CLUB 54

CLUB 54 

By Duncan 

When I was a young and impetuous kid, it was considered common and normal—and I’m talking about New York City during my college days—to have dinner and lots of booze, finishing the night off with an all-night breakfast and eggs kind of place, about 4:00 in the morning. It was fun, exciting, and a way of life for me—it might have even been called a lifestyle. 

Speaking of an over-the-top lifestyle. CLUB 54 was located at 245 West 54th Street, New York City, hence the monitor “54.” I don’t want you to think that my dinner invitation the other night in sleepy mid-western Indianapolis was anything like the excitement of CLUB 54, New York City. That would be a stretch.    

However, as a member in good standing and a solid citizen of my HOA’s Rules and Regulations Board, I worry about what others might think of my late-night comings and goings. I have neighbors who might be looking out their windows and wondering, “Just look at him coming home at 3:30 in the morning. Despicable.”  

Yes, it was one of those nights. The evening started with pleasant conversation. A cocktail was offered, and a cocktail was received. A second libation before dinner? I weighed the moment, the company, the atmosphere. 

Well, sure, I’ll have another one. After all, I see the broasted chicken, the salad, and the vegetables being prepared. The food will fill my soul and allow the alcohol to gel with the nourishment, and I will be able to balance matter over mind. I’ve done it before, and I can certainly do it again. 

After all, the conversations are getting interesting. We have moved from complimenting the host on his beautiful home to politics to test the waters as to who is leaning which way. The more interesting topic of discussion is the relationship between a man and a woman. The more we drink, the more the testimony from the book of man and woman is laid bare on the table. 

Oh, my, this is going to be an interesting night. We have three unmarried men and one married man. The unmarried have lost their wives to death and or divorce, and they are back on the market looking for love, companionship, and sex. I was surprised at how candid this conversation was going to be. 

Although the men are looking, it becomes clear as the night progresses that they are not necessarily interested in long-term committed relations with another woman. We move to a table outside on the Veranda for dinner. The red wine is flowing. The broasted chicken is good, and the salad is acceptable. The conversation becomes unmediated to raw, and candid language has become the focus on the obvious. Women. 

The fly in the ointment is that they are comparing the world of women today with the world of their past wives. It’s becoming clear that they all have expectations. They have had relationships with one woman for 20-30 years, and the women they meet occasionally now are nowhere near what they have known in the past. 

The term “Baggage” appears in the conversation. I, of course, know where we are going with this epogram. One can only assume most women they meet have an agenda. It is strongly believed among the men attending our quaint dinner party that women are looking for a man to care for them. A woman will do anything the man wants until she catches him, and then she can return to her real self.

I hold my wine glass to my lips and hear one of the men say, “It’s been said that the bride walking down the aisle will say to herself, That’s the last BJ I will ever give.”  

I’ve heard that cliche before, and I assume that, in some cases, it is more than likely true.  

I remember when my mom passed, and my father was alone. I took him to church every Sunday, and he was happy to be in a place he loved and could talk with people he admired. 

I went to the church basement to get a coffee before the service. I noticed a big round table of older widowed women sitting together. There must have been eight of them. They all noticed me and, with a broad smile, asked me to join their table. 

“How’s George doing since Lucy passed.” 

I gave them a few obligatory words: “He’s doing pretty good right now.” I wasn’t sure what they wanted to hear. Maybe they wanted to hear that he was all torn to pieces and could barely function. He was grieving, couldn’t eat, and was losing weight. Who knows what a widow wants to hear about a husband after he loses his wife? Could they possibly want to hear that he misses her terribly? Could that message resonate back to their marriages? I felt like I was walking and talking to a minefield. 

I leaned into the group and decided to tread softly. Eight widows were living alone, and they might be interested in Dad as a companion. Yes, I was getting ready to play “Match Game.” So, I phrased my question delicately without being too obvious about my intentions. 

“So, tell me about yourselves, what do you all need or want after you lose your spouse?” 

