I'm not sure why LT PK and I hit it off. Back at Hood we ran a gunnery range together and got along pretty well. He has a sarcastic sense of humor that I can readily identify with. I am not sure how well liked he is among his peers and troops, and while I wouldn't call us fast friends, but we get along pretty well despite the age and rank difference.
I was chewing my Cornish game hen and LT PK was cussing Jody when I saw some heads turning and necks craning at the tables around us. LT PK pointed behind me. "Saint's cheerleaders."
I turned to look and there were three or four girls standing in the chow line. They were being escorted by a couple of officers. One wore tight jeans, another a black micro skirt that might make a good hankie. Lots of makeup, big hairdos, child sized tee shirts. They were drawing a lot of attention, needless to say.
I took a good look and turned back to my food.
"How'd you like to have that job, escorting them around?" LT PK asked.
"Eh," I shrugged.
"What? Not a fan?" He said, with raised eyebrows.
I'm standing in the lobby of the FT Hood guest house. It's probably 2004, 2005 and I'm up there for weekend drill. I'm wearing civilian clothes because I have the goatee because I'm working undercover at the Task Force. I'm standing in line behind a gaggle of fourteen or fifteen cheerleaders. Emblems on their baggage and clothing identify them as San Francisco 49er cheerleaders. None of the girls pay any attention to me. They gab or text on cell phones or chat with each other as they wait for rooms.
They are all heavily made up. Lot's of mascara, eyeshadow. Long nails, long hair, locked in placed with copious amounts of hairspray. They are wearing casual athletic attire, most of it pretty snug. Lots of shorts. I hate waiting in line but I don't mind it so much today.
An Army aviator walks in and joins the line. She is a captain, doesn't look thirty yet. The cheerleaders look at the female captain in her flight suit and combat boots and unpainted nails and while nothing is said there is an almost tangible sense of superiority when they look back to their cell phones or resume their conversations with their friends.
I look her over. She is petite but fit. Short blonde hair, big hazel eyes, no makeup that I can tell. Pretty. She wears a green flightsuit that doesn't do anything to hide her curves. She looks bad ass. Athletic and healthy and natural. I look at her and the cheerleaders and it's no contest. The cheerleaders, while aggressively sexy, reek of high maintenance and drama. The captain is strong and exudes confidence. She has something that goes beyond looks, that those cheerleaders, for all the attention heaped upon them can never hope to match.
I looked back at the cheerleaders in the chow line. They had their plastic plates on their trays and I looked at their butts and their boobs and their long legs. As they moved through the line and were served by the Malaysian workers, one of the girls turned to her friend in line and made a little "eww" face at the selection.
I turned back to Lieutenant PK. "Not my type, " I said.