Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (4 page)

The first time Tim ventured off base to return to his old college campus was on a weekend, so he could wear non-army-regulation jeans and a T-shirt. Summer school was already over at William and Mary, and the first semester of the new term wouldn’t start for another two weeks, so he knew the campus would be quiet. It was a hot Saturday afternoon in August. This same time a little more than a year ago, he’d graduated in cap and gown, diploma in hand, going to parties on fraternity row. Now he was sneaking back, hoping no one would recognize him. So much had happened: his whole life had changed. His college days seemed like the distant past.

Walking down those familiar brick pathways on campus, through the regularly laid out rows of boxwood exuding their pungent odor, and in the shade from the large, lazy magnolia trees and regal old elms brought back memories of being a student. Tim felt out of place now; he didn’t belong. He was just a picture in a yearbook on a shelf somewhere. Maybe it had been a mistake to come back to school as a soldier stationed only ten miles away.

Tim stopped at the campus bookstore for books that he hoped to buy and read on base under his secret elm by the James River. The bookstore was deserted, so he took his time picking out the Faulkner, Joyce, and Hemingway titles he’d just skimmed through during senior year as he prepared for final exams. The girl at the checkout counter was new. Amanda, the plain, heavyset girl who had worked there when Tim was in school, wasn’t there. She’d been a townie, not a student, but she worked full-time at the campus bookstore. She’d always been nice to Tim, saying, “If you read all these books, you’ll go blind.”

The truth is, Tim hadn’t read half the books he’d bought. They were for future reading—like maybe now, under the elm tree. He wanted to ask the new checkout counter girl where Amanda was. Vacation? No, Amanda wasn’t the type of person who took a vacation. As the new girl was ringing up his sale, Tim became anxious to get out and back to the base.

The bus schedule posted on the bulletin board outside the bookstore listed much-reduced summer hours. The next local to Norfolk that made a stop at Fort Eustis wouldn’t leave for another two hours. Tim could walk back to the base in the same amount of time. He was ready to get off campus. He began strolling along the old two-lane highway from Williamsburg to Newport News.

It was hot and humid with few cars on the road. Enlisted men were not supposed to hitchhike—it was forbidden by army regulation—although civilians sometimes pulled over and offered a ride.

It grew hotter and muggier as Tim trudged along the deserted highway. The afternoon sun burned like an iron against the back of his neck where his hair had been cropped super short. An occasional car sped by, sweeping dry dust off the road, making the walk even more uncomfortable. Most everyone used the interstate, so traffic on the back road was light. Only locals who worked at the base would drive here, or people who lived in the trailer camp next to the base.

Tim had been walking more than an hour and was way beyond the Williamsburg city limits when a red Mustang convertible screeched to a stop fifty feet ahead. The brand-new, immaculately polished car looked out of place on the old Virginia back road. Tim thought the driver must be lost, or had maybe taken a wrong turn, and was stopping to ask directions.

When Tim jogged up to the car, he could instantly tell the driver was no lost tourist. Behind the wheel was a guy about Tim’s age, blond and very tan.

As Tim stood on the shoulder of the road next to the passenger door, out of breath and sweating, the driver leaned over. “Hey … wanna ride?”

“Gee, thanks a lot,” Tim said, climbing into the tan leather bucket seat next to the driver’s. The Mustang had the smell of new car, fresh out of the dealership.

“How far you going?” The driver leaned over to turn down the volume on the radio pumping out loud country and western music.

“Just up to Eustis,” Tim said, getting a better look at the driver. He was incredibly good-looking, and his easy friendliness made him that much more attractive. He wore nothing but a pair of faded cut-off Levis, not even shoes, as he drove along the dusty country road. The closeness of his lean, tan body sent a charge of energy through Tim, who deliberately looked away, fixing his eyes upon the road.

The driver shifted into higher gear as they sped along the highway. The rush of hot air over the windshield felt good after such a long walk in the muggy afternoon. If ever Tim had a fantasy man, he was sitting right next to him in this red Mustang convertible.

“You stationed at Eustis?” he asked, taking his eyes off the road and looking directly at Tim.

“I’ve been there just about a month now.”

