Tonight was one soldier’s 21st birthday. Interesting the memories we have of this monumentous day. Some spend it throwing alcohol into their bellies while friends help keep their hair from the foul toilet water. I spent my day, planning how I would go to Operation Desert Storm, as I played Operation Just Watch. Also known as sitting on the bar stool, watching the news. I am sure some warriors spent their day walking into the desert, while some Iraqi troops spent theirs trying to figure out a way out.
Well, in the interest of Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR, the Army’s form of forced fun), the unit took up a collection, hired some dancing girls, acquired a building, rigged a stereo system, and threw one hell of a party. Until the police showed up. That’s when the real party started.
Some facts about this particular evening. Cover charge for the event was $10. There were two women whose ages were in the 22-28 range. The “blonde” was the younger of the two, though her leathery skin, too tanned from the booths at Hollywood Tans, and whose abdomen was covered in strech marks from child[ren] delivered recently. She was attractive. Right up until the time she smiled. Then you see the quality of dental coverage in the region. For a definition of attractive, please see the starving man’s definition of an oyster cracker. When you haven’t seen anything female in four days. . .
Her business partner was a shorter brunette. She was Italian, or from somewhere in the Mediterranean, and about 10 degrees from being beautiful. But while she may have been on the beautiful path at some point in her life, she deviated about ten degrees, left or right of center. Putting her smack dab in the middle of mediocrity. Fifteen pounds overweight, all centered on her belly, piss poor wardrobe, and a boredom in her work performance, only equaled by the quality control employee in the lint factory.
Now, all of the women’s rights and empowerment zealots are angry. I have valued a woman on her looks alone. Things I don’t know about these women –
1. Education
2. Family responsibilities. (financial and other)
3. “Inner beauty”
4. Other information I didn’t bother to gather.
In short, what I don’t know about these women could just about fit into the Grand Canyon. But, with all of the unknowns, what I know is that these women trade on their bodies, and therefore their bodies are their workplace. I would complain that same if I entered a store with a filthy floor, or a doctor’s office with diplomas from Jo-ellen’s school of colorectal surgery and engine repair. You have to have the skills to pay the bills.
So, as soldiers will do, the men of the Cavalry threw the party. I personally came early and left shortly thereafter. I’m no saint. I intended to return within the hour but frankly wasn’t into the girls. Reasons for the departure could have legitimately been any of the following – (Pick all that apply)
1. Exhaustion
2. Filth, (Needed a shower)
3. Filth, (the girls needed a sand-blasting)
4. Didn’t need another reason to be hornier.
5. All of the above.
On my way back, clean, and carrying two airplane bottles of Jack Daniels, I see the members of the social event standing outside of the barracks, and in the distance I can make out the reflections of red and blue lights off of the warehouse in the background. Being the keen detective I am, I knew something was amiss.
Years ago I would have gone forward, to see if I could help. At 32, some self-preservation and some intelligence kick in. At this point in my life, I realize a few things. I am not here as a lawyer, and I am not here to be a scapegoat. So I turn around and hang out with the other cowards in the shadows. From the groups comes a lot of bravado, spoken in hushed voices. Everyone is a big man outside of the reach of the law. I would have liked to seen these guys while they were in front of the man.
So the police begin their investigation. The next morning, I am at the police station working through a more minor unrelated incident for a soldier, and I get to meet the “Chief” of Police here at Ft. Indiantown Gap. The Chief is a small man, in every visible manner. His height, his mind, and he department are all on the small side. When you meet him, you can immediately sense why. He gives you all of the comfort of a weasel, with his beady eyes, wanna-be-tougher soldier haircut, and “different” uniform. He wears a grey woolen shirt, which I’m sure the vendor told the buyer was “summer” weight, but over its many washings seems to have grown thicker. Above his left breast pocket is a military style name tape, printed in block letters, CHIEF WORLEY. It reminds me of the movie Blazing Saddles, where Mel Brooks in his role as the governor, has the word GOV displayed on the back of his robe. I’m no genius, but you can generally tell who the chief of a police department is, by when he says, “Hello, I am CHIEF So-and-so.” I really doubt I need to see his name tag.
So we chat about the business I am there on, and then we begin to move on to what else is new. While we haven’t ever met, I am nosy, and people seem to tell me stuff when I ask. Chief Worley begins to enlighten me on the activities on post, and the events which transpired in the make-shift strip club. Things to mention were the cover charge, paid at the door, the strippers who were gyrating wildly, and the two beds, “which had space to walk around them, as though they were there for people to gather around. The beds were made, but not in a military style.” His implication was clear here. People were planning on some form of orgy. That’s what city folk do. His crack investigative team discovered these beds, in a building surrounded by barracks, with sheets on them, no other evidence of sexual inter-relations (besides the strippers), and they immediately conclude that the beds were to be used later by the strippers and the men around them.
Someone once told me that the explanation for a situation is usually the most obvious explanation for a situation. The “cover charge” at the door was being charged, but not because anyone was trying to make a profit. The beds were not really made, but had their hygienic cotton slip covers over them and while there were strippers and while the desire of the crowd was probably there, there was in fact no orgy, actual or planned. The corollary to this problem is that when you couple the risqué dancers with the other facts, and mesh in a police department whose entire blotter consists of underage drinking, DUI, speeding and some domestic battery and incest, this is what you get. The most egregious wrongdoing here is the police’s inexperience. I don’t fault the police. It just might have been nice to figure out what was going on, before they leveled the accusation gun.
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