Caro's Descent

Chapter Fifteen - A.I.T.

Once again, I was in Fourth Platoon, this time under Drill Sergeant Simmons. Advanced Individual Training (A.I.T.) was a shift from basic training. The barracks were much improved. Upon entering, you found a lobby with the Drill Sergeants' offices to the left. Beyond that, double doors led to the female quarters, and a right corridor housed the male and female bathrooms, and laundry room.

The spacious day room featured a Charge of Quarters (C.Q.) desk, a large television with a VCR, chairs for ten rows of soldiers, and a pool table in the corner. My new friend, James Sharp, was always the life of the party. I'd gotten to know him well. Although he had natural charisma, he honed it by charming his parents' patrons at their restaurant while he was supposed to be doing his homework.

The upper floors housed male soldiers in three-man rooms, a definite upgrade from the open bay layout of basic training. Inside each room, three wall lockers lined one side, with a bathroom door on the left. The far left corner had bunk beds, and the right corner held a single bed. I slept on the bottom bunk. Each pair of rooms shared a bathroom in the center. We raced to shower every morning because the first one in could lock the door and keep others waiting.

My roommates were Private Melvin, from basic training, and Private Sharp, the soldier I met on the bus. Sharp, who has always gotten his way since his rebellious days in Los Angeles, claimed the single bed. Melvin had the top bunk above mine.

Of the three of us, twenty-six-year-old Melvin from Texas was the oldest. The Texan had short black hair and a slender build. When the lights hit him right, a hint of red glowed from his pale-white skin, suggesting he suffered from acne when he was younger. Melvin had glasses but hated wearing them. Although about the same height as me, he appeared taller. There wasn't the slightest slouch in Melvin's posture. He had broad shoulders and walked from the hips, slightly bull-legged. For a man of his size, Melvin's surprisingly deep voice often caught people off guard.

Sharp, on the other hand, was a different story. At twenty-one, the soldier from California was confident but not cocky. With his stocky build, Sharp stood two inches shorter than me. Yet, Sharp's presence was larger than life. A trait hammered into him by the need to constantly prove himself back home. "You need to make it big, James. You're our hope for a better future," his mother's words constantly echoing in his mind. There was a certain aura surrounding this soldier. Others seemed drawn to him. Sharp had a habit of turning every situation into a good time. His playful demeanor and self-confidence made him irresistible to women and fun to be around, yet it also masked a deeper loneliness he seldom revealed. He still struggled with genuine connection, torn between the freedom he craved and the fear of failing his parents' expectations.

We were two weeks into A.I.T. and hadn't had a free weekend yet. Sharp, already known as a player, had already had sex with six different girls—and who knows how many day room handjobs?

The day room was where the magic happened. It was too dangerous for the females to get to the male barracks rooms or vice versa without getting caught, so they met in the day room. A few dollars for the C.Q. on duty to look the other way, pop in a movie, and soon she'd have a cramp in her forearm. Many of the females hung out like prostitutes. They made about twenty dollars a whack and needed only to use their hands. Sharp had paid for a few but got most for free, using his charm like currency. "Why pay when you can talk your way into anything?" he would clown, always grinning, a trick learned as a popular high schooler deflecting from his insecurities.

It was a Thursday night. The last night before the big weekend. Friday would begin our first weekend of freedom. Sharp and I played pool in the day room. My eyes kept settling on the two cute girls standing by the television.

"I see what you're looking at, Caro," Sharp chuckled, leaning on his pool cue. "You're into the chocolate."

"Chocolate?" I asked, brows furrowed at the term. "What do you mean?"