It was drizzling rain when I arrived in San Francisco on a United Air Lines flight from Fort Hood, Texas. The plane circled over the mud flats of Richardson Bay near San Mateo, the pilot lining the big plane up in preparation for landing. Out the window, on my right, I could see Mount Diablo on the horizon of the East Bay as the plane settled itself onto the tarmac with a bump, followed by a powerful whoosh of the engines before slowing to a halt. It had been a long flight. The plane turned toward the terminal as I gave thought about coming a full circle, completing what I had set out to accomplish two years earlier. I let out a long sigh, glad to be home, yet not so glad to be there without Stryker.
But I wasn’t completely alone. There was Aunt Lilly standing at arrivals with a joyful smile on her face, her arms opened wide in welcome. Such a perky, pretty woman at her age. I could only hope I would be so spunky. The terminal was crowded and noisy, as were all terminals around the world, but I ignored the confusion when I saw the joy on her face. I pushed all thoughts of Stryker out of my mind, for the moment anyway, and I rushed to receive her embrace.
We hugged. Exchanged kisses. Told each other how much we had missed each other. I grabbed my duffel bag off the carousel before we headed out to find her car in the parking garage. She chattered, giggled, and gossiped the whole way. We pulled out of the terminal onto the 101 Freeway and headed toward the City by the Bay just a few miles away. I could see its welcoming skyline in the distance as we zipped along. We dropped from the overhead freeway onto Van Ness Boulevard after arriving with Lilly telling me about the successes and disasters of San Francisco that occurred while I was gone.
“That tacky gas station over there on the corner,” she said, pointing. “Where that wonderful little flower shop used to be. Well, it’s gone now. They just tore it down and they’re ruining this city every time I turn my back.” I started to ask who “they” were, but let it drop. We traveled northward on Van Ness past the ever so tacky Jack Tar Hotel (some things never change), made a left on Lombard Street, and then out across the glittering bay onto the Golden Gate Bridge—all so familiar, yet I was feeling like a foreigner like I did when I first arrived in Germany. I said a quiet prayer to anyone who would listen, hoping that the Bay Area would consider welcoming me back again.
“I ran into Clarence Arlington the other day,” she was telling me halfway across the great span. “Such a nice man. He’s the one, the art historian, that did that White House tour for PBS with the First Lady a few years back—do you remember it?” I didn’t. “He’s retired now. I started teaching at Mount Tamalpais College shortly after he did. We’ve been friends forever, he and I. He’s so knowledgeable about the arts, and always curious about my creative writing classes. We even tried combining assignments for our students now and then. He’s got this nice young man living with him now. He, too, is absolutely fabulous. I’m here to tell you, you’ll just love this guy.” I glanced at her, trying not to snicker. “Clarence has this 1950’s house on the hill just above the campus. You probably remember the area since you went to school at Tam. It’s on Hermit Drive.” She laughed. “That fits him perfectly now that he’s retired. Well almost—the thing is he’s past sixty-five, and the house has become a bit of a problem for him to take care of all on his own. So, he called the college one day and hires this beautiful young man to come to live with him. His name is Michael. Turns out the lad is majoring in art history himself, so the two seem to have just become two peas in a pod. I told him that you were coming home, so they have invited us up to supper next week. I’m hoping it might cheer you up a little, that is if you want to go.”
I was taken aback. I looked at her. “Do I look like I need cheering up?” I asked.
“I saw it the moment you stepped off the plane, Robert. I bet you’ve left something, or someone, in Germany that’s got you feeling melancholy. You want to talk about it?”
Her observation caught me so completely off guard that I couldn’t stop the tears from brimming up in my eyes. I turned my head to hide them so she wouldn’t see. Out the car window, below us beneath the bridge, I could see Angel Island resting off the tip of Tiburon in the sparkling San Francisco bay. The Emerald City with its little cable cars climbing half way to the stars. I hardly noticed any of that as we passed through it. I’d left my heart somewhere else, I’m afraid—in Mannheim, Germany on the Rhein, with a lanky lieutenant that I have fallen in love with.
“That’s okay,” said Aunt Lilly. “Talk about it when you get settled—and only if you want to.” I didn’t want to, but I suspected she had a pretty good idea what was happening anyway.
* * * *
I started UC Berkeley a week later in what was now called the College of Environmental Design. I always referred to it simply as the School of Architecture. The building was not as handsome as its auspicious name suggested to me anymore. I wondered why. I always wanted to go to school there. I used to think it was such a beautiful place. I guessed it was because of my foul mood. I was finding it uninspiring with rigid lines and off-set angles. The shaded patios and terraces seemed far more inspiring to me.
