(Private Richard Bromely hasn’t escaped the issue that has always tormented him as much as he thought. Still at DLIWC, the Army language school in Monterey, he looks forward to graduation, getting married and being away from all the demons. Dodging his problem is harder than he thought.)

Struggles

Carmel Valley

Rich Bromely was not unlike the other 40 men living in B4, or B5 or B3. None of them were soldiers, or wanted to be. The one trait they all shared was an aversion to being shot at in a controversial war. They weren't necessarily cowards or unpatriotic, nor were they hard core draft dodgers; that would mean giving up the privileged life they were entitled to; making a sacrifice for principle. Almost to a man the young men at DLIWC were serving their country in a manner suited to their needs, suited to the life they expected, a life of education, success and privilege. Those expectations did not include giving up their life in Viet Nam. There just weren't many boys off the farm, or out of the projects, at Monterey.

Rich's friends at DLI were from good families, many from rich prominent ones and they enlisted in the Army because they couldn't avoid the draft or couldn't secure a slot in a Reserve unit or the National Guard. One of Rich's closest friends was Bill Irons, or Iron Will as he was called in English. In Russian he was given the name Zheleznaya (железная), the feminine construct adjective for 'iron' in Russian. Rich never understood why a guy would be given the feminine ending and never asked. Zheleznaya did have soft features and wonderful skin, which on his face at least rarely saw a razor, or needed to. Zheleznaya was from Connecticut and drove the little MG roadster his father gave him when he was admitted to Harvard in 1966 around Monterrey, Big Sur and Carmel with a flare. William Irons never explained fully why he couldn't avoid the draft as a member of the Harvard elite. All he would say when asked is that there was a ‘severe indiscretion' always using the Russian words ‘тяжелые нескромность’ instead of the English common translation.

On Saturday two weeks after Rich’s crazy weekend in San Francisco Zheleznaya suggested they head out to the Valley, Carmel Valley, and take in a film at the little theater operated as a service for locals, a mix of writers, artists and farmers. Young men from DLI often made the trek several miles into the Valley; to get away from studying. This night five Russian students took two cars to the theater. Rich rode with Zheleznaya in the two seater and they indulged in their usual banter with a mix of Russian and English.

"So how was the trip to San Francisco? (Как была поездка в Сан-Франциско?)” Zheleznaya asked in perfect Russian.

“Good (хорошо).” Rich answered without hesitating clearly understanding the question.

“Did you find any girls? (Найти любой девушки?)” Zheleznaya continued but then teased. “You do like girls, don’t you? (Вы любите девочек, не так ли?”)

‘Yes, of course (Конечно да).” Rich paused forming his further response in Russian in his head. “And no I didn’t find any girls. I was approached by a prostitute but a cabby put an end to that (И нет, я не нашел ни девушки. Ко мне подошел проституткой, но извозчик положить конец этому).”

“Did you have sex with her? Did you have intercourse? (Было ли у вас секс с ней. Знаете ли вы заниматься сексом.”)

“нет!” Rich answered emphatically.

"Didn't' get laid?" Zheleznaya baited his friend in English. "In San Fran? Are you for real?"

“Of course not. (Конечно, нет)." Rich protested in Russian. "I didn't go (Я не пошел)…” Rich switched to English “… to get laid."

"Just sightseeing?" Zheleznaya asked suspiciously. "You were awful happy when you came back Sunday."

Rich blushed and turned to look out the passenger side window. He didn't say anything. Now both slipped completely into English.

"You did. You got laid, didn't you? You dog."

"It wasn't like that and I'm not talking."

"You didn't do anything stupid, did you?"

"No and I'm still not talking.” Rich not only didn't want to talk; he didn't want to think about it or remember. He knew he could never tell anyone about Frannie and the guys dressed as women, and he especially couldn’t tell anyone he was with a guy becoming a woman and that he had sex with her. Just mentioning it was risky for his future, for his sanity, for his identity. This was the first time in his life his secret had escaped out of that box and now he had to make sure it was put back permanently. Rich knew he had to tell his friend something; had to make up a story.