“I sure don’t need to be waiting hand and foot over another man, picking up his dirty shorts off the floor and expecting me to wash and iron his clothes.” 

“I am never going back to being told what I can and can’t do again.” 

The rest of the women nodded in agreement with the outspoken women. The women who talked had a very sharp tongue and made no bones about how they felt. I was taken aback and almost shocked. These kind, older, good Christian church women had a real answer to relationships. I had no idea they would be this outspoken about relationships/marriage. I realized I needed to run for cover, so to speak. 

“So, tell me, help me, how should I expect my Dad to behave now that he is alone?”

“He will be fine, not to worry.” 

I sat back and watched the group talk among themselves. I had dodged a bullet. It was as if I weren’t there. I listened to them talk and drank my coffee. The more they talked, the more I became invisible, which was what I wanted to happen. I didn’t want to be caught trying to play Cupid. 

None of them were interested in another marriage or relationship. They had their dogs or cats and were satisfied with life as it was! Their relationship with a man was slammed shut. 

I was invited to this dinner by an old motorcycle pal of mine. We don’t see each other very often. He still rides, but I gave up the sport of motorcycling several years ago. 

He decided to invite me and several other men over for dinner. All were retired, some doing better financially than others, but most seemed to have “enough” to make it to the end of life. As the night continued, we had lots to discuss—old and current events. Among the chatter, a conversation started. The question was raised. 

If you were on a deserted island and could only have one thing on the island, would you want Books, Music, or Movies? 

“What about Television? What about women?” What about electricity? What about golf? It was restated that we were talking about a deserted island. The deserted island question became a moot point after dinner and a couple more adult beverages. So you can imagine the question on a deserted island faded into many other topics. 

And the main topic of conversion for the night was “women.” The lack of women and the lack of sex. I’m unaware of the “market or the demographics” for retired men. Or retired women, for that matter. I assume a retired man is looking for a “retired-aged woman.” Unless he is craving a “Trophy Wife.” 

The term “Baggage” came up again. Of course, there is zero “Baggage” among the men at this diner party. This group of men at my dinner party is perfect in every way. I was drinking, but I was still able to listen to reason. 

I asked if anyone was using a dating website. Only one admitted to using one. The general feeling was that it was a waste of time. The pictures of the women were years old, and most had gained a lot of weight, but they (the women) were still hopeful that they would find someone. 

The question of where you meet these women was asked. In other words, how much money are you spending trying to find a woman? It was disclosed that he (Number One) generally met women for lunch. But because of his disappointments, he now only meets for coffee. 

Another was going to single functions. Man Number Two went to his first singles function and was looking for the entrance to the event. An attractive woman exited her car and asked if he was lost. He told the nice lady that he was looking for the singles event. “Oh, I’m headed there myself. Come with me, and I will show you where the entrance is.” 

She stayed close to him the entire night. It made Number Two a little uncomfortable that she was so close during the entire evening. Finally, he was ready to leave and thanked her for showing him the entrance. There was a pause in the goodbye, and he asked if she would like to return to his place for a nightcap. 

She said she would love to. Of course, we were all ears to this story. “What happened then? What did she say?” 

“She came back to my place. And we talked for about an hour.” 

“Talked that’s all you did, was talk? You got a picture of her?” 

Reasonable facsimile. 

Number Two invited his newfound friend to another night out, and it was also a singles-sponsored function. Our Number Two started talking to an attractive woman sitting behind him. Our lovely that he brought to the event pulled him aside and said, 

“Hey, Buster, you’re with me, and I don’t want you hitting on my girlfriends.” 

Number Two informed us that the “freind” sitting behind his date accepted his invitation for a date that night.  

"All is fair in love and war" is often attributed to John Lyly's 1579 novel Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit, which includes the quote, "The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war."

I remember Frank Sinatra singing a song called “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.” If you have never heard the song and don’t know it, give it a listen, and you might figure out what I was thinking. 

The evening turned to early morning, and I got an earful. I haven’t had this much fun listening to grown men talk about women in a long time. And to think, I thought it was only me!

