I can hear the song,
T.Rex pumping out
the door:
the pelvic thrust
“You’re so sweet,
you’re so fine.
I want your all and ev’rything
just to be mine…
But the doorman
at the entrance to the club
says nicht GIs, no GIs.
He’s all fashioned-up
in a powder blue
bell bottomed suit
and wide-collared shirt
open at the throat.
I’m not quite so disco,
at least I'm not wearing jeans.
I’ve been mistaken
at times for Italian.
But not tonight.
I say, OK, I know you
don’t want trouble,
I’m not like that,
I know how to behave,
be polite, respectful.
He won’t look me in the eye.
Nicht GIs, no GIs.
I could try to pretend to be
a tourist, from Vancouver
if I had the right haircut.
But I’ve been emulating
my literary hero, Samuel Beckett
with buzzed sides and spiky top.
My grandpa Smith
had hair like that too
in the 30s. Nope.
All these German guys
look like they go to
the same stylist.
Well, so do the girls
for that matter,
without the mustaches.
I don’t really care,
it’s just an observation.
I just want to hear some music,
have a drink and dance.
I know how to dance,
especially to songs like
what’s coming out the door.
Is it because of the war
in Vietnam I wonder,
there are demonstrations
every week or so.
I’d go to them too if we weren’t
locked up on base those days.
I’m a conscientious objector
for God’s sake. Literally.
I don’t think
that’s the reason, actually.
It’s all the assholes who have
come before me.
Loud and proudly
showing off their
ignorance. Expecting
the girls to be wowed enough
to enthusiastically spread their legs.
That’s not me, I want to say
I just want to enjoy the music,
a drink and a dance or two.
Nicht GIs, he says and
looks away.
Inside the DJ is playing
another T Rex cut:
“Friends say it's fine
Friends say it's good
Everybody says
it's just like Robin Hood
...
Well it's plain to see
You were meant for me
Yeah, I'm your boy
Your 20th century toy.”
Apparently this 20th century
isn’t quite the one for me.
I’ll just go back to base
and read some more
Nietzsche, Mao or Beckett.
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