Rich trusted the confident and brilliant friend. He felt in his heart he could tell Zheleznaya anything. They shared a disdain for the status quo and equally distrusted the establishment, especially the Army. Rich knew Zheleznaya carried his own secret, the one about the indiscretion. Rich was tempted to open up to the more worldly and wise companion but Rich’s secret and his intimacy with Frannie was beyond what he could share with another man, with anyone really.

“You can tell me.” Zheleznaya protested. “You know I wouldn’t say anything. You didn’t smoke weed, did you, like Brennen does? You know where that will get you?” Rich just listened trying to avoid making up a story. Zheleznaya continued, refusing to let Rich off the hook.

“Listen, I’ve been there. I did something stupid and that’s why I’m here.” He admitted.

Rich felt he could not get out of answering. “O.k. I’ll tell you about my weekend if you’ll tell me about your indiscretion.”

“That’s not fair. I can’t tell you about it. I signed an agreement. I’ll tell as much as I can, and you tell me what you want to. Agreed?” Will proposed.

Rich nodded and Will began. “I was with a girl in Cambridge. She went to Smith College. You would know who her father was if I said the name. Anyway we were drinking and something happened. I can’t say what but, well, she died. It wasn’t my fault but given the circumstances and who her father was, I was kicked out of Harvard and given a choice by a judge of either doing a year in jail or joining the Army. If I joined they would wipe my record clean. So here I am. That’s all I can tell you.”

“That’s awful.” Rich said and then quickly added. “That poor girl. I can’t imagine.”

Rich thought about how much he would reveal. He had no intention of revealing his secret.

“I didn’t smoke any weed in San Fran. I went in this bar thinking there were a lot of women and it turned out they were guys dressed as women. I had no idea.” He paused for affect. “I’m such a stupid naïve fuck. Really I didn’t know. I started talking to this one gal, she was more mature than the others. She explained the facts to me and then took me to one of those female impersonator shows. It was a hoot. That’s all…”

“Shit, Ritchie.” Zheleznaya said in English abandoning any pretense of continuing the conversation in Russian. “You didn’t go home with one of them did you? They’re all queers you know. NSA is just fucking paranoid about queers. Commies and queers, either one will get your clearance pulled, and you know what that means.”

Rich sat quietly accepting the lecture. He didn’t feel like answering. He knew how risky his night with Frannie was. Now his good friend was reinforcing what he knew about his secret; Rich Bromely knew that he lived with a serious flaw and that he could never indulge in those feelings again. He also knew that he had to continue the lie.

“No, I didn’t go with her, uh him. He looked so real, but no, I just went to the show then back to the Y. It was interesting but I’m not like that.”

Zheleznaya seemed satisfied. “I mean, I wouldn’t care in a normal world. I knew a couple of queers in school. But this isn’t a normal world and Nam isn’t just any normal war.” He added as he turned left off the main road and up the dirt road to the little theater. The others guys had pulled in ahead of them.

“But you were awfully happy when you got back.” He added suspiciously with a grin.

* * *

Rich had been to the rustic theater in the Valley before. It was really just a large room with a high beam ceiling and wood paneling. There was a screen set up on one side with folding chairs for about 40 people facing the screen. Most were already taken but Rich and his friends found seats just as the movie was starting; a French film called ”Two or Three Things I Know About Her”. It was a French film with subtitles.

When the film was over everyone seemed to feel it was wonderful but Rich struggled to relate to the plot. A few in the audience obviously understood French but Rich had trouble reading the subtitles and keeping up with the action in the film. He felt hearing French while reading English after weeks of learning Russian was just too much. As the guys from DLI mingled with the Valley people trying to sound intelligent and worldly someone tapped him on the shoulder. Rich turned around.

“Hi, I’m Bob, Bob Bowman. I’m glad you guys came tonight. It’s always great to have visitors.” A well-dressed man in his thirties stood staring at Rich smiling. He had sandy short hair and deep blue eyes. He was movie star good looking. Rich introduced himself as did Zheleznaya but using his full English name, Will Irons. Bob told them that he lived a few miles away up on the side of a steep hill. He said he was a writer and was working on a novel about dysfunction in the military. He said he had served in the fifties. They were locked in conversation when one of the guys from DLI from the other car came hurriedly up and interrupted.