WHAT TO DO NOW?

 WHAT TO DO NOW?

By Duncan

I started life in a small cracker box house. Seven brand-new homes were on each side of the street, built for defense workers during World War II. 

I struggled in elementary school. I couldn’t seem to focus on the teacher's steady guidance. There were just too many distractions.

I’m sure all parents want their children to be successful. Without telling me my parents wanted me to be successful, I had to find my way. I had no idea I was headed for an education not accredited in the public school curriculum. Most of my education would be from the school of hard knocks.

As the neighborhood matured and more people purchased homes and moved in with kids my age, I finally had someone to play with. 

The games were Tag Your It, Hide and Seek, Croquet, and Kick the Can. Maxine, who lived across the street, taught me the fine art of spinning a Coke-a-Cola bottle. Or should I say, “Spin the bottle?”

I escaped from elementary to high school when the city wanted our home for a road they were building. Goodbye, house, dark garage, Maxine, and spin the bottle. 

High school was mostly uneventful. I didn’t realize the typing class would help me down the road. I learned how to type. I got through typing and other courses with the help of some friends, both academically and on a personal level. 

I remember reading an article that said a construction company had to stop building a road because the Great Horned Owl needed 2,000 acres to mate. The environmentalists stopped a road from being built because of an Owl? That’s crazy; my meager high school education taught me that two grown adults can mate in the back of a Honda Civic. 

WHAT TO DO NOW?

Several family members decided I needed training in the arts, mainly acting, radio, and television. I was off to The Great White Way, Midtown Manhattan, the theater district. New York City. 

I enrolled at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. The Academy graduated many big-name stars, including Cecil B. DeMille, Edward G. Robinson, Kirk Douglas, Lauren Bacall, Spencer Tracy, Robert Redford, Grace Kelly, Danny Devito, Florence Henderson, Elizabeth Montgomery, Agnes Moorehead, Jennifer Coolidge, Anne Bancroft, Paul Rudd, Jim Backus, John Cassavetes, and Don Rickles. The icing on the cake was that Lucille Ball is a trustee.  

My mother wanted me to stay at the YMCA. I needed clarification. The YMCA stands for the Young Men’s Christian Association. 

“Mom, why stay here?” 

She told me she was keeping me away from the Fortune Hunters. 

“What’s a Fortune Hunter?” 

“Women looking to hook up with rich young men.” 

“Mom, I didn’t know we were rich?”

WEST SIDE YMCA - NEW YORK CITY. 

After many unsuccessful Broadway auditions after graduation, a director pulled me over to the side of an empty stage and told me he would love to have me in his play. But, because my draft classification was such a low number, he feared I would be pulled away from the play and drafted.  

 

He couldn’t afford to replace me if the show was in progress, so he suggested I get my military service out of the way and return.

WHAT TO DO NOW? 

Get my military service out of the way? Is he kidding? You don’t just get your military service out of the way. My life came to a complete and total stop. It was like I had hit a stone wall at sixty miles an hour. I was facing a cold, hard reality, and I didn’t like it. 

My New York City room was a bed, nightstand, table lamp, and a closet. I lifted the window in my room. I was living on the ninth floor. The bathroom was down the hall. 

Sitting on the window sill, I could breathe some fresh air. Looking out over the city, I could hear sirens, traffic, and the constant hum of air conditioning units. I could smell the grease from the restaurant nine floors below. I had adopted this city; I loved this city. 

I tried to ignore the city noise, but the noise was the heartbeat of New York. I sat for hours, trying to figure out what to do. Was there another answer? What should I do? If I did nothing, what life would I have? Doing nothing was not an option.  

Did I own this city, or did the city own me? 

It became clear as I sat looking out the window I would be a busboy in a New York restaurant, waiting for the Vietnam War to end. 

And then I would still get drafted. Or, I could head back home with my tail between my legs, giving me time to think through my next move. I felt like a cased aminal. 

