The flirting ended after the sleepover, as did the smoke breaks. We didn’t talk anymore, and, before the week was up, Rachel left for her first duty station. I searched for her at the bus stop where all the newly trained soldiers stood waiting to begin their journey into an exciting life of being all that they could possibly be. A recruit next to me read the name on my uniform and asked, “Hey, you’re Emma?”
“That’s me,” I replied.
“I have a message for you from Rachel; she left a half hour ago. She says goodbye and that you had your chance, whatever that means.”
My jaw dropped and my eyes widened with that universal surprised look. I didn’t know what to say or think, so I just turned and quickly headed back to the barracks as I mumbled to myself.
“What a twat! Are you kidding?”
It was the final “ta-da!” for Rachel to send me such a message after the behavior she demonstrated over the months. The salt in the cut of the finger, if you will, the wind-resistant candle on the fucking cake. It shouldn’t have felt like such a shock for her to tease me beyond the last moments of her stay. You just know she was on the bus smirking at her vixen reflection as she shifted in her seat. My immediate reaction was to tell the lesbian the final dig of the she-devil. Her last comforting quote to me was, “That’s fucked up, but you’re not even gay so don’t worry about it.”
Rachel never became my third heartbreak. She did, however, earn her medal of “Best in Show” for her dog-like behavior, a crowd favorite in the final lineup. She was the most agile, quick witted, cunning, beautiful bitch I ever saw. If anything, the Pavlov dogs and I go way back because of Rachel. She had me conditioned to salivate at the wink of her eye. She was my bell to stimulate arousal rather than hunger. My body reacted in the same fashion every time she looked at me. Unlike the Pavlov dogs, I didn’t get my treat after each ring. When she rang, I became hungry for her and she neglected me. This is cruelty at its finest. I’m turning her in. The ASPCA should get my letter with her name on it in seven to ten days.
CHAPTER 4
Poetically speaking, the rainbow colors on my heart faded as military bearing played a role in the person I was becoming. From the bubble thong incident to Rachel, my identity became more defined, but my responsibility was to perform my duties over any struggle with sexual orientation.
At eighteen I had to portray myself as a respectable soldier, but, let’s be honest, deep down I was a lost Midwestern girl and on my own for the first time in Arizona after my job training. There was a false sense of liberation being so far away from home. Sure, there was money in my savings account and a new car, but my interest was in doing what I wanted, when I wanted, if I wanted. It was all about me.
The whole gay thing flew out the window for a time when the discovery of legal drinking for under twenty-one was allowed on post. My mission in life was to dance until my heart exploded every weekend. Club Ozone was a utopia considering the only bar I had known was a shack surrounded by cornfields, downwind from a pig farm. The Ozone was newly built and frequented by single soldiers and new recruits still learning their future military occupations. It was like controlled spring break every weekend. There was drinking and dancing and sex and barfing until the hangovers came every Sunday.
Young soldiers knew the drill, as did the seasoned ones, who had to endure the aftermath of alcohol coming out of their pores on Monday morning runs. Hell, they did it too back when their livers could withstand the abuse. It’s part of an unwritten initiation process of a buck private.
In my early days of partying, I never let myself get intoxicated to the point of wearing it as a perfume the next morning. It was, however, my excuse to sleep around. Women were not a part of my promiscuity, but a few close friends knew that I was that way.
Annica, my roommate at my first duty station, was one of the first military friends I came out to. She was open and very frank; of course, it could have been how fast she spoke. By the time she knew what she was saying, it was already eight paragraphs later. She was a hyper girl with glasses and had a slight stutter to make it worse. We used to joke that I was the only one who understood what the hell she was actually saying other than her mama and God. She was bold, too. It was typical during a tirade about cooking meat properly to suddenly hear some unexpected shit that made your head spin.
“Blah blah, check it for blood, blah blah temperature should be blah blah, barbeque sauce blah blah, like a dick on your face blah blah, if you are into incest and that sort of thing.”
What? Wait. What the fuck?
“I’m just saying the f-fuckin’ place up the street didn’t cook my steak right, and it’ll be a cold d-day in hell when the cows jump over the fuckin’ moon before I go b-back there again.”
During one of her infamous rants she blurted, “You like girls, don’t you?” in such a matter-of-fact way that arguing or hiding the fact was pointless. The shocking boldness of it required the truth. Her evidence to the claim was that many of the images of singer Tori Amos I hung that were most provocative and that straight girls typically did not paint sexy figures of women and hang them.
Annica pushed the bridge of her glasses to the back of her face. “My friend came over here yesterday and thought I had a male roommate. He said that he t-thought the photos of you were my roommate’s girlfriend. I just told him you liked Tori Amos when he asked if you were gay. I don’t want to t-throw your business out there… I got you, girl.”
Rather than take a breath after the sputter of words, Annica took a drag from her cigarette. She was a chain smoker, the kind that smack the alarm and knock the damn thing over trying to feel for her pack and lighter. Observing this every Hangover Sunday was my morning ritual. She would open her eyes only after the cigarette was placed in her mouth and she needed to light it. She never sat up until it was down to the filter and burning her fingers. Then maybe she would adorn herself with glasses so she could see.
After she protected my secret, all that could be said was, “Thanks,” while analyzing my clothes, posters, and displayed pictures. What about those things gave the impression I was a man or gay, for that matter? There had to be other girls who owned photos of themselves and friends randomly pinned to cheap message corkboards, other girls who liked female singers and taped them to their walls and lockers. I had a photo of Angel and me in our Secret Garden costumes making silly faces, my arm around her shoulder. But how was that gay?
When Annie was at work, I removed the gay posters and my drawing of a female silhouette embedded within a pair of red lips. It was terrible anyway. I peeled a magazine page that read, “Men are from Mars, Women are from Mars. Any questions?” off the wall above my desk. Was that gay?
My hand brushed the dust from the frame with Angel, and I immortalized in that happy moment before gently placing it in the desk drawer, face down. Next was de-gaying the cut photos on the corkboard that were taped and push pinned to fit.
After scanning each picture, replaying the moment it was taken in my head, I began to see with new eyes. Each photo was of me with friends—female friends. They wore makeup, had long hair, and were usually giving me a kiss on the cheek. There was the occasional boob grab accompanied by a ghetto fabulous pose and/or someone giving the universal sign for lesbian with the tongue between two fingers. This was the kind of immature thing any girl of eighteen does when they have a girl’s night out. How does this normal act make me appear gay?