“Will, they left without me. Tom and Jack just sped out of here. I told them we might switch cars and I wanted to ride back with you but they didn’t tell Rich. They just left.” Bill was in a panic.

Zheleznaya rolled his eyes. “The MG is a two seater. Tom knows that. I can squeeze you in but it pisses me off.”

“I can drive one of you back to Monterey.” The writer offered. “I don’t mind. Rich, you ok with going with me?” Bob Bowman was looking directly at Rich waiting for a response.

“Sure, thanks, that’s very nice of you.” Rich answered. Zheleznaya looked at Bob and then at Rich. “See you at the barracks. We can go over some vocab. Be careful, my friend (Будьте осторожны, мой друг).” He admonished in Russian.

Bob found his car and unlocked the passenger side door for Rich. On the way back to Monterey Bob quizzed Rich about how he ended up in the Army, where he was from and what he wanted to do in life.

“Getting married this summer, huh? Who’s the lucky girl?” Bob asked after Rich mentioned his fiancée.

“Oh, not sure how lucky she is. I met her in Florida a couple years ago and we’ve been date writing ever since. I see her once or twice a year but there’s nothing like writing letters to each other a couple times a week. I haven’t seen her since Christmas and before that it was last summer. I’ll see her for a couple of days in April and then not until the wedding in July.”

“Doesn’t sound like a typical engagement?” Bob ventured.

“I guess not but with the war it’s probably not unusual. She’s beautiful and more importantly she loves me. I’m pretty fortunate.”

“Maybe she’s the lucky one. You’re pretty good looking and obviously smart. I already know you have a great sense of humor.”

“I appreciate that but I’m not perfect. She finished college last year and has a good job. Me, I had to interrupt college and have my struggles.” Rich wished he had not said that. What he meant was that he didn’t do well in college at first and didn’t have a clear career goal. He certainly wasn’t referring to his personal demon.

“Struggles are what make us all better. As a writer I have many struggles. Some I understand, some I don’t.”

Both men quietly thought about their personal struggles, neither wanting to say too much. Finally Rich naively asked. “What do you do about the struggles you don’t understand?”

“Deep question, my new friend.” Bob proclaimed. “If I had the answer to that one I couldn’t be a writer. Have you read Catcher in the Rye?” Bob asked looking over at the young skinny kid, not much older than the book’s main character Holden Caulfield.

“Yes, a couple of years ago.”

“It’s a writer’s classic. The whole book goes through the struggles of a young man over just two or three days. Beautifully shows how complicated and strange life is for some of us. How we just can’t figure it out, maybe ever.” Bob paused for affect. “No I write to give struggles a voice, to bring them out of the shadows. I don’t write to give answers for the struggles, the things we feel alone with.”

Rich almost felt this stranger, this older man he had just met, knew about what Rich kept hidden in the locked box. How could he know or even guess? He couldn’t and Rich relaxed some. This writer from Carmel Valley was just wise; he was obviously just speaking generically.

“I don’t remember exactly but Holden didn’t find any answer, did he? He just went off the deep end. Is that what struggles do to you? Drive you crazy?” Rich postulated.

“They will if you let them. I think you have to accept the ones you don’t understand.” Bob then quickly added. “Since we are using ‘struggles’ euphemistically, do you feel like telling me what struggle you’re talking about.” Rich was tempted to pose the hypothesis that some struggles, like his struggle to resist the pull to his girl feelings, couldn’t be accepted without destroying him, but he knew he couldn’t.

“I don’t know that I have a specific one.” Rich lied. “I was just talking in general. You know, the Army, Viet Nam, marriage. Sometimes I just don’t think I’m ready for all the challenges coming my way.”

“I’m sure it’s tough and frightening.” Bob admitted shaking his head. “I had my own set of issues when I was your age but I have to admit they now seems petty in comparison.” He added sincerely. “I can understand the Army thing but are you freaked out about getting married?” He pried.

