Episode 15. Fun Party (1)
1912 winter.
Just as the first snowflakes began to flutter down, we managed to snag some Christmas leave.
Anastacio, fresh from the warm subtropical Philippines to New York, pitifully turned into a deflated Charmander, wrapping himself up in blankets and shuffling off to the infirmary.
Last year around this time, he'd been like a hibernating squirrel that wouldn't poke its nose out from under the covers, but at least after surviving a year, he wasn't on death's door like before. Progress.
And so, West Point's Suicide Squad—no, the Avengers: me, Ike, Omar, and James—headed off to Kansas with all the pomp and swagger we could muster.
"Kansas! My homeland! You know how great Kansas is—"
"Hicksville."
"Goddammit. Hear me out, Kansas—"
"Famous for tornadoes."
"Watch it. You might get swept up sleeping at Ike's place and end up in Oz, house and all."
A remote Kansas farmhouse, sleeping one night, and suddenly a terrifying whirlwind—nah. Let's not go there. I'm not some old fogey... I'm a young, fresh kid...
Even after mercilessly crushing his hometown pride, Ike spent hours on the train preaching the greatness of Kansas.
Bradley, from next-door Missouri—another podunk spot—kept poking at him with, "We got all that where I'm from too." Van Fleet from Florida and me, the San Francisco native, chimed in with "Ooh, country bumpkins" and had a field day teasing.
Ike's place was in the sticks even by Kansas standards, so we headed first to Dyke's house, closer to the station.
"What the hell."
"House is fucking huge."
"You sure you didn't get the address wrong?"
A classic American mansion.
Sprawling lawn, massive fence. It screamed money—no way this was some average Joe's home.
We four middle-class sons, none born with silver spoons, just stood there babbling nonsense in front of it.
Ike shook his head vigorously.
"Nah. Maybe he gave us a fake address 'cause he doesn't wanna see us?"
"If that's true, we gotta give him a Kansas-style execution. Let's call someone—"
As we muttered back and forth, the door flew open and someone bellowed from the house.
"Ike! Guys!!"
"Long time no see."
"Thought you'd show up all skin and bones from blubbering, but looks like you've packed on more pounds."
"That's not pounds... looks like he's just been stuffing his face all day?"
Dyke had clearly... rounded out. A lot.
His chiseled, angular muscles were gone; now he was just a musclebound hog standing before us. West Point had claimed another life...
"Get in here! Dad's been waiting too!"
"Your dad?"
"Yup. When I asked if I could invite West Point buddies, he insisted. This Christmas party's gonna be a big one—"
"Wait, hold up. Nobody told me about that."
The pupils of us four commoners started quaking.
Our idea of a "party" was getting hammered, smoking, singing, playing games, cracking peanuts, and lamenting our celibate lives. That's it.
But in a ritzy house like this? "A bit big?" If a well-off kid like Dyke called it "a bit big," how extravagant could it really be? No clue.
We bleated like lambs to the slaughter, letting Dyke drag us inside, where a hearty-looking gentleman awaited.
"Welcome, future pillars of the U.S. Army!"
"Hello, sir."
"Thanks for befriending my worthless son. After he got kicked out, he cried rivers for days. If not for your letters, I might've shipped him overseas."
We spent some time in the drawing room with light refreshments.
Dyke's dad was a doctor and a local bigwig. Doctors made bank back then too, same as now.
We'd conspired to "chat a bit and bail," but Dr. Dyke had already bragged far and wide that "the future leaders of America" would attend his Christmas bash.
Not that I'd argue—West Point class had only about a hundred guys, and those three minus me really did lead America in original history.
But thanks to the hype, we got dragged straight to the party.
"Whoa."
"Whoa, shit."
"Shh. Might get court-martialed for unbecoming conduct."
"What do we even do here?"
"Dunno. Park in a corner and stuff our faces."
Even Plan B—hunker in the corner—failed spectacularly.
Four tall, buff guys in crisp West Point uniforms clustered together? Impossible not to draw eyes.
"Dammit. Camouflage failed."
"Gotta review small-unit tactics."
As we grumbled, we got roped into meeting folks introduced by damn Dyke and his dad.
"Ah. Welcome to Kansas, young friends."
"Hello, sir!"
As the party heated up, the guys started rolling eyes at each other before slyly asking ladies in dresses to dance.
Damn bastards.
Don't abandon the poor yellow monkey...
Don't grin like that while dancing with girls, Omar.
Even a quick scan showed racial lines. Me jumping in would just make things awkward.
Of course, standing like a Moai statue wasn't polite either.
But think about it: some Asian suddenly asks for a dance? Accept, and gossip calls it "yellow monkey dancing." Refuse, and you're the racist. Damned either way.
So best for me to skip dancing and take the "rude guy" hit.
I was sipping wine, watching my buddies show off polished moves, when—
"Hm, Cadet Kim, was it?"
"Feel free to call me Eugene."
