American Gulag

I dreamed of being free of this place. My sleep was now filled with days where I could stay in bed and never get up. I dreamed of a day where work was a pleasure and study was a snap. I saw my professors, their kind, helpful faces. Why was I not more grateful for their being? I saw my boss as she supervised my typing or filing. She was no longer the cross bitch I once thought. She was a virtuous soul trying to guide me on the correct path. There were uncles and nephews, and the sweet aroma of the city streets after a drenching rain. There was waiting for the bus in mountains of snow; and days at Coney Island watching the wonderful contraptions that shake us silly. It was a peaceful vision of the past in my dream. Then, I heard Hertbie's voice.

"Huey's dicking Chola," he said.

My eyes opened. Hertbie's face was near mine. What a frightful thing that was. It was like being awaken by a gnome.

"What?" I said trying to get back to my peaceful dream of freedom.

"Huey's dicking Chola," he whispered louder.

"Shit," I said managing to sit upright.

I listened hard and heard them. This was the limit. It was my responsibility to keep order after hours. Usually I slept soundly. But, with Hertbie on fire duty, and his disgust of the homos, I didn't have a chance. I got up and dressed, Hertbie handing me my shoes and his flashlight.

"What are you gonna do, Gibbs?" he said. "Shall we turn the lights on and scare 'em to hell?"

"No, just go back to your fire watch. Stay there. I'll be back."

Hertbie sat down at the top of the stairs. I was still asleep in some sense. I made it out of the barracks and down to the office. It was a damp, foggy morning, still wrapped in darkness. The stars were not singing tonight. Gonvea was on duty in the office.

"Gibbs, what gives," he said as I poked my head in.

"Not sure Sergeant," I said. "I think Chola and Huey are . . . I mean, it sounds like they are . . ."

Gonvea smiled and reached for the phone.

"Hey Pike," he said. "Get on over here; and bring the cuffs. Call the MPs too."

"MPs," I said. "I don't think that is entirely necessary, Sergeant. I just wanted to do what I'm supposed to as Platoon leader. I don't want to cause them trouble."

"Well, Gibbs," said Gonvea strapping on his side arm, "You had better hope something is going on. I don't like having the wolf cried, you know. The wolf doesn't get to this bad ass!"

"No," I said, "Something is going on. But couldn't you just check it out before calling . . . "

"Let's go," he said. "It's done."

I followed behind him as he quickly and quietly pranced to the barracks and up the stairs. Once inside, he signaled Hertbie to be quiet. Gonvea crept stealthily up the stairs. He listened silently; then he turned the lights on quickly and threw the garbage can covers into the middle of the room. There was a loud crash. Everyone stirred and jumped and in one manner of other was out of their bunk and groping around it.

"OK, everyone," said Gonvea. "Stay where you are. It's surprise inspection. You get surprised; and I get to inspect."

He walked over to Chola's bunk. Chola was still in it, but Huey had retreated from it and stood butt naked at his own bunk looking rather worse for wear.

"OK, you tweety birds," said Gonvea, "What have we here? I have heard that you've been open for business tonight, Chola; and you, Huey were the customer."

Neither responded. Huey was swaying a bit.

"You're fucking lucky, Chola, I didn't see this with my own two eyes or you'd both be heading off to a Court Marshal; and then to Leavenworth! Leavenworth!! What do you have to say about that?"

"I was just sleeping like I always do, Sergeant," said Chola.

"Get out of that fucking bed," shouted Gonvea.

Chola jumped out and was also naked.

"Well at least you're smart enough to tell the truth you fucking fairy!" snapped Gonvea laughing at Chola's cute little butt.

Huey was having a great deal of difficulty standing.

"And you macho troop," said Gonvea to Huey, "not enough pussy in the world, you need assholes to . . .what's with you? Look me in the eye! Shit man, what are you on? This man's on heavy drugs or something."

"Good evening sergeant," said Huey.

"You know to be on drugs in the Army is a fast ticket to hell. And you thought you were in hell already, but you don't know hell yet. But I promise you one thing - where you're going they'll be plenty of assholes to choose from. You'll see."

Sergeant Pike arrived with the MPs.

"Sergeant Pike," said Gonvea, "this man is on drugs."

The MPs swooped down on Huey before he could get a chance to realize his situation. He struggled as they cuffed him. His eyes were wide as he realized he was being arrested. He shouted for help. He shouted to Chola and to his mother and to someone named Vinny. It was pathetic. I was truly shaken. I did not want this. This was not what I expected. I was now the tool of the villain. They left with him, leaving me standing at one end of the room with Hertbie at my side. I saw the looks of anger in the eyes of the entire Platoon.

"You son of a bitch," said Krasnar. "Don't even come on this side of the room."

"I did what I had to do," I said. "I'm the squad leader."

"Squad leader?" said Chola, who did cross the room and had spitfire in his eyes. "You did a terrible thing. You wanted my ass; you couldn't have it; so you decided to punish me. Well, you managed to get poor Huey."