“Mostly no, but a little, I guess.” Rich felt uncomfortable talking about it with someone he didn’t know well.

Bob laughed trying to make Rich feel better. “You do know what to do, don’t you?”

Rich blushed and didn’t answer causing Bob to continue. “Hey, I’m sorry if I hit a sore spot. I shouldn’t have done that; I can tell it’s personal.”

“No, that’s o.k. I don’t have any secrets. It’s just that we’ve been apart most of the time we’ve known each other and we agreed to wait.”

“I admire that. I guess in this day and age it is the exception. Bravo to both of you. Can I ask?” Bob looked at Rich for approval.

“Anything. I might not answer.” Giving himself an out.

“You’ve been with other girls, haven’t you?” Bob ventured boldly.

Rich thought about it for a full minute. He considered just not answering and he thought about lying. He wondered if Bob would think sleeping with Frannie would count as ‘being with’ a girl. Rich finally decided to tell the truth, except for Frannie, after all when Rich was with Frannie she really wasn’t a “girl”, not a complete one.

“Actually, no I haven’t. I guess that would be one of my struggles. I’ve never been very successful with girls, if you catch my drift. Uh, turn left here, through the gate and take a right. My barracks is just down the hill.” Rich directed. “That’s why I feel so fortunate to be engaged to my fiancée.” He finished his thought.

Rich looked directly at Bob as he followed the directions, trying to read his expression. For a moment Rich feared Bob might ask about ever being sexual with boys, or men but he didn’t.

“Oh.” Bob said quietly. Rich motioned for Bob to stop. “I’ll get out here. Home sweet home. Thanks so much for bringing me over this far. You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Not a problem. I enjoyed it. You’re easy to talk to and I always love to hear stories. You might end up as one of my characters.” Bob said reaching over to shake the young man’s hand.

“I hope not.” Rich returned. “It would make a boring book.”

“Not at all. Remember your question about struggles. I can see a theme there. Hey, I’m going up to the Sierras to visit my sister next weekend. Want to come along? We could talk about life and struggles and it would get you out of the barracks for a night.”

“The Sierras?” Rich asked wondering what Bob meant.

“My sister lives in Lone Pine, on the eastern side of the mountains. It’s just spectacular there. I was going to go up sometime on Friday but if you want to go I’ll wait until you’re out of class.”

“Sure. I’m done at three on Fridays.” Rich was excited about having somewhere to go, and someone to go with.

* * * *

Lone Pine was more than spectacular to Rich. He knew the mountains of Pennsylvania but this was so different. More than that the trip took him away from studying and barracks without the dangers of the city. Bob and Rich hiked up into the mountains and took pictures in the snow. They laughed and talked. They stayed with Bob’s sister who lived alone in a small house, almost a cottage. But it was a sweet house with a wood burning stove in the combination kitchen living room as the only heat. There were just two small bedrooms so Bob and Rich had to share a bed.

They drove back late Saturday finally reaching the main highway leading through the Valley and Bob turned right onto a gravel road, not far from the turn for the Valley Theater. He guided his old jeep down a narrow road, across a ravine and then up a steep hill through trees. Near the top of the hill Rich could make out a rustic structure where Bob pulled in and parked the car. It was the end of the road.

“This is it. This is where I live, where I write and where I think. I have electricity but try not to use it. Just wait here and I’ll light a lantern.” Bob said as he opened the door and struck a match. Rich adjusted his eyes to the dim light and surveyed the inside of the cabin. Essentially it was two rooms; one large area for living, a fireplace, and wood burning cooking stove and an area with two comfortable chairs in front of a large bay window facing out over the Valley. There was an area to the left of the bay window with a rustic desk and chair. On the desk was a typewriter and a pile of several dozen sheets of paper neatly stacked.

Bob started a fire and poured each of them a glass or red wine. They sat in front of the fire and talked for some time. After a long silence, Rich drifted off to sleep. Bob nudged him and motioned for him to follow him to the bedroom. Rich undressed and slid into the large soft bed. As he drifted off Bob got into bed from the other side.