I sighed and took a deep breath. Then I scolded myself for thinking such sour thoughts. Quit thinking like that. You’re being critical simply because you’re lonesome for you know who—that’s all. Damn you Stryker. “You’re ruining my life. I joined the army so I could come back and finish my education here—not be moony-goony over you. I’ve got better things to do. Like sticking myself in the eye with a dirty stick—or something,” I grumbled out loud.
Classes were intriguing once I got started, and really quite difficult. Far more challenging than my junior college classes. The days of drafting tables now long gone, replaced with computers and CAD software. I found myself staring blankly at the screen wondering if I had any imagination at all. Stryker was all I could think of. I missed Europe. I missed the S2 offices. I even missed the goddamn jeep. I was homesick, yet here I was at home. Go figure.
I wrote to him, of course. He was not quick to answer back. He had his new foo-foo driver now that I was out of the way. Thinking like that made me feel like such a jerk for being so damn jealous. Mental self-flagellation, I thought. Get on with it, I thought. Get on with it and quit feeling so damn sorry for yourself.
Aunt Lilly and I went to supper at Clarence Arlington’s home in Kentfield as invited. What a charming house he had indeed. Three stories high on the side of a hill with shingles on the outside and trimmed artistically on the inside, especially around the entry. Beautiful views from the large windows overlooking the college campus below. Lush gardens in every direction—and the man himself as charming as his surroundings. Quite handsome for his aging years. Slender and elegant. He loved gin martinis, was quite witty and had a generous appetite for good conversation laced with lots of smiles and pleasant laughter. And as for his live-in companion—Michael Joby. He, too, was an absolute charmer—and very good looking with a bush of blond hair and sculpted face. I got along with him right off. He was telling me about his best friend who was not only going to UC Berkeley the same as I am, but was in the very same School of Environmental Studies where I was taking all my classes.
“His name is Toad Wainwright. I’ll introduce you. He wants to start a garden and landscaping business here in the Bay Area someday. He’s very well off financially because his father owns a large shipping company in the city. The problem is, his dad wants him to step in and take over the business someday, even though Toad wants to plant flowers and make beautiful gardens. They’ve come up with an amiable agreement, though. Toad can major in horticulture and landscape design as long as he minors in business and works for the company during the summer months.”
“Did I hear you call him Toad?” I asked.
“It’s a nick name. His real name is Todd. He was a high jumper in high school. He has these really long legs that are not bad to look at either.”
Michael, openly gay, and I made a date to get together—to have drinks at the Twin Peaks Bar in the Castro one evening. He would bring Toad so I could meet him, and I’d introduce them both to my friends, Jimmy and Marty.
And so it went. The first quarter and Christmas vacation came upon me all too soon. There were final projects due, of course. I was a week away from completing the so-called Stretch Your Creative Imagination class. Lilly and I had no plans for the holiday other than staying at home by a comfy fire and drinking lots of hot toddies. Clarence and Michael invited us to their house for Christmas dinner. Toad would be there. He and I had started meeting on campus and even having lunch together in the student center. I liked him as much as I liked Michael. If anything, I was envious of their love for each other. They weren’t a couple, just totally bonded in their intimate friendship.
Stryker had written one short note just before Thanksgiving. He said he and his dad were going to Mannheim for Thanksgiving Chinese dinner. How appropriate, I thought. I laughed at the memory of going there with them way back when. Also, in his note, he complained about his new driver. I liked that part best of all. He’s too damn nice. Unlike you (me?) I can’t even get him to argue with me—and I can’t get him to quit calling me sir all the time. We were on a trip to Frankfurt and ran into another one of those storms like the one that sent you and I looking for a place to spend the night. I held my breath for fear of what he might say next. No. We did not share a bed. I let out a sigh of relief. He signed off with I’ll see you soon.
Soon? What did he mean by that? I wondered how soon, and where, for that matter. San Francisco and Mannheim seemed so far away from each other at the moment. I missed him so much. I couldn’t bear the many thoughts and dreams I constantly had of him.
I handed in my creative imagination assignment on Friday afternoon, the last day before Christmas break. Classes were not to resume until the first Monday after the New Year. I was still living with Lilly, so while on campus that day, I planned to stop by Student Housing to see if there were some listings for apartments that I could afford in the East Bay area. The commute across the Richmond Bridge was becoming a real pain. I was hoping something affordable might show up.
