Up...Periscope
Dullard Springs, Texas
Scruff Willitts stood over Scope Winkle’s grave and, for the first time in his life, cried.
The two men had been partners in love and love for more than twenty years.
When the fistful of dirt he held in his hand dropped and hit the mahogany coffin, Scruff flinched, just as he did in Kandahar with each roar a M777 throwing steel at the enemy.
He and Scope had met between his first and second deployment to Afghanistan. A mandatory leave at the bequest of his company commander. Through wars, long separations, betrayals forgiven, and years spent beneath the endless sky of West Texas, they stayed together. Most people in Dullard Springs knew. There were whispers, certainly, but in the end, no one cared about two men in love.
Another mourner, another handful of Texas dirt. Another memory of Kandahar and the blast of a 155mm.
Scuff found himself lost between memory and the moment, flashing on the horrors of that first deployment and of death and dying. Outright murder.
He glanced down into the hole. Trying to remember the man, the love.
Another drop of dirt, another blast.
He reeled in his emotion, so easy for a man not really noted for emotion. Mourners continued to pass, offering small thoughts and kind words.
We’re so sorry
It’ll be fine.
Is there anything we can do?
He said nothing.
Some of the faces he recognized.
The old rancher and his wife from up the road stopped. Scuff and Scope helped rebuild a barn after a powerful summer storm. The two couples became fast friends, spending time together working the ranch or just sitting on the porch drinking Coors Lite.
Kelly Jackson from the Ace Hardware shook Scruff’s hand.
Goddamn shame, he whispered. I mean a fucking goddamned shame.
Scruff squeezed his hand once and let go.
Then came the woman from the grocery store. The town drunk. Doc Wilson. Teachers. Farmers. Retired Marines.
Each carried a handful of dirt.
Each offered condolences.
Each left a little more earth between Scruff and the man he loved.
A day after graduating at the top of his class in Dullard Springs, Texas, Scruff Willitts walked into the Marine Corps recruiting office and enlisted, just as his father had done before him, and his grandfather before that. Service ran through the Willitts family like a long held family curse or genetic marker.
At eighteen, Scruff appeared a recruiting poster come to life. He stood six-foot-five, weighed two hundred and ten pounds, and carried himself with an easy confidence of a young man who had never doubted his place in the world. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, intelligent, athletic, and openly gay, he drew attention whether he wanted it or not.
His mother, Nida, ruled their household with an iron will and a generous heart. From her, Scruff learned empathy, patience, and the importance of treating people fairly. His father, Bobby Earl Ray Willitts, taught him harder lessons. How to fight. How to endure pain. How to keep moving when common sense suggested quitting. How to hit first, hit hard, and beg his opponent to stand up.
Together his parents made him into a capable young man.
The Marines finished the job.
Boot camp fucked away whatever softness remained and replaced it with discipline, aggression, and purpose. Afghanistan taught him something else entirely.
It taught him that he was a killer.
At outright murderer.
Scruff never flaunted his sexuality, especially in the Marine Corps. Truth be told, he rarely spoke about it at all.
Back in high school, he had a boyfriend. Everybody knew it, few were dumb enough to challenge the correctness of the relationship. They dare not interpret it through the lens of religion or political theology. A handful of boys tried when they were younger. Scruff made examples of them.
Word traveled fast through Dullard Springs.
After that, folks kept quiet. Opinions were like assholes, and there were enough assholes in the world.
When Scruff finally told his parents how he saw himself, neither seemed particularly surprised. They almost seemed bothered by the announcement, as if they had known for a while.
His mother looked up from the kitchen table.
His father, Bobby Earl Ray took another sip of bourbon enhanced coffee.
And nothing more.
No explosion of anger, no pronouncement of disbelief. Nothing
Bobby Earl just shrugged.
So, you’re a fag.
Scruff braced himself.
Yeah, I guess.
Don’t bother me much.
His father set the mug down.
There were plenty of fags in the Corps, in my day. Some were good Marines. Some weren’t. Same as everybody else. Some could fight. Some couldn’t.
Nida pointed a finger at her husband.
Such a way with words, you old devil.
Just saying.
Nida turned back to Scruff.
You happy, son?
More or less.
Well then, there’s no problem, least with me. Or your father.
Jack Brewster, Scruff’s best friend and business partner, gripped his hand after the last of the mourners had drifted away.
Bad deal about Scope.
Yeah, it is.
Jack glanced toward the grave. Picked at something in his teeth.
You gonna be alright?
Scruff considered the question.
No, probably not.
Jack nodded.
Fair enough.
I mean, eventually, you know? But not today. I miss him already.
You fellas were together a long-damned time, you know? Long time.
Twenty-three years.
Jack whistled softly.
Longer than most…um…straight marriages.
Scruff smiled.
All marriages, Jack.
The two men stood in silence for a while, staring at the fresh mound of earth.
You know, Jack said finally, I’m not clear as to how he got stuck with that name? Scope?
That brought an actual smile.
He had a number of nicknames.
Scruff looked down at the grave.
His legal name was Anderson May Winkle.
During the break between 10th and 11th grade, some boys at summer camp had noticed his unfortunate habit of getting erections at inconvenient moments.
There he goes, one of them had shouted during a trip to the showers. Up periscope!
The nickname stuck.
Over time Up Periscope became simply Scope.
Most people knew him by that name.
Others knew him as Peri.
That one came years later in Houston.
A drag queen named Angelica P. Brown heard the story behind Scope’s nickname and laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.
Periscope? She said. Girl, your name should be Periwinkle.
The name stuck even faster than the first one.
Whenever Scruff deployed overseas, Scope became Periwinkle.
Thursday through Sunday, Periwinkle ruled the stage at the Glitter Room, wrapped in sequins, makeup, and enough attitude that terrified most grown men. She sang, danced, flirted, and collected admirers the same way other people collected bad habits.
The remarkable thing was that Scope and Periwinkle never felt like different people.
One was simply the version the world saw.
The other was the man who came home to Scruff Willitts bed.