“You don’t look like a typical GI Joe,” he said with a big friendly grin. “I mean, not many guys at the base read Faulkner.” So he had noticed the books Tim was holding in his lap.

“I like to read, and this is pretty interesting—you know, being here in the South and all.”

“Yeah!” Instinctively, Tim knew that the blond driver had read all the books he’d just bought at the college bookstore.

It was a fast car, and the driver liked taking it through its paces. The motor revved at a high pitch as he forced the most RPMs out of each gear position. The car jerked as he shifted from second to third gear, and in the sweeping motion of his hand gripping the ball on the stick shift, he gently brushed against Tim’s left knee. His hand rested on the shifter until the car was well into third. He let go after a few seconds and turned up the radio, blaring out “Don’t Come Home A’ Drinkin’”
by Loretta Lynn. They drove a few minutes without talking.

Even looking ahead, Tim could admire him. His hair was bleached by the sun, as were his full eyebrows; he must have spent a lot of time at the beach. The fine hair on his arms and legs was bleached white—fine, milky feathers against his honey-colored skin. His chest was subtly defined, his stomach smooth. He had the body of a natural athlete and the bulging calf muscles and hard thighs of a runner.

He was grinning, as though he knew that Tim was fixated on his body. He seemed content driving his red Mustang along the old highway with the sun washing over them, and the sounds of country and western music filling the air.

“What company are you in?”

“B.”

“Oh,” he said vaguely. Tim couldn’t tell if that meant anything to him or if he was just making conversation. They drove a short while before Tim noticed the familiar white dome of a water tower poking up through the trees and then the chain-link fence; they defined the borders of the military property. Tim was disappointed to be arriving at the base so soon. The back entrance was just ahead, and the driver eased the car onto the shoulder of the highway.

“This is fine, right here,” Tim said.

The Mustang stopped just short of the gate.

“You wanna stop some place for a beer or something?” the blond driver asked unexpectedly.

Tim froze, his hand on the door handle of the Mustang.

“Thanks anyway,” Tim mumbled. “I have to get back to pull CQ.” He was lying, but it was the only answer he could come up with. Tim wanted nothing more than to spend some time with the handsome driver, but he was afraid.

“Some other time,” the driver said, sounding disappointed. As Tim was getting out of the Mustang, the driver asked, “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Tim,” he said, closing the car door. “Tim Halladay.”

The blond leaned across the front seat, right hand extended out. “I’m Eddie Arkansas.” He smiled, aware of his strange name. “No shit! Real name,” he beamed.

“It’s different,” Tim admitted. “Good to meet you … and thanks for the ride.” Just then Tim noticed something on the backseat: a clear plastic dry cleaner’s bag with a familiar khaki uniform inside. The stripes signified that Eddie was a corporal.

Eddie Arkansas smiled with a twinkle in his eye and then shifted the Mustang into gear. “So long, Tim,” he said as the car pulled away. “See you around.”

Pebbles and sand spit out the rear tires as the bright red Mustang driven by blond, tan Eddie Arkansas—
Corporal
Eddie Arkansas—disappeared off into the fading afternoon sun down the old Virginia highway.

Tim stood by the side of the road trying to absorb what had just happened. Why hadn’t Eddie told him he was in the army when Tim said he was stationed at Eustis? He wasn’t hiding it since his uniform was in full view on the backseat. He had asked Tim what company he was in, which for someone outside the military would have been an odd question.

As Tim walked back to the base, thoughts of Eddie Arkansas burned in his mind. Tim wondered if he’d ever see him again.

Back in the barracks, Tim collapsed onto his bunk. He was the only one there. It was a summer Saturday, and everyone who wasn’t pulling duty had taken off for Virginia Beach or for Washington, DC. Tim was glad to be alone, and he dozed off after staring up at the dirty white acoustic tiles on the ceiling.

