Farewell Uncle Ho 49
This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.
Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 49 (Sat., March 4 - Sun. March 5)
Moffett discovered the Gideon Bible in his room and retired after our steak dinner at the Flame on Broadway. My civilian clothes didn't fit him, after all the guy was enormous, and Gerry thought that he felt conspicuous in uniform. That was probably also the case, but it was my guess that he would rather be alone with his thoughts.
Along with an old pair of stove-pipe jeans, Gerry found the black leather hi-way jacket, the padded motorcycle kind with big-toothed zippers and chrome snaps, that I'd bought at the flea market in Paris, one Sunday while I was out and about with my two Moroccans. He wore just a white t-shirt underneath. Luckily, we'd brought our black canvas running shoes with us from base for just such an occasion. They weren't perfect for the outfits, but were one Hell of a lot better than highly polished, black, low-quarters.
I was just buttoning my hip hugger bell bottoms, when I first really noticed Gerry in his getup, along with his six-weeks-worth of unruly, blond hair and almost two-day's growth of beard, outlining his chiseled chin and cheeks. It took my breath; he could have won a James-Dean-look-alike competition.
"Put a cigarette in your mouth and give me a bad-boy look." I challenged him. He probably knew where this was going and really got it right. "You have to promise that you'll come home with me." And I wasn't teasing.
"Who else would I go home with?" He asked sweetly, and it sounded like he meant it.
"You have no idea how good you look." I scoffed.
"Then why do I feel like someone from the Bowery?" He took the cigarette out of his mouth, stuck it in mine and lit it.
I took a drag and handed it to him. "Believe me, you'll have the queens fighting over you, the minute we walk in." I looked at myself in the mirror with my dark paisley shirt and hip-hugger jeans. There was something wrong. So, I took off the shirt and put on a black t-shirt with my red Mongolian cardigan. "How do I look?"
"Great. But you have far too many clothes on." He gave me the look of a predator and inched closer with his hands poised like claws. I pulled him to me by the lapels of the black leather jacket. He smelled of leather; his beard scratched my cheek, and I came close to having to change my pants. "We'd better get going." His voice was shaky; his hand was shaking.
"Are you anxious?" He nodded. "We don't have to go out."
He placed his head against mine and gurgled softly. "I'll have to do it, sometime." He kissed my face and straightened his back for courage.
I took his hand. "We're going to a bar, not cruising in Central Park. And I'll be at your side, the whole time."
"The whole time, tonight?" With his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he took the packet and matches off the dresser and put them into his pocket. "Or the whole time, always?" He stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray, as if he was afraid of my answer.
"Want to go for always, mein Schatz?" He startled me, when he fell to his knees, grabbing me around the hips with his head buried in my groin. My Gerry was trembling and crying. "What's the matter?" I lifted him up.
He tried for a smile but failed. Wiping his eyes, looking at the floor, he stammered. "No one ever wanted me."
***
We stayed in a hug for maybe five minutes, and then left at his insistence. He paid, and we got out of the cab on Amsterdam between 74th and 75th. And as predicted, a beehive of whispers became active, when we entered. They stared and winked. Other than Gerry, I was the only one who knew that the sexy, bad-boy look came from his being cold and scared.
He took out his cigarettes and offered me one, then took one himself. About three arms with a light came out of the darkness to light his. I lit my own.
A still fairly good looking, fortyish, plump office type, who'd already almost outgrown his sports coat and who would likely be obese in ten years, weaseled his way between us, standing with his back to me and on my right foot. "Can I buy you a drink?" He wanted to be the first to see if he could get Gerry.
Gerry, visibly uncomfortable, looked around him at me. "What do you think, Ben, can he buy us a drink?"
"No, just you, Kid," He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at me without turning around. "your coolie buys his own."
Gerry leaned up to his ear and whispered something that I couldn't make out over the music. The man slid away into the darkness, without looking back. The waiter appeared, and I ordered two Rheingold chug-a-mugs. He disappeared into the crowd, and I asked Gerry what he'd whispered to Mr. Business.
Gerry grinned sheepishly, "I told him that we were working undercover." and then blushed. The word must have gotten around, since people started looking at us as if we were spreading a contagion.
We were working on our second chug-a-mug, when the surprise of the evening walked in. Gerry was the first to spot him. Gordon Healy, our venerable Drill Sergeant, waltzed right by us. I stuck out my hand and said in Cantonese: "Not one step further, Soldier." He spun around, as if about to kill. Then he recognized Gerry and me and checked himself.
"Never, ever surprise me like that, Ben." He came in for a hug.
"So, I just learned." A chill ran down my spine as I hugged him back. And then, he set eyes on Gerry. "My god, Helmstedter, look at you." Of course, Gerry was back to being afraid. "You look just like--"
"--yeah, I know," He interrupted softly. "that's what everyone is saying, tonight." And he didn't really resist Gordon's hug, but he was looking at me in a state of shock. When Gordon went to get a drink, Gerry sounded as if he were about to panic. "What are we going to do, now?"
I tried for a soothing tone. "Settle down, mein Schatz." The magic two words worked immediately and I pulled him into a strong hug, but as not to let any of the staff see. "All three of us are sitting in a glass house, right now. And none of us are about to throw the first stone."
He backed off, holding me by both shoulders at arm's length. "'Till death do us part?"
"You got it." I looked into his blue, vulnerable, child-like eyes. "Until death do us part." Sadly, the liquor licensing laws didn't allow us to kiss each other, since the owners could lose their license for serving open Queers. Again, freedom worth dying for.
