I eased the door open. Suddenly light, blinding light from what seemed like a row of high-intensity bulbs against mirrored walls. I staggered, and when I could see clearer I saw a king-size bed with disheveled white sheets and two white bodies coupling furiously. On the wall in every direction was the repeated image of the two men coupling, 360 degrees of it. Even the floor was mirrored, and the image kept repeating and repeating as if it extended into infinity. The men locked in each other’s arms seemed to be enjoying immortality as much as each other. The multiplication of images and light gave me a headache. I closed the door.

The second room was decorated like an army barracks. Metal bunk beds and olive green footlockers filled the floor space. Against the far wall were rifles and military uniforms hanging by nails and hangers. From somewhere in the ceiling a Sousa march was piped in on tape with the sound of men calling out cadence. The burnt smell of ammunition was in the air. I noticed movement on the bunk beds and around the footlockers. Men dressed in uniform gathered close to me. No one spoke but I figured I could join them if I put on one of the uniforms. I remained by the door. The light from the hallway must have disturbed some because they looked at me with scorn. “Close the door, Private,” someone said. “Close the fucking door.”

A hand behind me closed it. When my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting inside I saw men fondling empty black boots and rifles. A man in uniform lay above another, but by the movement of their hands and mouths they appeared to be making love to the olive-drab fatigues, the steel-toed boots, the insignia rather than the men inside them. Someone started shouting commands. Another was marching in place, his eyes straight, lifeless. A voice above him: “And you, Private, what makes you think you got what it takes to be an officer?”

“Nothing, sir!”

I watched him go to his knees, his hands grabbing desperately at another man’s pants, but it was the pants themselves he was after, their smell of sweat and fatigue.

“Where’s your uniform, Private?”

I inched backwards toward the door. I prayed it would open.

“Where’s your uniform, Private?” Then louder, “Hey, guys, he ain’t got no uniform.” Suddenly several pairs of eyes focused on me. I cracked open the door. A hand nearby blocked it. “Let the sergeant pass,” I said in a deep voice. The darkness hid enough of my nakedness to enlarge my voice. I said again, louder, “Let the sergeant pass.”

The door opened. I was in the hallway again. Safe.