Jeffrey McGowan - Major Conflict

It was really the final nail in the coffin for me, I knew that I was no different from Lopez, and I was smart enough to know that I might not have a godfather to save me in a similar situation. I knew that when my command ended, I would leave the army. It was a bitter-sweet decision, but I had achieved many of the goals that I had dreamed of as a boy, and I felt that I wanted to live a complete life without the artificial restraints of this hermetically sealed culture.

It was a dull, gray morning in March 1998 when I set out to make the long drive from Fort Bragg in North Carolina to New York. The trip is roughly fourteen hours and I-95 gets dull quick, so I stopped in Raleigh first to get some books on tape—the newest Clancy and a Michael Crichton and a Grisham. I wanted to keep my mind occupied, to escape into stories of the lives of others in order to forget about my own for a while.

I left Fort Bragg knowing that I was going to leave the army. But even though my mind was made up, every time one of the tapes would run out and I’d find myself alone in the silence, searching for the next tape, I had trouble believing it was really happening. I’d spent my entire adult life serving my country, and now, just when I’d gotten word that I’d been promoted to major, I was walking away.

I was afraid, unsure about the future, unsure about almost everything. The only thing I was certain of was that I couldn’t serve in the U.S. Army anymore. The actors’ voices on the books on tape gave me solace. Nothing had to be decided today. I was taking a thirty-day leave, so I would have plenty of time to think things through. I’d held on to the apartment in Jackson Heights after my grandmother’s death, and now I was going back there to find my footing for a new life. I would base there as I looked for a place to live in Kingston, New York, where I’d been assigned as an adviser to the National Guard, and where I would finally submit my resignation.

I had no idea what the future held or even where to begin. I was now confronting a possibility that had never before occurred to me: civilian life. I did know, however, that I wanted to confront this new life on my home turf, New York. The army had sent me all over the world, but when the choice was finally up to me, there was no doubt in my mind that New York was the place I wanted to be. I was coming home.

It was dark by the time I approached the Holland Tunnel on the Jersey Turnpike and the Manhattan skyline came into view. The mere sight of it was invigorating. All my worries and fears slipped away as the energy from the great sparkling city reinvigorated me. All at once I knew everything was going to work out fine. I would find a job. I would create a new life for myself. My old self-confidence returned anew. So much possibility now. So much hope. Everything was up!

I would be living with almost nothing for the next thirty days since I couldn’t have my things shipped up until I’d found a permanent place to live in Kingston. At the end of my leave, I would figure out what to do. The assignment I had was pretty laid-back. I would have plenty of time to make decisions and get a plan together.

Living without my stuff was somewhat liberating, and I was able to relax and enjoy my time off. I reacquainted myself with the city, caught up with all my neighborhood friends, went out a lot at night. I also got to spend time with my great-aunt Mary, aka Maude, my grandmother’s sister. I’d made a special effort to keep in touch with her after my grandmother’s death since she was confined to her apartment nearby in Elmhurst and her only company was often just the home health aid who came regularly to care for her. Having a relative close by again in Jackson Heights was a blessing. She was eighty-nine years old and seemed to cherish the opportunity to share memories with a beloved grandnephew. I spent hours listening to her tell stories about my grandparents and my mother and father, helping me fit together pieces of a puzzle that had for so long remained stubbornly resistant to understanding and leading me toward a newfound appreciation of my family. Hearing her stories, I was amazed at the accumulated wisdom that can be found in a single life.

One day when I was sitting in her kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, she looked at me and said, “You know, Maxine was right.”

“What?” I said.

“She was right,” she said, shaking her head and looking off into the distance, a faint smile rising into her face.

“Right about what?” I asked.

“I shouldn’t have plastered Scotty Gallagher’s house with mud. It was very unladylike… . I should have thrown a rock instead. Maude the mule, indeed!”

That night my great-aunt Mary passed away quietly in her sleep.

And so I set about arranging her affairs and preparing for the funeral. Since all of my possessions were in storage, I had to buy something to wear for the funeral Mass at the Church of St. Agnes near Grand Central Terminal. I decided to go to Brooks Brothers and Barneys.

As I walked up Madison Avenue, I was a little bit awestruck by the displays in the shop windows and by how stylish everyone was dressed. And they all seemed to be in such a hurry, fueled by the sheer energy of life in the great metropolis. I’d grown so accustomed to the dreary conformity of military life that I’d forgotten how exciting civilian life could be. This was definitely not the PX!

As I passed the Calvin Klein window on Sixtieth Street, I noticed a tall man with wild curly hair walking toward me down the avenue, a little black pug at his heels. He had on a trench coat, with a blue blazer and a pair of khaki pants underneath. The words “Park Avenue” popped into my head. He was strikingly good-looking, with a wide, sensual mouth, a fine, prominent nose, and a deep tan that set off his blue eyes nicely. With an athletic build and a firm stride, there was something about him that just seemed to exude fine, healthy living. The little black pug was very well behaved and seemed as smart and interesting as his owner.

We made eye contact as we passed, and he smiled. I was intrigued. When I reached the first Barneys window, I stopped and looked back to find that he’d stopped and was standing in front of the Calvin Klein window. I stared at the handsome mannequins, trying to appear nonchalant. Every time I’d look over, he’d turn his head back to the window, the pug sitting obediently at his feet. We went back and forth like this for a few minutes until finally he came over and introduced himself.

“Hi… my name is Billiam. I am very bad at this,” he said, laughing a little at himself, though clearly sizing me up. Later on he’d tell me he was trying to figure out if I was gay or straight, single or married, by “reading” the way I was dressed and the shopping bags I was carrying. Eventually we’d come to affectionately label this process “doing a Willa,” in honor of his niece Wilhemina, who has the uncanny ability to make deadly accurate character assessments based solely on a person’s shoes and how well he or she accessorizes. It seems to be a genetic gift of the van Roestenberg family that kicks in at a very young age.

Apparently he liked what he read. “Would you,” he said, “um… like to go for a beer… or a cappuccino?”

“Both.” I said, smiling now.

From that moment on we were virtually inseparable. We spent the next several hours getting to know each other at Nello’s, an upscale trattoria on Madison Avenue in the sixties. Time flew by so quickly. Amazingly, there were no gaps in the conversation, no uncomfortable stretches of silence; the whole thing felt as if it was meant to be. After a few hours we exchanged numbers and split up, agreeing to see each other not the following day but on the day after that.