I called the Grayhound Bus Company. They had a bus leaving for Indianapolis at midnight, and I had enough cash to buy a ticket. I was told it was a nineteen-hour bus ride to Indianapolis. I quickly packed my clothes into several suitcases and left the room. 

I sat halfway back on the passenger side of the Grayhound bus, looking out the bus window as New York slowly slipped out of my grasp. I wanted to get out of my seat and get off the bus, but I sat still, which made me feel like I was “doing nothing.”

I was replaying the two years I lived in New York. My classmates, the instructors, the parties, the getting drunk with freinds. The anticipation of being on Broadway. It was all slipping away. Every inch the bus moved down the road, it was robbing me of my soul and kidnapping my plans and aspirations. I was lost and starting over again.  

I had trouble adjusting to Indianapolis. It was boring; I hated it. Indianapolis didn’t have that “something” I needed, wanted, or missed. In the city that never sleeps, New York, Indianapolis was the city that went to bed at nine o'clock. I made a mistake moving back home. 

WHAT DO I DO NOW? 

I sat around the house for a few days, trying to figure out what to do. The answer was clear: I didn’t want to accept it. I would enlist in the military and get it out of the way. I was simply rebelling. I didn’t have a clue which way to turn. It seemed I had only one path to travel. 

I approached my father for his advice. “What should I do?” He suggested a quiet room to talk. The Second World War was in full swing when Dad was dating his Mom. (1940). 

They were trying to decide if they should marry before he joined the war effort or if it would be better if they did not get married in case he would be killed in action. 

He was talking in a whisper. He told me they both wanted to be married before he enlisted. Dad then went down to the draft board and enlisted. He would join the Army. He was going through the examination part of the procedure. The doctor said Dad had flat feet. The doctor asked Dad if he could see without his glasses. Dad said, “No.” 

“What do you do for a living?”

“I work for Allison Divison of General Motors.” 

“What do you make?” 

“Airplane engines for the war effort.” 

There was a pause. I could see my father catch his breath before finishing his story. He was emotionally back in the examination room again, remembering when the doctor said,   

“You’re disqualified from military service. We need you making aircraft engines instead of ending up on a beach somewhere dead without your glasses.” 

I remember looking at Dad and smiling, thinking it was a good moment; my father didn’t look up or smile. Again, in a whispered voice, he said, I was the only husband on Kappas Street who didn’t go to war. 

The other wives would say to Lucy, “How the hell does George get to stay home, and my husband is over there fighting and could be killed? How many strings did George pull not to go to war?”

His words were soft, but the story again touched his soul. I had never heard this story, and I had no idea the emotional pain he endured. Men his age don’t show emotion; they don’t cry; that’s the way the world was back then.  

I could sense pain on his face as he remembered the years of being the only husband at home in our old neighborhood during the war. The staring eyes, the ugly looks, the disdain others showed him when he was out of the house. 

“Steve, I can’t help you decide which branch of service you should go with if that’s what you will do. That decision is yours; I can’t and won’t help you. I have no right to tell you anything about servicing.”

And with that pronouncement. Dad got up, walked outside, and sat on the back porch for several hours. 

I had to get out of the house, too. I went to the front yard. I just realized my father had been embarrassed, humiliated, and hated. I thought he would be a solid person to ask what I should do about the military. 

I had a game to play, and my life depended on picking the right door. What was behind the closed doors? Which door should I choose? Army, Marines, Navy, or Air Force? 

I was uncomfortable in and around water, so the Navy was the first branch of service to be eliminated. 

I’m not a fighter, and I’m not a jock, so the Marines are not a good fit for me either. 

That leaves the Army or the Air Force. I reasoned that the Air Force would be a clean, comfortable bed each night, a shower in the morning, and not a muddy foxhole. 

The mental images of walking through the jungles of Vietnam made me uncomfortable, so I ditched the idea of the Army. 

The problem with the Air Force was that I had a four-year term to accept if I enlisted. Was a clean bed and daily shower worth the trade-off?    