"You wouldn't ratfink on Ormond," said Krasnar.

"That was different," I said.

"Yeah, you thought he was straight. But you can't stand us homo folk!"

"Gibbs," said Chauncier, "what you did wasn't very nice."

I looked at them all pleadingly. I was so sorry. I turned to the only one there that was always supportive.

"Avilia," I said, "I did what I had to do. You can see that."

Avilia was silent. I was shunned by the entire Platoon, except Hertbie who seemed to be enjoying it and Twig, who had gone back to bed. I shook my hands and held my head. No one came to my support so, I darted down the stairs and out into the night.

I sat on the outside stairway in great pain. I was so sorry about Huey. What would they do to him? I was afraid.

"No," I said aloud. "I did the right thing. They shouldn't be doing such stuff in the barracks; and I'm in charge. Platoon leaders are suppose to set examples and to make sure rules aren't violated. Besides, Huey's drug problem will probably get some cure now. It wasn't getting the proper attention here. I'm sure he'll wind up in the hospital with good care."

I felt so cut off from the rest of them. I was very much alone. But after a bit, I felt a strange warmth and sadness. It was like there was music in the air - brash and yet calming. My physical change in appearance was the fault. It had touched my soul with fresh reward and punishment. Once in a lifetime, I was attractive, This unfortunate waif, encased in fat and sinew, had emerged from it with some splendor and song. Yet, I was unhinged by it. I had never been so alone and afraid. They all hated me now because they didn't understand this strangeness; this strange music I heard in my mind. It called me to another place like a sweet mystery unlocked. But I was afraid to follow its sweet tones. I knew there was danger in the water, danger deep in this soul and passion.

I walked down the stairs and went to the quadrangle. I was quite alone now, the fog lifting a little, but not enough to see the mess hall. I sat on the curb.

"The angels know me," I thought. "They guard my folly and surround my foolishness. They sing caution and mount their steeds and sound their bugles to give me the security I need and want. Oh, heaven forbids that I am the madness that I think and know I am. Oh sullied past, come not now to haunt me, despised of men of all kinds for my folly. Frightful past."

I though back. I saw the past in this waking dream. I saw Jared - Jared Weinstock. I was alone with him in his house. His mother was away - shopping - and he assured me know one would know. So we played on the bed, got naked and played some more. He told me know no one would know - but somehow they found out. And soon there were others wanting to play; in the rain on the porch beneath a tarpaulin; in the backyard, behind the garage in the darkness of night; oh the pleasure and the terror; in the shed, with an air compressor. Soon, mothers told their sons to avoid me; and I was the playmate of girls only.

I was despised of men of all kinds for my folly; last to be chosen for ball - and then the arguments for a missed catch. Betrayed and followed. Bloody noses when thrown to the pavement. There were high school rivalries and a day at a gay beach. Terror of terror, to think of it all! Hours locked in my room with a little contraband of frisky magazines and a swearing to God almighty that I will be better and good. I am a good boy - not one of those.

Mother - Father - dearest Mother, if you only knew what I knew; and if you knew, had not denied it. This is not your fault, but when the other mothers told you what I had been doing, you must have known or suspected. And when you went to school and the guidance councilor said "he writes of death in his essays. We suggest counseling," you should have known then that I wrote of death - because I had been rejected by those I fell in love with. And I loved - like no man on earth can love.

Oh yes. I can see Darren. He sat next to me in homeroom. I adored him at first sight. But he told me of the girls he fucked - and he never gave me a chance to tell him how much I loved him. Then, when I declared myself, he told the others - and that was my darkest hour. I did nothing but weep - and turned to the angels to help me. Take me. When I am dead and gone, they'll love me then. They'll miss and love me then.

Seeing one's own funeral, the reactions of those who spit on you and called you "queer" - their tears of farewell, their tributes to your life. This was better than life itself. To die for this sin would be the settlement for this minor soul's transition. It would be best for all; and the angels would give me their shoulder for a long and well-deserved rest in peace.

So I closed ears to the music - and if this is what I am - I must find my other self - the normal one. So I sang and read and studied and worked hard - and avoided people and went to church and prayed for guidance - and got drafted into this fucking place.

"But now," I said as the fog lifted, "Now, I hear the music once again."

I heard it when I saw Chola's face and that smooth, satin body. I called to the angels now to preserve my sanity. I was at the last trumpet sounding for this soul - this dying soul. The demons were winning this battle. I was falling fast into an abyss and could not catch myself. But the music was so sweet, so deathly sweet I feared the poison was too far-gone in my veins to find an antidote. Who would catch me? Who would love this lost soul?

"I am so alone and afraid," I thought. "So very much alone; and the world is nothing to me - nothing to me."

"Hey troop," said Gonvea emerging from the weather, "What are you doing up?"

I tired to recover my composure and abandoned my curbside.

"Just needed a little air, Sergeant," I said going beck to the stairs.

