Meyer/Schoepfer

In the band’s absence, the ballroom clattered with conversation. It sounded like a very large and popular restaurant in New York City at lunch time.

The trig Marine Corps captain looked sentimental as he answered my question.

“Don’t go on Thursday. If you want to see what it’s really like, Friday’s the night. It’ll be a real zoo then.”

“I suppose I come to find my knight in shining armor, or something like that. This is a good place to look. Most of the fellas here are officers, and they're usually gentlemen too.”

His mouth curled into a wistful smile, and for the next five minutes the captain was in his own private World. Instantly I recognized the reaction. Such transfigurations were common among junior officers when the Marine Corps Recruit Depot was mentioned. The Thursday and Friday night dances at the Officer’s Cub had that effect on them. That inward-looking gaze, the curious Mona Lisa smile, the relaxation of tension lines around the mouth and eyes. It was like instant meditation. Immediately I resolved to witness with my own eyes the social miracle that, from all reports, joined the fanatical devotion of a religious war with the tactics of a search and destroy mission. For one night I would ride to the jihad. That very Friday night I would join the crusaders on the field at MCRD, and live to write about it.

On the dance floor, twelve hundred gyrating bodies were corralled by a loose perimeter of wooden columns.

Arriving at nine-thirty, we followed a caravan of low-slung sports cars inching their way through the unlighted lanes of the parking field. On my right my wife seemed to be comparing the attributes of the legions of Porsches, Corvettes, and Jaguars with the sentimental qualities of our own sixty-five Pontiac.

My hand patted the dash. “Nothing like a heavy American car,” I said defensively.

“Yes, dear,’’ she replied with a knowing smile.

Outside we shivered in the cool night air as forlorn fragments of clouds followed a brilliant full moon. Palm trees whispered in the breeze. In the distance the MCRD Officers Club loomed like a monument under the blanketing moonlight. As we walked, we joined troops of young stylishly-dressed people flowing solemnly in its direction. It seemed to exert an almost magnetic pull on this relentless tide of humanity. A strange quiet cushioned the air. Some stray musical notes escaped through an open door, and the flow picked up. A brace of girls broke into an excited trot. My pace seemed to quicken. Two minutes later we were at the doors.

Inside, a brightly-lit lobby served as a checkpoint for a gimlet-eyed duty manager to inspect I.D. cards. He was tall and lean with only a dusting of fuzzy hair on his shiny head. He seemed remarkably calm amidst the welter of activity around him. Here young men paused to prove they were military officers, or to register civilian guests. Girls fluttered by and shot into ladies rooms for a last minute appraisal of their combat readiness. Quickly passing the checkpoint, my wife and I halted before the ballroom entrance to decide on a campaign strategy. Smartly, I briefed her on my plan to split up and compare reports later. Winking, she agreed with mock enthusiasm and skipped off into the darkened hall. A minute later I followed suit.

An avalanche of noise battered me, as I stumbled into the twilight of the ballroom. Somewhere a band blared rock music. In the unclear distance shadows boxed with other shadows in a sea of sound that crashed from wall to wall. The ballroom was almost the size of two basketball courts end to end. About fifty feet wide, the room was contained by dark paneled walls dropping from a raftered ceiling. Overhead, ersatz Spanish chandeliers hung somberly with dim light. On the dance floor, twelve hundred gyrating bodies were corralled by a loose perimeter of wooden columns. A sprinkling of tables and chairs dotted the territory beyond. Table candles that looked like large frozen teardrops shed a watery light across the faces of couples shouting in conversation. Around the border of the dance floor roamed restless herds of stray dancers seeking mates. Overseeing the entire spectacle was a large painting of a World War I doughboy. He stared impassively at some unknown vision.

Stationing myself within earshot of a strangely quiet clutch of girls, I focused on various aspects of the teeming mass before me. Directly in front, a sweaty young man seemed to be giving birth to a new dance routine. With the seriousness of a deacon at High Mass, he churned, pumped, and flailed until the music, and he, quivered to a halt. Panting violently, he limped back to the sidelines. Suddenly the quiet girls on my left squealed to life. A dark plump friend joined them from the dance floor. She was Latin-pretty with a wide honest face that spoke of cozy homes and large warm families. Her grin hinted of a candid hearty sense of humor. She somehow seemed out of place here. The once-quiet ones enveloped her as if to feed on her energy.