Four years! Four years of service directly conflicts with “Get the military out of the way.” What am I doing? Rethink this decision. This is not what I want to do.                 

WHAT TO DO NOW?

I was taken down several notches. I was nothing more than a “Government Issue.” They shortened the term to make it easier to swallow (G.I.) I had six weeks of basic training to let me know I follow orders; my life, opinions, wants, and desires were meaningless. I was to operate as a unit. I no longer had a personality; I was to blend in with the others and keep my mouth shut.  

My first duty assignment was on Christmas Eve. I was assigned to Homestead Air Force Base, Homestead, Florida. Behind me was a chain-link fence; inside that fence was where they stored all the bombs and bullets. 

They called it a Munitions Storage Facility. I was to guard this facility with my life. I stood in the dark, warm, humid Florida night with a loaded pistol in my side holster and a rifle over my shoulder. I was trained as a mean, lean fighting machine. I was alone. The loudspeakers close by began playing Christmas music.

This mean, lean, fighting machine realized I was simply a kid scared of making a mistake, trying to figure out what my life was all about. I was alone in the dark, with my emotions. Home, Indianapolis, became a safe place in my mind. I had no business carrying a gun; this was not who I was.    

Reality finally came to me at about two in the morning. It’s Christmas. Who’s coming to a Munitions Storage Facility at two in the morning on Christmas? My first eight hours of service were meaningless. I was nothing more than a night watchman. 

I was expendable. I was one of forty other G.I.s assigned to the midnight shift to protect bombs, bullets, and planes parked in a huge parking lot. Was this going to be my life in the foreseeable future? Is this “Getting my military out of the way?” Four years of waiting so I can start my life? 

As with anything, if I focus on it, I can live with it. Being a prisoner of the “system,” I had to learn to live with it. I was not a splendid example of the military. I wore my station in life (Two Stripes) on my sleeve, which told everyone I was a nobody. I had to accept this class system to survive. 

It wasn’t until I was approached by a four-strip sergeant that I learned how to function in military life. This four-strip sergeant asked if he could borrow twenty bucks until payday. His request initially intimidated me, as if I had to lend him money because he was of a higher rank. It was ten days until payday. In the military, you get paid once a month.

He promised to pay me back and said he would give me twenty-five dollars at the end of the month if I lent him the twenty. My mind was churning. I didn’t want to give him the money because I didn’t trust that he would pay it back. 

I performed some basic math for myself. Five dollars times twelve months is sixty dollars. Sixty dollars against twenty dollars is an annual return of 300%. I only need to be on the hook for about ten days. I reluctantly handed him a twenty-dollar bill.   

At the end of the month, he came to me, handed me the twenty dollars, and gave me a five-dollar bill. He seemed happy with the transaction. 

About ten days before payday the following month, the four-stripe sergeant wanted to borrow twenty dollars again. 

“Is the same deal okay with you, Duncan? I will give you twenty-five back.”  

Then, the four-stripe sergeant told someone else I was a bank, and a five-stripe sergeant approached me. I told the five stripes I needed to check a few things. Let me think about it.

I grabbed the four-stripe and asked if the five-stripe was good for the money. “Oh, yeah, he will pay you back.” 

“And if he doesn’t, are you good for his debt?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you have given my name as having a spare twenty bucks. I want to make sure I get my money back. So, if he doesn’t pay me, I will come to you; you are saying he is good for the money. And if he skips out on me, you will cover his debt. Right?”

As time passed, I was lending money to about twenty guys who had many more stripes on their sleeves than I did. I discovered something interesting: money talks and stripes are bullshit!  

One day, about a year later, the head of the Squadron called me to his office. Major Gillis. A Major is a Gold Leaf on the collar. I stood in front of the Major’s desk and saluted like a good G.I. is supposed to do. 

“Major Gillis, did you ask me to visit your office, Sir?” 

“At Ease. Yes. I have a question. I'm short on cash this month. Would you be willing to lend me twenty dollars?” 