He must have fallen into a sound sleep, because it was dark when he woke up. The sound of dance music drifted across the base from the officers’ club. Tim could hear a few drunk enlisted men singing off-key near the bowling lanes. Tim had missed chow, but he didn’t care. It was too hot to eat. He walked down the hall and got a Coke from the vending machine, returned to his bunk, and took off his jeans and T-shirt, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

He was sticky and sweaty from the long afternoon walk. A hot shower would help, and he had the luxury of being the only one in the barracks. After a twenty-minute shower, he dried off and put on a clean pair of white boxer shorts, and then stretched out on his bunk. Music from the officers’ club continued to drift across the compound, and the enlisted men who’d been singing earlier were now in a drunken brawl. The barracks were deserted, the only light filtering in from the lounge at the end of the hall where the television was left on, even though no one was watching. Tim wasn’t sure what time it was, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t in the mood to read his new books. He’d get up early tomorrow, Sunday, go to his secret elm tree, and then start in on Faulkner.

The image of Eddie Arkansas would not go away: his soft white-blond hair, his honey-colored skin, and his swimmer’s body—the sight of him driving his red Mustang convertible, barefoot in cut-off Levis. The entire image of Eddie Arkansas, Corporal Eddie Arkansas, haunted Tim: the tightly drawn muscles on his chest, the trace of white fuzz against his flat stomach, the texture of his peach skin, and the faint form of a barely detectable V disappearing beneath the top metal button of his jeans with no trace of a tan line.

The image sent a burning sensation through Tim. His boxer shorts were soon damp with small circles of sticky fluid uncontrollably emitted by the fantasy.

Tim slipped his shorts below his knees and kicked them to the floor. Naked atop the brown wool blanket, he took himself hard and throbbing in his right hand, spit into his palm, and slowly and repeatedly stroked to the music from the officers’ club, surrendering, paying homage to the image of his idol, Eddie Arkansas. Tim repeated this ritual every night in his bed, hiding the sticky white fluid in his wool army socks under a pillow, socks he’d put on the next morning. For two years Tim walked through his paces in the army with stiff wool socks smelling faintly like Clorox, starched with his secret tribute to Eddie Arkansas.

Tim saw Eddie once more after that ride in the red Mustang. It was an afternoon at the post exchange. Tim was buying shaving cream and toothpaste when he saw the familiar blond figure in the next aisle. Eddie was dressed in his summer khakis, starched and immaculately pressed, his skin aglow against the color of his uniform. He looked like a movie star. Their eyes met across the aisle, and they smiled for a few seconds. Eddie was with two other guys, both sergeants. Tim was in his PFC fatigues, and therefore, they couldn’t really talk. Eddie had no idea of the nightly ritual Tim performed. He would never know.

As they stood across from each other over rows of toothpaste, shaving cream, and mouthwash, Eddie gave Tim a provocative wink. That was it! Eddie would never know that at the moment, Tim was standing in front of him, carrying his secret passion for Eddie Arkansas in his stiff wool socks.

Marine

May 1968

T
im had a morning interview with a boutique ad agency that specialized in men’s fashion, but it didn’t go well. The woman from human resources met him in the reception room chewing gum. Not a good sign. After twenty minutes, Tim knew this job was not going to work out. It was early afternoon, and he had no other appointments. The May day was blistering hot; summer had arrived early in New York. Tim wasn’t eager to go back to his family in Westport any earlier than he had to, so he decided to go to a movie and spend the afternoon in air conditioning.

The Graduate
with Dustin Hoffman was playing at the Coronet Theatre at Fifty-Ninth and Third Avenue. It had opened just before the Christmas holidays, but was still playing to full houses. It was difficult to get into without having to stand in line for an hour and then maybe ending up with a seat in the front row, craning your neck to see. Afternoon performances during the week were easier; the audience was mostly blue-haired ladies and the hard-core unemployed.

If he hurried, Tim could make the discounted two o’clock matinee. The queue at the Coronet was only half a block long. Tim paid and took his place at the end of the ticket holders’ line. In front of him was a marine in full uniform. Tim could tell from the chevron on his sleeve that he was a sergeant. On the front of his uniform were three rows of colored ribbons: citations and awards he’d earned. He must have been sweltering in that uniform, but he showed no sign of discomfort. He was immaculately groomed, a figure off a military recruitment poster. He must have sensed Tim was staring at him and his full chest of medals, because he turned and asked Tim, “Have you seen this picture yet?”

“Every time I tried to go it’s been sold out.”

“This’ll be my third time,” the young marine offered. “Great fuckin’ movie. Really fuckin’ great.”