Gordon returned carrying two beers. He set them down on the shelf, running the length of the wall opposite the bar. A very attractive Eurasian guy with sort of but not quite hippie hair and a black and white paisley patterned headband followed on crutches. Only when he got right up to us, did I see that his right leg was missing below the knee. Gordon looked on caringly and held the man's crutches as we collectively helped him onto the vacant bar stool. "Ju-Long, I'd like you to meet those super troopers, I was telling you about. This is Ben, and this is Gerry."
"Wow, you guys are even cuter than Gordon let on." He adjusted himself on the stool, letting his partial leg drape over the handle of one of his crutches.
"You ain't doing too bad in the drop-dead gorgeous department, yourself." Gerry must have used his last bit of courage for that bold statement. But I could tell that he was relaxing and coming to terms with the idea of being attracted to men. And I hoped that it was mainly to me.
"And we're namesakes, Dragon Man." I gave Ju-Long a one-arm hug, since I was standing next to him.
"No way." was Ju-Long's reaction.
"Come on." was Gordon's.
"Go on," Gerry exclaimed. "Show 'em your ID."
I got out my wallet and passed the middle green on light green card with IDENTIFICATION CARD - NOT A PASS hidden away in the small lettering and intricate scrolling border design, reminiscent of that of a dollar bill's at the very top, then ARMED FORCES OF THE UNITED STATES more legibly underneath, then below that, the eagle seal to the left and my mug shot, the same size of the seal, in the middle holding up a sign that read LOUGHERY; BENTON-JU-LONG on the laminated ID a little bit larger than a credit card.
Ju-Long laughed and handed me back the ID. "Normally, they just have J. as your middle initial."
"Yeah, I told them that I don't have a middle initial and that all of it was my first name." I put my wallet into my front pocket, like all New Yorkers, to avoid becoming prey to pickpockets.
Ju-Long laughed as I did that. "I'll never get used to doing that." He quickly realized that I didn't have a clue as to what he was talking about. "Carrying your wallet in your front pocket."
"You're not from New York?" I asked him in Cantonese, knowing full well that he wasn't because I would already have known him.
When he looked puzzled, Gordon helped us out. "No, he's from Olathe, Kansas." Then Gordon broke with his manly demeanor and giggled. "That's why we called him 'Dorothy' in Nam."
Ju-Long looked mildly disgusted but laughed. "That's where I was born, but I grew up in Hawaii, where my mom is from." He smiled at Gerry but turned down his offer of a cigarette. "My dad was a pilot in the Navy." We all noticed the past tense, and I assumed that there was more tragedy in his life than just a missing leg.
***
We spent the evening talking and drinking. We compared stories about basic training, and Gordon told us the story about a guy in his basic unit who couldn't tell his left from his right and would many times face the wrong direction and start out marching on his wrong foot until the Drill Sergeant painted a red L and R on the toes of his combat boots. Gerry told Gordon and Ju-Long about CID investigating us at the Reception Center, and I told them how my Gerry got the guys squared away with drill and ceremony during the 'hurry-up-and-wait' moments in zero week.
"Are you from New York, too, Gerry?" Ju-Long was just curious.
Gerry tensed and looked at me for help. For the first time he was relying on me to fend off emotional hurt. "Want me to tell them, Gerry?" He nodded. Apparently, drink was causing him to relive awful memories. I held his hand. "The short version is that he was born shortly after the war at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, where he lost both parents: his father died of typhus and his mother of anemia shortly after childbirth. He was adopted by his mother's cousin, who's lived here in the City since the twenties." Both Gordon and Ju-Long were stunned. Their moist eyes were looking at Gerry as if they wanted to make his hurt go away. And I found this all too human trait of empathy astonishing. It was amazing how other peoples' misfortune seemed much more tragic than one's own.
"Last orders, Guys." The waiter said as he approached us. "And please stop holding hands, Jimmy." He looked at Gerry's sad face and seemed to rethink quoting some stupid rules derived from New York licensing laws. "You're making me jealous."
***
The tab was settled, and the cab was called. "Where are you parked, Gordon?"
"The car's on 74th, and it's not in a tow zone." He told us. "And you guys are sure about this?"
Gerry spouted, obviously tired of the discussion: "It is our responsibility to look after you two, too." Oddly, nobody laughed at his awkward sentence. "We can't let you go barreling off to Fire Island in the state you're in." And this was also the first time that I could actually hear that English was not Gerry's native language. It wasn't readily obvious, but after all I was a philologist. He looked at me and almost giggled. "Nicht wahr, Herr Doktor?"
I didn't know what he'd asked, but I assumed he was asking for agreement. "Jawohl, mein Schatz!" I agreed using the emphatic 'yes', which I'd learned by imitating Sergeant Schultz on Hogan's Heroes.
"Ich liebe dich, Ben." And like lightning, Bat's voice bolted up from my memory as he told Marv in Yiddish, 'Ich liebe dich seit Kindschaft.'. And Gerry had told Moffett and me that Yiddish and German were virtually the same language. I thought, I'd give it a try.
So, what did I have to lose? After all, Gerry just told me that he loved me. I opened my mouth and pronounced everything like Bat did, just more cautiously. "Ich liebe dich, Gerhard." He understood it; my man took hold of me and sobbed into my shoulder, holding me in a grip that promised permanency.
And par for the course, in such moving situations, the absurd always popped into my mind out of the blue. Mark Twain once said that it would take a gifted foreigner about thirty years to learn German. And I wondered, if I could speed things up, by swallowing Gerry's cum on a daily basis.