I stood frozen before his desk. I responded by moving my right arm slowly to my back pocket. I opened my wallet and handed the Major a twenty-dollar bill. 

“There you go, Sir!”  

The Major looked at the twenty-dollar bill, leaned back in his chair, and asked, 

“Is there any interest I would need to pay?”

“Interest? Why, Major, Of course not; what do you mean by interest?”    

The Major looked at the bill and then looked at me. He moved forward in his executive-backed leather chair and handed the twenty-dollar bill back to me. 

“That’s how a good man treats everyone, right Duncan?”  

“Oh, Yes, Sir, the only way. Will there be anything else today, Sir?” 

“You're dismissed.” 

WHAT TO DO NOW?   

It was time to move on. Some obscure rule in the Air Force Bible of Regulations says I had to be assigned to a different duty station. I had a form to fill out. It’s called the “Dream Sheet.” 

Suppose you (Me?) had a choice of where you or I would like to be assigned next. I had one year left on my military obligation. I knew I didn’t want to go to Vietnam, so I tried to think of the places most guys wouldn’t want to go. I wrote Goose Bay, Labrador, and Alaska on the form.   

The last year of my military obligation was a one-year tour of Galena, Air Force Station, Alaska, Remote. Remote means in the middle of Nowhere, Alaska. I had a plan. I would only be there for six months if I slept twelve hours a day. That plan didn’t work. 

When I arrived, I needed a haircut. 

“Where is the Barbershop on this base?” 

“We don’t have a Barbershop.” 

I was told to go to room twenty-six in the barracks and talk to Tom. “He cuts hair.” 

I knocked on the door of room twenty-six. I heard someone yell,

“Yeah?” 

I opened the door, and Tom was sitting at a small table. His room was a mess—clothes everywhere, junk piled on junk. I wondered how he got away with a room that looked like this. This room would never pass inspection. 

“I was told you are the guy who cuts hair.”

“Thursday night starting at 6:00, downstairs latrine, first come, first serve. One dollar, are you new?” 

“Yes, I just got here. I just pulled a three-year tour at Homestead Air Force Base, Florida. And they assigned me to this place my last year.” 

“Who the hell did you piss off? Are you a troublemaker?” 

“How long have you been cutting hair?”

“About a year, why? What’s it to you?” 

“I just wondered. You’ve been here about a year?” 

“Yeah, I head back to the States in less than a month.” 

“You’re leaving? Who will cut hair if you leave?” 

“Hell, I don’t know. Why don’t you cut hair? In fact, I’ll sell you all my clippers and my gear for $125.00. You can cut hair.” 

“I don’t know how to cut hair!” 

“Hell, I can teach you how to cut hair in one night. You’ve got two hundred guys up here that need a haircut. There is no place for them to go except to you. You will be busy, I will promise you. Meet me in the latrine Thursday night, and I will cut your hair, and you can watch me cut the other guys' hair.” 

The Alaska Air Command (AAC) was much more relaxed than the Strategic Air Command (SAC). The Air Station had two fighter jets and a hanger to park them in, and that was its total mission. 

If Russia flew an airplane close to the Alaska border, our fighter jets would scramble, and away, the jets would fly to intercept a Russian invading intruder. The fighter jets only scrambled about once or twice a month. I was amazed that 200 troops stationed at Galena supported these two planes on standby alert. The money spent to keep two fighter jets ready to rock and roll was amazing. 

Above is the city of Galena in the Yukon, the State of Alaska. The military air station (Base) is no longer there. It is now a private airfield called the Edward G. Pika Sr Airport. Today, less than 500 people call Galena home. 

As my year was coming to a close, I realized that if I weren’t going to make a career out of the military, I would be flown from Galena to Anchorage to be discharged. I was warned that the sentiment in the United States was very anti-military, and the Vietnam War was very unpopular with many people. I arrived in Indianapolis and stepped off the plane in the arms of my family and others.  

WHAT TO DO NOW?