‘We gotta’ get outta this place’

Published 9:14 am Monday, October 14, 2024

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By Bonnie Bartel Latino

Columnist

My Air Force husband, Tom and I, had just walked around the corner to go to an impromptu party our neighbors, Janet, and Rick, had invited us to. We had only met them a couple of times. Although Rick was a major, their quarters looked exactly like our pre-World War wooden, shotgun home at March Air Force Base.

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Tom rang the doorbell once, then turned to me with a smile dancing in his voice. “I really love you in that dress.” I smirked. “So, you’ve said, First Lt. Latino.” We had no idea what we were about to step into. In retrospect, if Rod Serling himself had answered the door, it would have been appropriate.

Janet welcomed us into their home filled with the chatter of several attractive couples. Rick  introduced us to those we hadn’t met, which were all of them except for my friend, Cessie, from the March Lady staff and her husband, Lt. Col. Joe Sanchez, plus Chaplain Foster and his cute bubbly wife, Inez, who also wrote for the March Lady. The other couples were all Air Force, too, but most lived off base. Chaplain and Mrs. Foster lived next door to Janet and Rick.

Our hostess had arranged an enormous buffet of mostly finger food and a large silver bowl of punch on the dining room table. Prettily appointed silver trays of all shapes sat atop an embossed white linen tablecloth draped to the floor. From sunflowers mixed with autumn leaves and greenery, which she had probably bought from the commissary, Janet had created a stunning arrangement that spilled from a burnt-orange, ceramic cornucopia.

After Chaplain Foster said the blessing, everyone became better acquainted around the buffet. Everyone else seemed to know one other except for Chaplain Foster, Inez, Cessie, Joe and us. As Tom and I returned our plates and forks to the kitchen, I heard Cessie ask Janet where their kids were. Janet smiled smugly. “Our two rug rats are at sleep-overs with friends.” She seemed positively giddy to have an entire evening free with her husband and friends.

Half-an-hour later, Chaplain Foster and Inez excused themselves to go to another event on base. Janet stood at the kitchen window and watched their car back down the chaplain’s driveway. Then she closed all the kitchen checkered curtains. She nodded to Rick and smiled. It looked … sly. I thought that slightly odd. Rick went to the stereo and put on a stack of 45s. Janet’s best friend, Marcella, practically did pirouettes as she danced around the large room turning down all the lights.

As Johnny Mathis’ “Chances Are” filled the room, everyone began to dance. “Your favorite, Bon,” Tom whispered, taking my hand, as Joe did with Cessie. No one stopped dancing when “Unchained Melody” began. Half-way through the Righteous Brothers’ hit song from the ‘60s, I heard several metal clunk sounds. “What was that?” I asked Tom. Before he answered, Rick said, “C’mon. Everybody toss your car or house keys in.” Within seconds, newly-paired couples as silly as eighth-graders began to flirt. One new couple was already making out on the dance floor while others scurried down the main hall. Yet another couple stared toward an enclosed patio. I looked at Tom. His wide unbelieving eyes told me he was as shocked as I.

“Come with me,” I whispered as I yanked him toward the buffet table, pulled up the tablecloth, and we crawled inside our own private tent. Then, what did my wondering eyes see, but Cessie and Joe huddled together. Their faces reflected total bewilderment. Cessie and I giggled nervously, but Joe hushed us. Tom looked at him. “We can’t be here.” Joe nodded agreement as he raised the tablecloth nearest the kitchen and peeked into the room. “OK,” he whispered. “Let’s head for the kitchen door.”

Once outside, we jumped into the Sanchez’s car parked out front. Tom and I ducked down into the back seat. They dropped us off around the corner at our house. Cessie and I were shaking. “You realize, they’ll probably think we’ve gone,” she said through chattering teeth, “somewhere private!”

“Ugh,” I said, “like to our house.” We don’t dare invite y’all to come-in tonight.” They agreed, and Joe quickly drove away. The four of us were never invited to another one of those parties. I’m sure we failed the “Cool Kids” test. No one ever mentioned that night again.

Did this happen because we lived in the “Counter-culture Hippie Land,” aka California, in the “Swinging Seventies”? Originally, I thought maybe so, until a civilian from SW Alabama told me the same thing happened during that era in the small town where she lived.

In fairness to the Air Force, nothing remotely similar ever happened to us again during Tom’s 30 years of service. I’ve spoken about this to enough military couples that I’m convinced it was a rare deviation from Air Force standards, an aberration. My guess is that Lt Col. Sanchez, the senior officer at the party, reported the party to the Office of Special Investigations at March. The Vietnam War still raged. The hosts hadn’t really known us. The officers, who played the game, could have set themselves up for extortion.