Rich didn’t know what time it was when he awakened. He first remembered he was having the dream again; the one where he is just partially dressed in public, wearing some article of female clothing. This time he was wearing a slip and panties. The dreams were never arousing but this time he felt something was touching him, fondling him between his legs. Soon he realized Bob’s hand was inside his male briefs. Bob was gently feeling Rich’s penis and Rich could feel the man’s breath on his neck.

“What are you doing?” Rich said loudly. Rich grabbed Bob’s arm and pushed it back toward him. He jumped out of bed and pulled a blanket around him. Rich grabbed his clothes and made his way out of the bedroom. He sat down in the chair by the bay window and started to get dressed.

Bob came out of the bedroom wearing a robe.

“Rich, I’m sorry. I thought…” He began.

“Thought what? You know I’m engaged. I didn’t know that is what you really wanted.” Rich stopped what he was doing and buried his head in his hands.

“Rich, you’re uh, you’re so special. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to mislead you. I like you, like you a lot. You’re smart and funny and …”

“Stop it.” Rich almost yelled. “I’m not like that.” Rich now was crying, sobbing. Rich didn’t understand why this brought him to tears. He was a man and crying wasn’t something he did in front of anyone else. Bob came over and placed his hand on Rich’s shoulder.

“You’re right. I had no right. You are a beautiful and sweet guy. You’re easy to love, or want to.” Rich was trembling as Bob continued. “I guess I thought you might like me too. You talked about your struggles, about not being with a woman yet and you alluded to being with guys before. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Rich wiped his eyes and turned toward Bob. Bob moved to the chair across from Rich and they sat looking at each other. Rich didn’t answer immediately; he was too emotional. That and he often didn’t talk when confronted. Finally, he couldn’t hold back what he needed to say.

“Like you? You mean want to be with you? You mean sex, right? Bob, I’m not like that.” He announced again more firmly this time. “I know I talked about struggles and not having sex with a girl yet but I don’t think I’m confused about what I like. I like women not men. I never initiated any of the times I was with a guy and I never did anything to the guy. I just want you to know that. Maybe I like women too much. I do have struggles about that.” Rich stopped for a moment and felt himself starting to cry again. Rich didn’t want to say that, or confess that he liked women because he related to them, felt he was more like them than like men, especially men who liked other men. Bob didn’t say anything but kept focused on Rich, listening and feeling emotional himself.

Rich was relieved Bob didn’t answer. He needed to say more, needed to let it out to someone who wasn’t part of his life, his future.

“What’s wrong with me? Why me? Why did you pick me to give a ride home to last week? Do I come across effeminate? Do you see me as sort of female? How does that work with guys like you?” Rich asked in a stream of questions not waiting for responses; questions that for Rich were not just rhetorical; they were fundamental to his struggle.

For his part Bob knew he had touched more than Rich’s penis; he had touched his soul. Bob felt deep anguish and guilt but he knew he could do nothing but listen, and be sympathetic, and somewhat empathetic. Bob continued to study Rich’s face, looking deep into his eyes in the dim light.

Rich continued, taking a deep breath and thinking about what he wanted to say, how much he would reveal. “It’s not that I don’t like you.” He said now more measured and soft. “We do connect in many ways but not like that. I don’t judge guys like you, Bob. I’ve known many. Had a friend my first year in college. Queer as hell and not shy about it. We did everything together, as friends. We lamented about not having a love life but we always knew he meant with guys and I with girls.” Rich stopped again, thinking.

“I told you I feel that I like women too much. I need to tell you what I meant.” Rich took a breath debating whether to actually speak what he rarely admitted even to himself. There was no debate. Rich couldn’t control what he would say. “Sometimes I feel like I should have been born a girl. I’ve always felt like that and it’s just awful; it hurts so much and I have to fight it so hard. I’ve tried but something always seems to happen and I’m reminded over and over.” Rich felt he was going to start crying again but held back. “So I need to know, Bob, with guys like you, do you see that in me, maybe subconsciously? Do you see me as female and that’s what the attraction is?”