I was worried about my project. The depth of my creative thinking was mostly about wood shingles. I don’t think the professor was overjoyed with my approach. But I liked shingles and had read about an architect in Oklahoma who built a shingled house in the middle of a wheat field. Shingled the outside and got so excited that he shingled the entire inside as well. Kind of like Clarence’s house in Kentfield, but over-done compared to Clarence’s house. I had also read an article about an architect living north of the Bay Area on the coast above Bodega Bay. He had built something similar. I drove up one afternoon to take a look and fell in love with the man’s work. My professor was expecting cantilevers, glass, and textured concrete—but with me he’d have to put up with something far more humble—like my comparable ideas to sod houses of the Native American cultures—I was very earthy, it seemed. Me and Toad had a lot in common.
After turning in the assignment, I walked out the swinging glass doors of the Design Center, heading for the parking lot to retrieve my car, when I stepped into the terraced patio and noticed a fellow in a military uniform sitting on a concrete bench not far away. The University of California had a very active ROTC program, so seeing young men in uniform on campus wasn’t all that unusual—that is—until I realized the guy in this particular uniform was First Lieutenant Anthony Stryker. He stood up when he saw me, smiling broadly.
I stopped dead in my tracks in startled disbelief. What I was seeing—was it for real? I shook my head to clear my vision. There was no mistake. It was Tony. For a second I didn’t think I was going to be able to catch my breath. The air around me became like shrink-wrap. The more I gawked, the broader his smile became. Then the tears started bubbling in my eyes, thrusting their way down my cheeks. He walked toward me with his commanding presence and his absolute sheer personal elegance, and barked at me like a drill sergeant, smiling all the while.
“When I say 0800 hours, Private, I mean 0800 hours. You’re late. I’ve been sitting on that damn bench for over an hour waiting for you. I’ve got a really busy day, Saddler. And that damn driver you left me with never shows up on time either.” He grabbed me and I wouldn’t let go of him.
* * * *
We found a coffee shop on Bancroft Way just outside the entry gates to the campus. “Okay,” I said. “Start from the beginning. What are you doing here? You didn’t write to me, didn’t call. Didn’t say you were coming—and then, all of a sudden there you are standing on the terrace. How did you know how to find me?”
“I got here a couple of hours ago. I called your cell as soon as I got off the plane, but all I got was your message. The damn Air Force wouldn’t let us make calls from inside their prissy airplanes and there wasn’t much time to call before I boarded. I finally got your Aunt Lilly on the phone, and after explaining who I was, she told me to catch up with you here at the college. I did some classes here many, many years ago, so I kind of know my way around.”
“Are you on leave? Are you taking a Christmas break? What are you doing here, Tony? What about your dad?”
“I’m here to stay.”
I stared at him wide eyed. “What?” I thought he was joking—but then he never joked that much.
“It’s true. I landed a job right here at this very university. At first I was going to be assigned to the Naval Post Graduate School in Monterey, but as it turns out, I’m going to take command of the ROTC program here at Berkeley, and I’ll be teaching classes as well.”
Holy Shit. I held onto the table top for fear of falling off my chair. “Just like that? You’ve been reassigned by the army? What about the 51st Infantry? What’s happened to being a liaison officer? What about your dad? What’s this all about?”
He took a deep breath. “Well…first of all I had a long talk with my dad. After you left he noted that I wasn’t up to par. He asked me what was going on, so I thought I might as well get it all off my chest while the moment lasted. I told him how I felt about the military, told him I wasn’t cut out to lead troops into battle, and though I do like the strategic part of the military, such as moving men and equipment around, I don’t like the idea of destruction and killing.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He said he understood. You were right. No one ever asked him what he wanted to do when he was a young man. He told me he went along because every other male in the family had gone along. Then he said I was like my mother and said he loved her so much and was delighted to see some of her traits in me. Then he asked if I was thinking about dropping out of the army. I told him I didn’t know. He suggested a brilliant compromise. He said with all my European experience in diplomacy and foreign relations, I should give some thought to teaching. That had never crossed my mind for some reason. What could I say?”
“Well? What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything because I just didn’t know.” He paused for a long moment before going on. “I should tell you he did ask me something else. He asked me about you. Actually he asked about you and me. Us together.”
I waited. When he didn’t say anything right away, finally I said it for him, “He’s going to drum me out of the army. Right?”
He laughed and shook his head. “I didn’t tell him everything we’ve done together, but I did tell him enough so that he knows what’s going on. And you know what he said?”
I waited. “He said you are one of the finest persons he’s ever met, and that he’s damn happy to see that I’ve finally met someone who can put me in my place, and bring the very best out in me. He said you should get a medal for that. He knows we are very fond of each other. The details aren’t necessary as far as family is concerned, he told me.”