“I’d like to castrate that guy,’’ she pronounced with a glare in her eye.

The group buzzed in response.

“I’d like to do it with a rusty tin can,” she elaborated.

The others giggled and closed in for detailed discussion. Noticing my interest, two of the girls nailed me with poisonous glances and moved out of eavesdropping range. I was thankful no tin cans laid about.

Moving to a new observation post across the floor, I passed what could only be described as Vultures Row. Facing the band at the opposite end of the room was a section that commanded an unobstructed view of the dance floor. Like blackbirds on a telephone wire, a string of unsmiling young men perched themselves along the rim of this section. Intently staring at the dancers, they seemed to resent any interruption to their view.

One heavy held a beer bottle like a lighted Molotov cocktail. I scurried by, eager for the other side.

Sidling next to a well-endowed blonde, I positioned myself to observe a critical juncture in the skirmish of the sexes. As the music of the Mixed Breed screeched to a resounding stop, a sense of tension mounted the air. The army of dancers parted. The Moment of Truth had arrived. Some couples split immediately, a curt nod or thank you their only exchange. It was unlikely they would dance together again. Others paused and released peace feelers in the form of either a pertinent or impertinent remark. This was the most crucial point of the encounter. Here the committed party exposed his ego to the cruel slash of the snub. I watched the dallying couple before me.

The modishly dressed fellow looked interested. “This your first time here,” he asked the rubbernecking girl in hot pants.

“Nope. Been coming here for three years,” she replied looking past him.

He maneuvered into her line of vision. “Uh ... kinda crowded tonight, huh?” he pressed.

“Not really. Usually more people than this,” she responded as her eyes locked onto someone or something in the distance.

It was already too late; he had committed himself. “Look. You wanna dance again?” he urged almost frantically.

She slammed it home. “No thanks. Excuse me. I see a friend,” she trumped, scooting off into the crowd to enjoy her victory.

As the band howled into its next number, the chop-fallen casualty picked his way off the dance floor. He seemed to accept his defeat with the resignation of a monk. I watched as he retreated into the anonymity of the crowd and marched off in the direction of the bar. Presently, the courting rite of the American swinger renewed itself. Another song ended. Another dance stopped. Couples went asunder or lingered for another in a wild bewildering melee of aimless conversation and wonderful body language. It was a Psyche student's dream.

With the lights brightening and the band beginning their break, I decided to take the offensive.

I faced the buxom blonde. “May I ask why you came here tonight,” I ventured as innocently as possible.

She looked uncomfortable and very suspicious, as if I had said something obscene. “Because my girlfriends made me,” she responded tersely.

“That the only reason,” I persisted.

“Yep,” she replied as she moved away. “I don’t like it here. I only came because they wanted to.” She disappeared into the crowd.

I pulled out my pad and jotted down some notes.

Out of nowhere shot a short pretty girl with curly hair and a smile at the ready.

“Why ya taking notes?” she asked cheerfully.

“Hi. Well, I’m writing a story for . . .”

“I knew it. I knew it.” She jumped and clapped her hands as if excited over a home team touchdown.

“ . . . the Reader. And now may I ask you a question?”

She became wary. “Sure, I guess so. Fire away Mr. Reporter. But nothing embarrassing, okay?”

She had the kind of easy repetitive laugh that makes such people instantly liked.

“Okay. Why do you come here?”

After pausing a moment, she entrusted me with one of those fragile confiding looks, and smiled as if with relief. “I suppose I come to find my knight in shining armor, or something like that. This is a good place to look. Most of the fellas here are officers, and they're usually gentlemen too.”

“Have you ever come close to finding this knight of yours?” I persisted.

“Oh, sure. A couple of times in the three years I’ve been coming here. Somehow things never worked out, but you gotta keep trying, I suppose.”

