Loon - Jack McLean [54]
“Once again, gentlemen, be careful.”
I was to stay at the Shangri-La Hotel and had been well prepared by my buddies. I had carefully positioned myself near the front of the bus to be the first off and, thereby, the first in the check-in line. When I arrived at the counter, I requested a specific suite, signed the register, was handed a key, and hustled over to the men’s shop before the last person was off the bus.
Beach Boys music was being piped into the lobby.
Beach Boys music!
War? What war?
Having acquired five days’ worth of presentable civilian attire, I headed for the elevators and the twenty-second floor. Once inside my room, I stripped off my sticky uniform, turned on the air conditioner, ran a bath, and sat down on the toilet.
Alone.
After six months of competing for crowded outhouses, rash-inducing bark covered logs, and other makeshift sanitary contrivances, there was an unspeakable joy to sitting alone on a real flush toilet. I closed the bathroom door because I could.
Nearly an hour later I stepped out of the tub, slowly turned to the full-length mirror behind the door, and viewed my whole body for the first time since Camp Pendleton. I was a sinewy sight, built in a manner that was unfamiliar to my eyes. My chest, shoulders, and legs were white. My arms and neck were black. My ribs were all visible. I stared, first in disbelief and then with growing recognition, at the boy before me. Once certain that it really was me, I opened the door, walked across to the bed, pulled down the covers, and flung myself diagonally across the crisp white sheets.
I fell asleep immediately.
When I awoke two hours later, the sinking sun was spreading an orangey golden glow across the floor and the far wall of the room. Where was I? My flak jacket. I felt naked without my flak jacket. Wait. Okay. Yes. This is okay. How did I get here? Don’t I have to be somewhere? It’s getting dark.
What time is my watch set to?
Quiet.
It’s so quiet.
Realizing where I was, I sprang up, donned my new civvies, and headed down to the hotel bar. It was nearly empty. The mama-san was gathering up her things and heading out the door.
“Where is everybody?” I asked incredulously. “Am I in the right place?”
“Yes,” the woman replied. “This is place. You late. All my girls go with GIs. You come tomorrow early and I give you number one girl.”
Tomorrow?
While I had been upstairs taking a bath and napping, my fellow R&Rers had beat it directly to the bar and were now upstairs fucking their brains out. God damn it. Without delay, I headed to the taxi stand, bribed the driver well, and in less than an hour was back at the Shangri-La with—while not exactly Miss Right, she would have to do. There wasn’t time to inquire about her shot card. By early morning, we had had enough of each other. She thought I was a crazy insatiable madman (wait until I tell the boys in the squad!), and with the dawning light I was finding her gold tooth to be a distraction.
My first full day of R & R was heaven. I walked all over Singapore, guidebook in hand, saw the sights, and went to museums. By midafternoon, I found my way to Raffles Hotel, a vestige of the British colonial rule, and had a Singapore Sling at the very bar where it was first served.
Conscious of the time, I headed back to the hotel, went directly to the bar, and had the pick of the litter. My gorgeous selection could not have been in sharper contrast to that of the previous evening. As we exited, I settled with the mama-san for the balance of the week and headed upstairs. As with most of my comrades before and after, I fell in love and swore that I would return to Singapore to claim my prize after my discharge from the Marine Corps.
The following days were a blur. We toured, ate in wonderful restaurants, and listened to the explosion of new music from back home—the Hollies, the Doors, the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, and Jimi Hendrix.
It was heaven on earth.
On