HOW 'GATOR MARRIED A LANDMARK
Curiously, this is also the story about how Sgt. Bernard became Ex-Sgt. Bernard.
It all began at the bar, a ramshackle affair unofficially set up by, and for, the officers and upper enlisted men of our neighbors, the Army's 22nd Air Cavalry.
Gator, a handsome green-eyed, brick-faced black man, had just come off the chopper. Back from R&R in Australia.
Most people knew him as a 10 foot tall, rippling muscled grin. Always upbeat. Great leader. First Sergeant, I believe.
This rainy afternoon, Gator was the center of all attention at the bar. As soon as he had walked in, a couple of guys ran over to our compound to find me and Sgt. Bernard.
We came right away.
Not that anybody had to, but we were the only guys from our unit who would volunteer to fly with them, usually up along the DMZ and into Laos. They kind of adopted us.
They especially loved Bernard. Not so much because he was a tough Marine who could be trusted in a pinch. Or because he was funny or could drink any one of them under the table. They loved him because he was the 'Banker' for some of the highest stakes poker games around.
Upon entering the crowded, darkened space, hands holding drinks immediately found us: the first of the last drinks SERGEANT Bernard would drink.
Gator began his story by talking about how beautiful the city of Sydney was and how perfect the weather was. Then he never mentioned them again.
Still in his sweaty travel civvies, a cloud of just-lived experiences enveloped him. His face became a living movie screen, recounting the first hours there with a couple of other GI’s he’d met in a bar.
Gator had the rare qualities of personal strength, openness and humility that, at first, took some people by surprise. Thereafter, everyone who met him wanted to stay in his company.
It could be said that Blonde Aussies, particularly beautiful blonde Aussie women are one of the Great Natural Resources of Australia.
Now, in my experience, blondes and black guys go together like sun and shadow. Each makes the other more notable. To put it another way, they respond well to one another.
So... it came to be that... fresh off the 4:15 from Melbourne… right on some immortal time-schedule… an Australian National Treasure took a seat next to Gator.
In Heaven. And possibly, Hell. A light flickered.
I wasn’t there, but Gator’s enrapt descriptions made me feel the swirl of clubs and drinks and sex. And exotic food brought to the room by discreet staff who never knocked, and never saw anything.
We listened intently, hanging onto every thrust and pork chop.
Whirlwind, hourless days and nights ran past in the taxis we sat next to them in; we took in the smell of her hair, her perfect smile, her timeless features.
We too ran our hands on her thighs and moaned somewhere in the deep of our travelogue with him.
He had us transfixed.
Suddenly, like a skipping reel on an old movie projector, Gator’s story started to flicker. He winced his eyes, shaking his head as if to reassemble stored images that had suddenly gone fuzzy.
Try as he would, he couldn’t come up with the right frames to explain exactly how and when things started to come off the rails.
Specifically... how he and the Landmark ended up… Married!
Somebody called for a break. He wiped his brow, sweaty from the exertions of telling his tale.
Aside from Gator, no one among us neglected the importance of keeping a wet whistle during the captivating proceedings. Bernard and I had had at least six shots of barracks snake oil and a bunch of beers. Libation and yarns such as this one create an experience of other dimensions.
It was turning into a fine evening!
Gator hadn’t drank a drop - more than an hour in - during the entirety of his R&R revelation. To balance things out, somebody pulled out a fresh bottle of JD and handed it to him.
Gator took a long pull. He belched and then took another.
We instinctively gathered back around.
The blink-machine in his head was starting up again.
And then. Nothing.
Instead, he pulls a picture out of his wallet and looks at it intently.
Like a light bulb, it lit up his face.
And then. A frown.
Shaking his head, he shows it to us.
Beautiful, drunken Miss Australian Pride. All long legs and arms. All over Gator. Getting hitched by some local somebody or another.
Two faces. One grin.
If the first part of Gator’s story was a dazzling fantasy, craftfully unfurled, the second was a pea soup of him trying to remember just exactly where the wedding fit in.
Somewhere amid five days of drinking and fucking.
Not enough pictures.
Restless for more, an encouraging mumble erupts from the assembled drunks in the room.
Finally, Gator throws his hands up, grinning sheepishly.
He shakes his head one more time.
“Gentlemen. I have no-o-o-o fucking idea!”
And then, he blurts out…
"Even she didn't remember!"
"MARRIED!!!"
Suddenly, it all becomes too much for him.
“Guys. Don’t ya GET it? I’m married to the fucking ARMY!”
“I got nowhere to PUT a wife! I got TROOPERS to lead.”
"FUCK..."
He wails, exasperated, almost desperately.
“I don’t fucking WANNA be married!!
From over in the corner some idiot opens his mouth.
“But man… she’s fucking HOT!”
Gator shoots him a glare that could kill.
“Uh. Sorry brother…"
The mood had changed. The show was over.
Gator grabbed his gear and headed for the showers.
Day had slipped into night.
Bernard and I left too. We laughed all the way to our compound.
A couple of the guys were still awake so we gathered in my hootch to smoke a joint and relate what we had just witnessed. They couldn't believe that Gator could get himself into such a fix.
Somebody passed a bowl and we all started telling R&R stories.
When it was my turn, I spoke about being in Thailand for a short four-day break.
I told them about how, when we got off the military bus that took us there, a bunch of hookers immediately came out of the hotel entrance. They were all running and grabbing and pulling this or that guy to them.
Literally, they were shoving each other out of the way. They tugged on your arms and grabbed you, begging you to pick them.
Natural selection, thereby, took its unsteady pace.
For me, love was not to be. Instead, mine became the uncertain story of my hand-selected maiden somehow turning the water in my bathtub red.
And a razor blade left on a bar of soap, and my johnson.
And a very deadly look. And a naked, wet hooker, running out my door.
And a band-aid.
We yammered on for an hour or more, with Bernard becoming ever more silent.
That worried me.
After drinking steadily for hours, I knew he'd either become surly and start a fight or fall asleep. More often than not, he'd do both.
I loudly announced ‘lights out’ in five minutes.
A couple of guys left; then Bernard went to his hootch.
I had just put out my light when two guys came crashing back into the hootch.
"...BERNARD!" they said.
All of a sudden I heard the distinctive sound of the squeaky door on the Captain’s hootch being opened, then slammed.
He was not alone in his bed.
Then EVERYBODY heard what followed...
“BERNARD. PUT DOWN THAT GUN!”
Bernard had his .45 in his hand.
“… gimme the HOOKER!”
“BERNARD… give me the gun... and you'll get the hooker!!”
The girl must have gone to him. The door slammed again.
GUAAAARRRRDDDD !!!!!!!!!
It should have ended there; Bernard in the brig and the Captain safe to have all the hookers he wanted.
Not so.
Army MP’s, hearing the commotion, found Bernard and brought him to the Captain.
For the rest of the night, their two voices, growing ever more hoarse, punctuated the miserable dreams of anyone within earshot.
And then, in the morning for reasons nobody will ever know: No arrest.
Instead, just a quiet bust, all the way down to Private.
I had underestimated the Captain; I guess he knew Bernard wouldn’t really kill him over a hooker.
Right...?
Ex-Sgt. Bernard, never one to be unduly repentant, was unfazed by the demotion and pay cut.
Besides, the military was FULL of people to sell things to.
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