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Seventh Floor Soldier

Paul Smith

It was late spring, 1973. The bus from Fort Hood clattered noisily into the Dallas Greyhound station around nine thirty on a warm Saturday night. I grabbed my small bag and stepped off to the aroma of diesel in the humid air, the hiss of air brakes and the muffled squawk of the public address system announcing arrivals and departures. I'd thought of going on to my hometown of Oklahoma City on my 24 hour pass, but there just wasn't enough time- and beggars can't be choosers. I made a brief visit to the men's toilet to take a piss so intense it made me shiver, standing amongst a row of men holding delicious looking cocks. The large room, with it's 20 urinals and seven toilet stalls, held a great deal of promise, but it was just too crowded for safe cruising. I made a mental note to check it out at a more opportune moment.

I walked the five or six blocks to the YMCA, following the written instructions a friends in my unit had given me. Mike Mason stayed at the Dallas Y while waiting for a flight from Love Field home to Seattle a year before, and told me it was a cheap and fairly clean place to bunk. "Just be careful for the faggots," he'd told me. "Sometimes the place is crawling with them." "There'll be one more crawling around the place tonight, Corporal Mason," I said out loud. The sidewalks were busy, the movie marquees bright and colorful and the noises of the ...

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