Gonvea watched me with suspicion, then sat down beside me.

"What's this?" he said. "You don't need no stinking air. This air is rotten here - nothing but the stink of the coal stoves. You look upset, but no need to worry."

"What will happen to Huey?" I said.

"Oh, so that's it," said Gonvea. "You did a good job Gibbs. You did right by reporting those two fuckers. I only wish I'd been faster to see it or that you'd been an eyewitness. Could have nailed them both."

"But what will happen to Huey?"

"He'll be court marshaled, maybe," said Gonvea. "But I think he'll probably end up with an Article 15 and a slap on the hand. But I think he will be discharged - Section 8. No doubt there."

"But how will he get his job back with a Section 8," I said. "Shit, this is all my fault."

"No troop. You followed the General Orders. You did well. I'm proud of you. You know, you've lost a shit load of fat. You look good. You're stronger. You're almost passing the PT test. You'll be back in basic training real soon."

"Back in basic?"

"You still need to get rifle training. So, you'll get recycled into a basic training company."

"Shit!"

"But that's good. Remember when I told you to repeat after me that you were a worthless piece of shit, well . . . "

"Well what?"

"Well you're not; and you're not a fat boy and a faggot either. You're a grade A specimen of All-American male-soldier, troop."

He stood.

"So, get some sleep. The routine is still he-man tomorrow and you'll still feel it. You did good troop, very good."

Would this ever end? I shook my head with the thought of finishing here and moving back into basic training. I went to my knees and began to cry.

"I'm a worthless piece of shit, Sergeant!" I said. "I'm a worthless piece of shit! I'm a fat boy and a . . . faggot, Sergeant. A fat boy and a faggot."

I broke down. I felt the warmth of a hug about me. Was I dying? Did the angels hear my call?

"What's all this?" said Avilia who had been keeping an eye on me all this time.

"Oh, Avilia," I said weeping. "They all hate me. They all hate me for what I did? I hate me for what I did?"

"I don't hate you," he said, "and they understand. Deep down they all understand - they all know about it."

"I hate what I feel. I hate it!"

"Now cry here on my shoulder," said Avilia. "You shouldn't hate what you feel. What you feel is real. What you've done is not. It's a symptom. When we hate what we feel, we lash out at those who also feel that way. You blame us. You want us to go away and not remind you. But, guess what, what you feel is natural."

"How can it be natural? It's an abomination."

"Who says? Some old book that asks the question 'What is truth' and cannot provide that answer? Some minister who condemns you because they take that book literally only when they want to - and only the passages to make you a scapegoat for the rest of the flock? All those friends who beat us and grind us into the ground? What is friendship, if it includes that? We have enough people gaining an advantage by putting us at a disadvantage. Why be our own enemy?"

"But the feelings are strong and getting stronger," I said.

"They are true feelings," he said, "and correct. There's nothing wrong with them. You are as normal as pie. There's cherry pie and apple pie. You're cherry; this army is apple. You're sweeter than the apple pie and last longer. You're more prominent and very special indeed, baked for the special occasion."

"Oh, I am so confused," I said.

"No you're not. You were confused. Now you just need a road map. When God created you, He created someone special. All people are special in His eye. But, because we are a minority, like all minorities we have a struggle, a struggle that makes us either strong or dead. There's no real in-between. And Gibbs, I for one don't want you dead."

He kissed me. I recoiled a little, then folded my hands in my lap.

"So," I said, "What should I do?"

"Nothing," said Avilia. "Love yourself. That's what's happening here. You are learning to love yourself - so when you say you're a worthless piece of shit, you're not moving forward with this challenge."

"But how do you . . . "

"One day at a time. There's no great plan for us here. We wake up and see the sunshine or the rain and take flight as we need to, as we want to. To survive, we need to tell the pink lie - or not. To be free, and I wish I were, I'd tell everyone without fear about who I am. But I can't. But the consolation is that I am basically a fine person, nurturing and caring. I want to serve my country as proudly as I am proud of her. So, I will continue to tell the pink lie to serve her well. Those who hear the lie will never really know me. What a shame - because it's their loss. They will never know what beauty could have touched their lives or how I could help them lift their heavy burdens, the one's we carry in our soul."

"You are my angel," I said.

I kissed him.

"Why sir," said Avilia, "I'm blushing. I'm no angel - just a man who loves life and men. I love women too, but I can't be in bed with them. One day at a time, dear. One day at a time."

"You are indeed my angel," I said kissing him again.

My angel, my sweet angel, who touched my soul and made the gulag disappear. Who daily touches my heart and makes the sun rise or the rain fall. He is the snow on my windowsill and the breeze through my heartstrings. When men fall in love they do it with the same conviction and passion as all creatures that love each other. There is no greater passion however than when you love in the sunlight and are told you're love is not true. Those who say this, have never loved indeed. They do not know, because they are unloved and unloving or they have just forgotten, these jealous souls, who insist on that such love be kept in the gulag.