Stryker had tears by now, too.
He took another deep breath. “So, my dad knows the Commandant of the Naval Post Graduate School in Monterey. They were buddies at West Point, and the guy had similar problems to mine when he was young. That’s why he ended up in education. It’s a naval school, by the way—but they recognize all branches of the military there. The Commandant told my dad that the school had been adding many classes in foreign and public relations, and it sounded like I’d be perfect for the job. The only problem, they had just finished their hiring. Much of their faculty is civilian. Did you know that?” I didn’t. “But then he said the Commandant had just heard that the ROTC program here at UC Berkeley was looking for a new commander and teacher. The current officer is retiring so they’ve been searching for a qualified person to take his place—to teach and run the department. Doesn’t hurt to have two generals recommending you, does it? And the job comes with a promotion. The position requires a captain’s rank. Getting promoted is no big deal. I was up for one anyway. I will be teaching Master Classes in Security and Alliances and Threat Reduction. So, my dad’s buddy got on the phone, made a few calls, and it wasn’t long before the army was cutting my orders. I start teaching my first classes in April. The current captain will stay around for a quarter, and then it’s all mine to run as I see fit. And, it looks like it’s a permanent position as long as I want it. You have any feelings about that, Private Saddler?”
I was dizzy. “What do you mean do I have any feelings about that? You mean you’re going to be teaching classes in this very school that I’m taking classes at right now? Right here at the University of California? You’re going to be in the curriculum this coming spring quarter?”
“That’s it. I’m on the faculty. Would you like to take my class?”
I laughed. “In what?”
“Jeep driving.”
I cracked up. “Jeeps are out of style, Captain Stryker.”
“I know. But I still own one.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Tony,” I asked. “Why do you need a driver for a jeep if you own one, and probably the only one left in the whole United States Army?”
“I need someone to get me from one place to another.”
“Why can’t you drive it yourself?”
After a pause and a roll of the eyes, he said, “I can’t drive.”
“You can’t drive?”
He shook his head. Finally he said, “I failed the driver’s test in Massachusetts.”
I stared at him in total disbelief. “You did not.”
“I did. I failed not once, but twice.”
“You didn’t pass the driver’s license test twice?”
He nodded.
“Stryker. You entered Harvard at the age of seventeen and graduated in three years at the top of your class. You entered West Point and did the same damn thing. And you failed your driver’s license test? I don’t understand.”
He shrugged. “Can’t be good at everything, I guess. And I didn’t like their silly rules in the Massachusetts Drivers Manual. They weren’t very clear about them and I found them confusing. Besides, how am I to meet good looking jeep drivers if I drive my own jeep. Tell me that.”
I looked incredulously at him knowing there was more to the story—if it was even true. I doubted seriously that it was.
“To change the subject,” he said, “my jeep is supposed to arrive the day after tomorrow on a flight from Frankfurt. Are you up to us meeting the plane and you doing the driving? This crazy Bay Area is a wicked place to drive for an east coast boy like me.”
“How did you get here to Berkeley from the airport clear from the other side of the bay. That’s quite a drive, you know?”
“Very expensive cab fare. Set me back more than a few bucks. I’m in hopes you have a car to get us out of here.”
I smiled broadly. “Yes, sir. I do have a car, sir. And not only am I up to driving your jeep, Captain Stryker, I’m going to suggest that you and I take it to find ourselves an apartment to live in. Are you up for that, Captain? It looks like you and I are not only going to be partners again, it looks like we’re going to have to share a bed again. How about that?”
He reached across the table and took both my hands in his. “Yes sir,” he said. “I’m definitely up for that.”
People turned to watch us pass by as we headed back into campus toward the parking lot to find my car. I guess they’ve never seen a military officer holding hands with an adult student before. Get used to it, I thought. The world is changing for the better.
THE END
* * * *
ABOUT HAROLD MASON
Harold Mason grew up in the farmlands of the San Joaquin Valley in California. His education was at Fresno State University and the Art Center School of Design in Pasadena. He claims that, almost by accident, by entering a local art show, he became a watercolor artist in the San Francisco Bay area, which contributed to building a reputation for his work up and down the entire West Coast, from Seattle to Los Angeles. His paintings can be found in private, corporate, and museum collections throughout the United States.
He now lives in a small college town in western Oregon, where he devotes all of his time to writing stories about characters in the San Francisco Bay area whose experiences reflect many of his own when he lived there. He has developed a fictitious family of friends, both young and old, who keep him busy night and day keeping up with their developments and activities. In his own words, “The arts have always been a challenging and rewarding experience.”
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
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