Dr. Dyke approached me.
Makes sense. Bad form for a host to leave a guest idle.
"Why are you here alone?"
"You know why, sir. Me even asking someone to dance might make them uncomfortable."
"...I've heard about you from my daughter. As expected, you're quite considerate."
"Considerate? You're too kind. Just survival instincts for a person of color."
He pondered without replying.
"Truth is, this crowd isn't as hostile to people of color as you might think."
"Really?"
"Yes. I mentioned you when planning the party."
Unexpected. Or is it? "An Asian cadet's coming—uncomfortable folks, see you next time." Smart way to keep it smooth.
"Some folks expressed interest in you."
"In me?"
"Don't misunderstand. Not like zoo monkeys. People who want to meet and talk. If you're uncomfortable, no issue, but could you spare a moment?"
"Of course. Thanks for the consideration."
"This way, then. They're in the annex."
What?
Not the main party—in the annex?
Mind raced: minority something? Japanese spy? Pistol out, "Pledge loyalty to the Empire!"—
Nope. No clue.
I shoved the fantasies aside and followed to the annex.
"I'll leave you to it. Come back after."
"Got it."
A quick bow of thanks, and I opened the annex door.
"Hello, I'm Eugene Kim."
A family awaited in the annex.
One older man.
One guy about my age.
And two women around my age.
"Pleased to meet you. After Dr. Dyke mentioned you, I had to meet."
A sharp-dressed middle-aged man approached first.
Clearly not a typical white guy. Mixed blood, then? Related to the interest?
"I'm Charles Curtis. Kansas senator."
A big shot.
"As you see, I'm mixed. My mother was Native-French."
"I've been fighting racial barriers too, but thanks to pioneers like you, Senator Curtis, I've benefited greatly."
"Nonsense. I'm half-white at least; you have zero white blood. Hearing of someone challenging a tougher path, I wanted to meet."
News to me.
A mixed-blood congressman? I'd figured D.C. would drag him out yelling, "Smells like rotten Indian? Only good Indians are dead ones." Guess not.
He introduced his kids: second son Henry (three years older), eldest daughter Leona (one year older), and Dorothy (same age). Eldest son was absent.
"So, plans after West Point?"
"Serve my homeland diligently."
"Natural. That's all?"
"Might not even get to serve."
He frowned.
"That damn race issue blocking commissioning? Those war department bastards—"
"No, sir. I bet my diploma."
Curtis and the kids perked up. Fireworks, fights, bets—entertainment gold.
I slowly spun the tale of that history-class bet and stakes. Their jaws dropped wider with every word.
"Ha. So if no war before graduation, your diploma vanishes?"
"Pretty much."
"Ridiculous. Can't waste four years of taxpayer money on a bet. If trouble in two years, write me."
"No need. I'm certain war's coming."
War will happen.
If not, this ain't my Earth—Earth-18 or something. Live as a commoner.
Can't say that straight; I'd end up in the loony bin. Had to soften it.
"If you're sure, fine. But even if wrong, commission first, then plan career. That's best."
"Advice noted."
"That instructor's got no say anyway. A mere instructor gambling a cadet's future? If you don't graduate, he'll be stripped too. Bet on it. Qualification issue."
Surprisingly, he focused less on the bet, more on my need to make a splash to prove myself.
He got it—been there himself. I hadn't even mentioned it explicitly.
"Time's flown. Can't keep Dr. Dyke waiting. Head to the party; we'll follow."
"See you there."
Another bow to the Curtises, and I left the annex.
Felt like backing from a fellow person of color, but wise to tangle with a politician now?
Curtis was Republican.
Just a month ago, next president: Democrat Woodrow Wilson. He served two terms, covering my commissioning to junior officer years—eight years Democrat rule. No coincidence I keep ties with Syngman Rhee.
Republicans regain power later, but after epic corruption, Hoover crashes into Depression, then FDR and Truman eat 20 years more. Democrat dynasty.
As minorities, alliance makes sense, but would Republican ties help or hurt?
My homework now.
"How was he?"
After Eugene left, Senator Curtis turned to his kids.
"Bold and fun guy."
He lit a cigar at his son's words.
"Indeed. Takes that guts to survive the white world. Could you have bet like that at his age?"
"Hell no."
Henry shook his head.
Leona agreed.
"Too risky, no? Four years wasted if wrong."
"That's the sin of not being born white."
"Poor guy... but hard to befriend. What if he ends up in jail?"
"Jail? Why?"
Dorothy snorted.
"You heard him. Judge and jury'll listen to his fairy tale and bang the gavel: 'Uh... not guilty, sure.'"
"True. How's he blab about betting his own diploma?"
As Leona giggled, Dorothy sidled up to her dad, puffing away nonchalantly.
"Dad."
"Yeah?"
"Want something. Can you get it for me?"
"What?"
He nodded knowingly; she beamed innocently.
"Hanging with a nut like that, bet life won't be boring, right?"