In the band’s absence, the ballroom clattered with conversation. It sounded like a very large and popular restaurant in New York City at lunch time. The two bars in the room were besieged by clamoring crowds waving dollar bills at bustling bartenders. Throughout, the room discursive conversations sputtered between couples craning to see everyone else. I searched the hall for some sign that the “zoo” was about to begin. None appeared. I think I was disappointed. Then relaxing against a column to absorb the scene before me, I was brought quite suddenly to attention by the action of someone behind me. I had been goosed! And it was a very definite and forthright goosing at that. Perhaps the “zoo” was about to begin, I thought, and with me!

Furtively, my wife peeked around the corner of the column. “Hi hon,” she smiled mischievously.

After learning that she was tired and anxious to leave, I arranged to meet her in an hour. Then I decided to pay a visit to the back bar. Leaving, I passed a burly young man terrorizing his petite partner with a dance step that might result in involuntary manslaughter. The image of a drug-crazed skater out of control on a warped roller rink tickled my mind.

The back bar is really a large cocktail lounge nestled quietly behind the ballroom. Because of its relative tranquility, it has the reputation of being the preserve of the crones, or the older women. It has also been referred to as the Conversation Room to distinguish it from the Hustling Room, which is the ballroom. This lounge, about half the size of the ballroom, is also decorated along the same Spanish patterns. Chandeliers and table candles that smack of Holiday Inn restaurants furnish a soft illumination. In one corner, and taking up about a quarter of the room’s perimeter, squatted an enormous brown bar. Behind it, bartenders in red vests. As the opposite corner, a smaller bar serviced the thirsty from a nearby patio. Sitting at tables scattered throughout the room, newly-acquainted couples labored to get beyond the standard lines. Around them cliques of regulars gossiped in circles in the most visible parts of the room. Along the bar, hugging stools tacitly respected as places of prestige and seniority, sat the crones. These women, mostly divorcees and widows with an occasional lonesome wife among them, were the true veterans of MCRD. Some of them had been coming for ten or more years. Many were bedizened in flashy hot pants but most were more soberly dressed. All wore heavy makeup and seemed sad and stale. Suddenly, I felt tired and wanted to leave.

Choosing fresh air instead, I headed for the patio. Outside, the cool night breeze, the serene bay, and the swaying palm trees revived my spirit. Although I could hear the music, the ballroom seemed a million miles a-way. On the patio, contented couples sat talking at tables from which sprung great mushrooms of beach umbrellas. They seemed to know each other better than the couples inside. Refreshed, I took some deep breaths and ducked back in.

In the lounge I buttonholed a well-dressed man who appeared to be in his early thirties.

“You wanna know why I come here?” he slurred. “Well, it’s the best goddamn place in San Diego. The people are friendlier here. They’re less inhibited. There is no cover charge, the booze is cheap, and the women are plentiful. I guess that sums it up for me.”

Upon learning that he was forty-five, I asked him for his secret.

“Booze,” he exhaled, and ambled off in the direction of the bar.

Deciding to give his youth formula a try, I followed suit.

At the bar, I ordered a CC and ginger. I was charged seventy cents. Other mixed drinks ranged between sixty and eighty cents with bottled beer costing forty cents. Outside the service clubs such drinks could cost up to double the amount. When I noticed the maraschino cherries in the tray, my eyes widened. Being a cherry freak, i snatched two of the succulent red globes and popped them in my mouth. They were the best maraschino cherries I had ever eaten.

As I turned to leave, I noticed the striking redhead sitting on my right. I decided on one more interview before leaving.

After I learned that she had been coming to MCRD for nine years, I asked her about the old days and the Club’s reputation for being a “zoo.”

She lighted up. “Oh, this new generation doesn't know how to enjoy themselves anymore,” she complained. “They’re all potheads. Too quiet. Too reserved. Nobody gets drunk anymore. Why I remember when this place was really wild.” She looked past me. “Well. I’ll see ya. I’m meeting somebody. Bye.”

I said goodbye, as she checked her makeup in a compact mirror. Then she left. I thought her makeup was too heavy.

It was one-thirty when I met my wife in the lobby. The club would close at two. Taking her hand in mine, we strolled into the crystalline night. A few other people walked hand in hand. Many more walked singley to their cars.

“Sure was frantic in there,’ she whispered.

I knew she was glad to leave.

“Sure was. But there were some pretty good cherries in there.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” she shot back.

“The maraschinos. The best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Oh.” She kissed me on the nose.

Swiftly, we drove home.