In 1984, I was a young PFC in the 82nd Airborne Division. We got word that the Regimental Ball was going to be held in about a month or so. For all us young bucks, the hunt was on to find dates. A few weeks later, I met this girl at one of the local watering holes, The Cue and Ale. We got along pretty well, shared a few laughs, a few drinks and a few dances. She was also pretty easy on the eye - Brunette, blue eyes and a walk that set old men's pacemakers off. We went out a couple of times after that, though she had something of an odd work schedule that we had to work around.
With the Regimental Ball looming, and me still without a date, I asked her if she wanted to go. I was surprised when she jumped at the chance. Over dinner one night, I went over the Rules of the Mess with her explaining that there were certain things that were and weren't done at a military get together as opposed to a civilian one. She said that it was cool and she had the perfect dress for it. Having never been to her house, I asked for directions, which she readily gave me.
The evening of the Ball arrived and I giddily hopped into my Dress Greens, straightened out my bow tie (don't know why, it was a clip on after all.) and drove over to pick her up. This is where things start to go south.
First, she lived in what would generously be called a mobile home. I'm not saying that folks that live in mobile homes are bad people, but one in a state such as this? There's a word for it in law enforcement - it's called a clue. I walked up the creaking steps and knocked on the door. A couple of minutes later, my date opens the door and she's a knock-out in a long red backless dress with a neckline that plunged to almost to her navel. I thought it was a little risqué for the event. "Uh-oh," I think. "I'm probably gonna get a talking to over this one." Still, she looked smoking hot. Then she took a step forward. The dress was also slit up to her hip and on her bare leg was a tattoo and not a small one either. It was a tattoo of a dragon and it started at her hip and wound around her thigh and calf, ending just above her ankle. While tattooed girls are common today, please remember that this was 1984 and the only girls that had ink were biker babes and (it dawned on me) strippers. This was certainly not the kind of girl you brought home to mother or a military ball, for that matter.
My world is rapidly turning into liquid doo-doo at this point, "Rebecca...Where is it that you work?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Club Platinum." She answered. Now I KNOW I'm gonna get smoked for this.
I realize at this point I'm committed. I should have asked where she worked much earlier, but I didn't. I can't back out, I can only go forward. I'm in the middle of the kill zone and my only option is to empty the magazine and assault through the objective.
While I've never been on death row and had to walk the last mile, I do know what the feeling is like. That was the longest five mile drive of my life. With a growing sense of unease and impending doom, we arrive at the hotel where the Ball is being held. As we walk through the door and are shown to our table, I see my First Sergeant looking at me. He's about to go nuclear and PFC Lebben is ground zero.
After we're seated, I see 1SG Snow motioning for me. I excuse myself to go see him. He grabs me by the scruff of the neck and hauls me aside.
"What the (it sounded like "truck." or maybe "cluck) are you doing bringing a hooker to the Regimental Ball? Couldn't you find a normal date instead of a rental?"
"She's not a hooker, 1SG." I stood my ground. I was pretty happy about that.
"Then what the (insert expletive here) is she?"
"She's a...a...dancer"
He exploded. "A DANCER! Jeezus-H-Tap Dancing-Keerist!! You brought a stripper to the ball? That's nearly as bad!" he started to continue when he looked over my shoulder and the color drained from his face.
"Dear God! She's talking to the Battalion Commander's wife! Get her, Lebben...GET HER... and get her the (expletive deleted) out of here. NOW PFC Lebben, MOVE!"
So I scurry over to my date and the Battalion Commander's wife. I gently steer my date away, whisper a few sweet nothings in her ear and whisk her away to hotel room where I do my Airborne best to rub that tattoo off her thigh.
This was on a Friday night. I figured, hoped really, that the whole thing would just blow over and be written off as young paratrooper high-jinks. Such was not the case. Monday morning, I was unceremoniously rolled out of the bunk an hour before first call and told to report to the 1SG. I was in the process of being "counseled" out at the bear pit, when the CQ runner came up and told the 1SG that I was wanted at Battalion headquarters. He marched over there where my "counseling" continued for the next two hours under the watchful eye of the battalion CSM. I was sore for a week after that.
From that point forward, whenever we had an event that included wives/girlfriends, the First Sergeant made it a point to say, "...And NO HOOKERS, Lebben."
"She wasn't a hooker, First Sergeant, she was a dancer."
"Same difference. Do push ups, hammerhead."
Rebecca's stage name was "Sweet Honesty." As I was to later find out, she was neither very sweet or very honest.
