bad there ain’t always a plane landing when Karl’s around,” Eddie said.
The plane passed. “Unless you wanna go somewhere to lick each other’s pussies in private,” Karl said, “Dominic and Jack gotta leave. We need more players, even you sorry old asses.”
Don tossed his half-full can into the trash and looked at Eddie. “What do you say?”
“How about you, boy? Wanna go play with the big dogs?” Rocky, realizing things were changing, sprang to life. For the first time in over a year, Eddie looked hopeful. “I’m ready to get into the game if you are.” The men and the dachshund headed for the sandy pit.
3
“Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.”
After studying the ground from thirty thousand feet for over an hour, Patrick McAbe questioned how a city existed between the vast barren desert and the Pacific Ocean. His first impression of the Southwest was that it resembled an extraterrestrial world. As the plane approached San Diego, though, he was happy to see lush green suburbs, creeks and ponds and a large park near downtown, signs that life thrived at the edge of a hostile environment. His new home looked nothing like Chicago just as his new life looked nothing like his old one.
Nearing his destination, his mind raced back in time eight months.
Hundreds of cars filled the parking lot, leaving four spaces open in a corner. Patrick parked but remained seated for ten minutes. His pulse raced and the heat soared. I’m thirsty. He searched for a bottle of water. Shit! What kind of Marine forgets water? His flight instructor had advised the students to steer clear of Pensacola Beach over the weekend, or else thousands of guys from all over the South would hit on them. The conservative religious town in Florida’s panhandle seemed like an unlikely gay destination but he said it happened every Memorial Day. What kind of Marine goes where everyone knows the place will be packed with gay men?
It doesn’t matter because I’m not—I’m not—but he knew better. Now that he’d decided not to marry Karen and had broken their engagement, nothing stood between him and the truth. He could be it, do it or even say it out loud if he wanted. “I’m—g—gay.” His voice was sheepish but he’d said it, and saying it aloud gave him new energy. Each breath was deeper and easier, and his shoulders and spine felt relaxed. He’d said it! He started laughing. “I’m gay!”
A voice with a heavy Southern accent outside his open car window said, “Well, honey, I’m just overjoyed that you’re gay but I need to know if you’re coming or going.” The remaining three spaces were taken and a large man in a red Cabriolet convertible wanted Patrick’s spot.
Patrick opened the door and waved apologetically. “Staying,” he said as the man sped away. There’s nothing wrong with this, he assured himself. I’m at a warm beach on a sunny day and I’m just looking for a concession stand to buy a bottle of water. That’s all. As he stepped onto the pavement, he grabbed his towel—just in case he wanted to stay—and headed for the ocean. Several cars had Department of Defense decals. Are there other military guys on this beach?
Before May 1992, Patrick had never cared much about politics and he didn’t know anyone who paid attention to the subject of gays in the military. By now, though, everyone in the armed forces was aware that the Democratic Party’s nominee for president had vowed to end the ban that prevented gays and lesbians from serving. Although the Arkansas governor’s promise had set off a firestorm within the military, no one believed he stood a chance against President Bush.
Patrick glanced nervously at another DoD sticker. Why are military people here? Are they investigators? Ignoring his fears, he walked toward the pounding surf. With each footstep, he grew more comfortable about his decision. To his surprise, most of the men on the beach seemed to be in decent physical shape—excellent physical shape actually. He liked what he saw. Guys emerged from the sea, and saltwater glistened as it rolled down their hardened six-pack abs. Twenty feet away two men kissed out in the open. Patrick smiled. He’d wasted too much of his life feeling guilty for his desires. Beginning now, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, he’d pursue what he enjoyed. He regretted that he hadn’t experienced this epiphany ten years earlier.
The afternoon was sunny and beautiful. Except for the absence of kids and the skewed ratio of men to women, the crowd seemed like most other places. Given the abundance of twenty-and thirty-something in-shape guys, the resemblance to a military crowd was striking. Everyone was having fun. A few looked like Sailors and one or two sported a Marine haircut.
Patrick hadn’t satisfied his thirst but no concessionaires were nearby. Not wanting to risk being spotted by a military person, he stopped walking, spreading his towel close to the vegetation near the parking lot. He stripped off his T-shirt. A clump of weeds partially shielded him from the view of the men between him and the ocean. He tied a bandana around his head, making him feel incognito, and he leaned back to watch the parade of people. There sure as hell are a lot of them—I mean a lot of us. Thinking of himself as part of this group seemed bizarre at first, but oddly, the more he saw, the more he liked the idea. Maybe I can be gay.
“I knew you’d be the one!”
An electric shock rushed from Patrick’s lower spine to his neck and his lungs wouldn’t take in air. He thought he’d been hit with a stun gun but his reaction came from inside. As his head cleared, he recognized the voice. He turned to face its owner. Think, Patrick. Why am I here?
“Second Lieutenant McAbe, leader of Marines. What brings you out to Pensacola Beach?”
Patrick reflexively jumped to his feet to address his instructor. “Sir, I—is this—what beach did you mean? Pensacola? I haven’t been—?”
“Hey! McAbe! Relax. Call me Chris.” Navy Lieutenant Ashburn—Chris—started to sit. “Mind if I use a corner of your towel?”
“No sir, not at all. Pl—please be my guest.” Patrick’s mouth had gone from dry to parched.
Chris sat cross-legged and Patrick followed, facing the other man across his beach towel. The instructor held out a bottle. “Want a drink?” Patrick nodded and grabbed the water.
Patrick forgot his bewilderment as he enjoyed the ice-cold liquid going down inside him but the feeling was temporary and his questions returned with urgency. Why is Lieutenant Ashburn, the instructor who warned us about this beach, here? Why did he say I would be “the one”? Does he think I’m—gay? Chris looked at him blankly. As Patrick returned the bottle of water, he inadvertently let his eyes roam over Chris’s tanned and muscular legs, his flat stomach and his appealing upper body. When he looked up, Chris was smiling at him.
“Your first name’s ‘Patrick,’ isn’t it? Mind if I call you ‘Patrick’?”
“Um, yes sir, you can call me Patrick.”
“You have to stop that ‘sir’ shit.” Chris laughed. “Answer the question.”
“I—it’s, um, what was the question? Why am I here?”
“No need to turn it into an existential crisis. What I meant was, why are you here—on this beach?” Chris smiled and winked as he tilted the bottle to extract the last drop.
Patrick inhaled and launched into his rehearsed explanation. “It’s Memorial Day weekend. I’m at the beach and there’s nothing wrong with that.” As awkward as it might’ve sounded, Patrick relaxed. It’s a free country and an open beach. If Lieutenant Ashburn wants to tell the other pilots he saw me at a gay beach, then, well—what the hell is Lieutenant Ashburn doing here? Patrick suddenly realized what should’ve been obvious from the start. Why is he here? “So—Chris,” Patrick said, his courage strengthening by the second, “why are you here?”
“Because I like this part of the beach the most. How about you? With miles of beaches to choose from, why pick this one? Don’t you rent a place with Tim Roberts on the beach at Perdido Key? That’s right, you do. Why drive twenty miles to this beach?”