Now Rich was doing the searching, searching Bob’s face, looking into his eyes, his soul. Bob didn’t have an answer. Rich’s question took him by complete surprise. Bob Bowman, the writer, the confident and well adjusted homosexual man in his mid thirties was shaken. Bob had long ago accepted his sexuality, wasn’t afraid of it. He even thought he understood it. He was open to friends and to his sister; he was at peace being estranged from his mother and father, who were estranged from each other, partially over Bob’s sexuality.

Bob Bowman wasn’t a flamboyant queer man. He knew many who were and had trouble relating to them. He had been to San Francisco many times but didn’t really enjoy the overtly gay, the guys in drag, the impersonators. Now Rich was challenging him about gender as a function of being queer, gender as part of what attracts one man to another, or men to women for that matter.

“I’ve never really thought about it, Rich.” He answered immediately and honestly. Rich let Bob think, gave him some time. “I don’t want to say anything that will make it harder for you. I can relate to struggles generally but not to yours.” He paused again. “Do I see you as effeminate? Not really. Maybe gender is subtle, I don’t know. Do I see you as a macho guy? No. You are sweet and funny and insightful and understanding. Yes, that is a little like my mother but like I say, it’s subtle.”

There was another long quiet period. Both men looked out over Carmel Valley as the first light of a new day dimly revealed the hills on the other side. It was so peaceful. “Rich, I didn’t consciously see you as female when we met. Who knows what the subconscious sees or feels? I was attracted to you, yes. Rich with us, with men like me, it’s not all about the sex. It’s the totality of the person. It’s really not that different than heterosexuals, I guess. If there is some female in you, well, then I confess that I am attracted to that too. I would be the last person to deny you that.” Bob took a breath.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Bob offered.

“No.” Rich quickly answered then added. “Yes, but I can’t. There’s just too much and I don’t understand it. I don’t want to be this way. I just want a normal life. That’s what we’ve been planning for. I couldn’t do what Frannie is doing.” Rich inadvertently mentioned the girl he slept with in San Francisco forgetting that he had not revealed that to Bob.

“Frannie?” Bob asked. “Who is Frannie?”

So Rich felt he had to tell Bob about his weekend in San Francisco and about the guys in drag and meeting Frannie. He confessed he spent the night with her but he didn’t admit to the sex, how he felt with Frannie. He told Bob about how he too had worn dresses when he was a boy, and about his dreams. He ended with a supposition.

“I’m not like Frannie am I?”

“I don’t know what to say.” Bob said clearly stunned. Bob tried to imagine Rich in a dress or anything female, and couldn’t see it. Rich was so tall and so thin. Bob felt Rich would probably look like a ten year old girl in a dress, no breasts, no hips; a very tall ten year old girl. Bob didn’t want to think about Rich like that; Bob liked Rich the way he was with his boyish virility.

“I don’t think you are like this Frannie person. She’s very unique I think. Well, you’re not queer, are you?” Bob smiled as he admired the man he could love but never would. “You like women. I don’t know. Who am I to tell you? And I can’t really relate. Are there married guys who like to wear their wives panties? I’m sure there are. But you’re ….” Bob didn’t finish his thought. He really didn’t know what he was going to say. By now the sun was flashing through the Valley as it peeked above the hills to the East. Both sat quietly for another long period.

“Rich.” Bob finally broke the silence almost in a whisper. “I’m probably the last person who should give advice. I’d love to tell you to follow what is pulling at you. I’d love to have you stay with me. I’d help you sort it out.” Bob started shaking his head from side to side; then he laughed. “The best thing for you is to follow the path that will serve you best. You have a chance. Go get married. Finish college. Put the girl thing behind you. Have a good life.” He commanded. Bob stood up and walked back to the bedroom.

“I’ll get dressed and take you back to the Presidio.” Bob said.

Rich didn’t say anything. He thought he had already taken Bob’s advice, thought he had done that when he returned from his weekend in San Francisco. But it came up again without provocation and without any action from Rich. Yes, he knew he had to put the girl thing behind him but now he knew he had to be so much more diligent. As he looked out the passenger side window on the ride back to the Presidio he was consoled by the thought of getting married in just four short months and then being shielded from gay men and tempting transsexuals.