slammed back on the pillow. “So you became
lovers and broke up. Still, you see him every day.”
“Twice. Sometimes three times. And more than that.
For the first two years after we broke up, we still shared the
flat.”
“This flat?”
“There are two sides to my relationship with Flo.
The love side is gone. Dead and buried. I have concern for him, as
he does for me, but that leaves us the business side only.” Thomas
took a deep breath. He felt he had perhaps gone too far in these
revelations, but the aftermath of the best sex he had ever had in
his life provoked it. Called for it.
“Flo was discharged before me by three months, and
when I returned home, he had already taken the draft of my first
novel and had an editor working on it. His uncle liked it and
before I knew it, I was published. I had an editor, and . . . an
agent.”
“Flo.”
“A good agent. I have a bookshelf filled with
published works and, God knows, I could have never managed to get
them onto the racks myself. So things happened. We moved in
together. With the advance on my third book, I bought this little
bordello. We seemed set for life.”
“Seems so,” Philip said. “What happened? Well,
that’s really not my business. I just can’t understand how lovers
can break up and still remain friends.”
“Sometimes I wonder at that also. It was my fault .
. . initially. I had a fling with . . . well more than one fling.
Flo always remained faithful. So we agreed to an open relationship,
whatever the hell that means, and that led us to our darkest days.
Fights. Cups flying. Manuscripts shredded. It was not something you
should ever experience.”
“I’ve had my own stress.”
“I am sure, but as you point out, age accumulates
all the bad blood and leaves deep wounds. Things were too tense for
me, so I asked Flo to leave. I thought it would kill him, but after
a few months, he became much as you see him now.”
“A stalker.”
“He is not a stalker. He shadows me a bit. I guess
that is my penance for my own shabby behavior. He is, however,
not
a stalker.”
“Just my opinion.”
Thomas sat up. He stared at Philip’s soft hair as it
graced the silken pillow. He kissed him. “If Flo is a stalker, what
does that make your Sprakie?”
Philip pushed him away.
“Sprakie saved my butt.”
“Do tell.”
Philip shuffled to the bed’s edge. He bounced in
indecision. There was security in keeping the hard secrets. Philip
kept his share like a dragon keeping its trinkets.
“I’m only going to tell you about Sprakie and me,
because you told me about you and that stalker.”
“Flo, and it is Sprakie and I.”
“Whatever. If you’re going to correct my grammar,
what’s the use of telling you anything?”
“No. Go ahead. I shall behave.”
Philip slipped tongue over lips, and then lay back
down. His turn as
raconteur
had come.
The Culver El had rattled across the Brooklyn
landscape for over a century. It shadowed the avenue beneath, which
was now called MacDonald, but had other names during the course of
its shady history. It also had rambled at a greater distance when
first conceived, including a dire turn near Avenue C, which was now
straightened, the tracks sloping into the maw of a tunnel
connecting to a latter-day subway. In any case, like all the Els of
Brooklyn and the outer boroughs, the Culver was an artery that
channeled the life of millions.