AFTER a while, The Prisoner stopped going to the women who were brought by truck to the camp each month. The women were the scourings of the brothels of Benghazi. They were unwashed and shapeless, long past the freshness of youth, and in any other circumstance the men of the camp would have rejected them scornfully. But these were men who now loved without women, who were enjoined by a fierce discipline from seeking the traditional substitute, and so the day before the monthly visit was marked by a keen anticipation, heroic posturings, and a ribald good humor. On the day of the visit there was an animal roar when the truck came through the gates, a rush to claim the dubious prizes, and later on, after the women had left, the inevitable braggings of who had done what, and how many times.
In the beginning, The Prisoner was no different than the men he led. He made the jokes, coupled with the whores, and if, in the evening, he did not join the crowing of the cocks, he nodded and smiled at each gasconade. But after the first few months, that changed, and he no longer went to the women. He was at the gates each month when the truck arrived, making sure that order was maintained, but once the men had made their choices, he would absent himself from the scene. He offered no explanations for his conduct, he simply stopped, and it was an indication of the esteem in which he was held by his men that his abstinence did not lessen him in their eyes. In a world in which masculinity was judged by the simplest of standards, they did not judge him as they would have judged themselves. He was, to them, beyond such measurements.
On that day each month when the other men went with the women, it was the custom of The Prisoner to retreat to the privacy of the squad-room tent, and while the rest of the camp was busily rutting, he would play his music on the phonograph. No Verdi or Puccini at those times, no opera at all, but music from a small collection of tapes that he kept at the bottom of the pile. "Rhinestone Cowboy" and "Laughter in the Rain," Elton John singing "Philadelphia Freedom," "San Antonio Stroll" with Tanya Tucker. Yeah, and "Dust and Ice." Songs of a certain part of his life, a certain year, and that one day each month was the only time when he allowed himself the luxury of thinking about it. Linda Rondstadt singing "You're No Good," and with the volume turned down low he could close his eyes and let himself drift away back to those days when the four of them would lie around for hours in the Poodle's rooms playing the music and drinking herbal tea.
In the beginning there were only three of them. Later, after the Poodle came along they were four, but at first there were only the three college seniors, and they were inseparable. Mutt, Jeff, and the Pom-Pom Queen, but those were names that they used only among themselves, private names for their private world. Mutt and Jeff because one of the guys was short and the other one tall, and the Pom-Pom Queen because she was a blooming beauty on the cheerleading squad, shaking those puffs of blue and gold at all the games. Mutt and Jeff, and the collective girl of their dreams, they went everywhere together, and they were tight. It was an odd situation, but they were tight, and they told themselves that they would always be, no matter what happened. And something was going to happen that senior year, they all knew that. With two best friends in love with the same girl, something had to happen, and they swore that when it did they would still be tight, all three of them. One of the guys was going to win her, one of the guys was going to lose her, but that wasn't going to break up the team. They were young enough and innocent enough to believe that, and during the senior year they went everywhere together, Mutt and Jeff paying court while the Pom-Pom Queen made up her mind. It was a neat little triangle until the Poodle came along.
Came along? She came tagging after them like a playful puppy, yipping at their heels, begging to belong. She was a pest, she was a pain, she was everybody's kid sister. Worst of all she was only a junior, but after a while it was easier to let her tag along than to try to chase her, and then there were four of them. She wasn't part of the team, but she was there, and she turned the triangle into a square. She balanced things out. She was as dark as the Pom-Pom Queen was fair, as eager as the Pom-Pom Queen was cool, as concerned with the woes of the world as the Pom-Pom Queen was indifferent. She was the Poodle, and in the spring of seventy-five it was in her rooms that they gathered to lie around, drink her herbal tea, and listen to the music.
Seems like maybe half my life
Been driving down some bumpy road
Eating the dust that I make for myself,
Hauling some other man's load.
The Prisoner hummed along, thinking back to those bittersweet days. Sweet because the Pom-Pom Queen had been the first of his loves. He had loved others since, perhaps more fervently, but the Pom-Pom Queen had been the first, and hers was the love with the place in his memory. Sweet, too, because of Jeff. Now he was bound by knife and blood to twenty-two brothers whose destinies were entwined with his in a fashion far removed from a simple college friendship; but when he thought about those days, and how it had been with Mutt and Jeff traveling down the road together, the memories had to be sweet. Sweet, as well, because of the Poodle, who had started out as the little sister, and who had turned into something quite different.
Sweet, but bitter, as well. Bitter because someone had to win, someone had to lose, and he had been the loser. Bitter because, after the loss, he had realized for the first time that the cards had been stacked against him. Bitter because, despite all the promises, the team was never the same after that. And bitter because of what happened to the Poodle.
Other half of my life it seems
I'm driving up some icy hill
Sliding back more than I'm making up,
Cursing the cold and the chill.
Humming along, The Prisoner would rest, allowing himself the luxury of those bittersweet memories, and after a while he would sleep. It was always a peaceful sleep, with none of the horrors that visited him in the night. He was aware of this difference, and it was one of the reasons that he allowed himself the monthly luxury. He was a man of dedication, and he knew that such memories defined a weakness within him, but he was willing to trade the weakness for the sake of sleep.