CAPTAIN UNDERPANTS: Alone, Unclothed and Unashamed

Perfectly located in the middle of nowhere, Altus AFB is used to train pilots on transport and tanker aircraft. In the fall of 1991, I was one of those pilots learning to fly the Lockheed C-141.

One night, a few of us went downtown to a local watering hole. I think the place was named “Yee Ha Billy’s.” It was smokier than the inside of a catalytic converter with lots of big belt buckles dancing the night away.

After a night of many beers and belt buckle envy, we headed back to base. The billeting building was built circa 1940 and heated via an antiquated, centrally controlled radiator system. The system had two settings, “full blowtorch” and “sorry sucker, no heat for you.” It was the middle of winter, so my room was hotter than a cup of McDonald’s coffee, pre-lawsuit.

Stepping into my room felt like walking into a pizza oven. Because of the intense heat and my smoky t-shirt, I stripped down to my tighty whities. I drank a lot of water and passed out in a sweaty, drunken sleep. Visions of calzones and huge belt buckles danced in my head.

 A few hours later, I woke in need of the restroom. I was half asleep and disoriented as I drunkenly stumbled around.  Soon, I realized I was trying to open a locked door.

Why the heck is my bathroom door locked?

Frustrated, I woke further and discovered I was locked out of my room. I was in the building’s main hallway, in just my tighty whities.

The hallway was considerably cooler than my Saharan room, so I needed a plan. Of all the options available to a locked-out, drunk, BVD-clad Air Force captain at three am, I immediately ruled out a Taco Bell run—my wallet was still in the room.  My next option of roof stomping the base commander’s house in all my glory also didn’t pass muster. I lastly ruled out going outside to shimmy through my room’s window because it was 20 degrees.

Guess I’m taking the walk of shame to the front desk. They’ve probably dealt with this situation before. I bet they even have a spare pair of pants or a loincloth behind the desk for young, unclothed officers.

I sucked in my stomach, puffed out my chest and headed to the front desk. At three in the morning, I expected the lobby to be empty.

I had no such luck. The billeting attendant was checking someone in. The two gentlemen involuntarily locked eyes on me. Their conversation ceased. I think I heard one of them retch.

I was surprised how long it took the pair to regain their wits. The Air Force incessantly trains to cover any imaginable situation. I thought it logical to expect the staff had been drilled on using a “Pasty Officer in Tighty Whities” checklist.

No training kicked in, no words were spoken, no stares were averted.

No one had foreseen this scenario, so it was up to me to take command. I did just that.

“I seem to have locked myself out of my room. Could you please give me a spare key, so I may return to my quarters?” is what I thought I said.

Unfortunately, all that smoke and beer had a predictable effect on my speech, judgement, and perceptions. What came out was a raspy, slurred statement that sounded more like, “Aihhh kneeeeee a kiiieee fro mah hoom.”

It took a bit, but the attendant eventually deciphered my gibberish and responded, “I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to wait while I check this man in.”  

The jaw of the gentleman checking in dropped in disbelief. More awkward silence .

Even though he couldn’t un-see the image burned into his memory, the guest wanted it to go away fast. He took two steps back from the desk and said, “Ah, I can wait. You can take care of him first.”

Given his lack of situational awareness, I expected the attendant to ask me for some ID. Fortunately, he didn’t and gave me my room key. I returned to my room, put on some pants, and then gave my hesitantly Good Samaritan his spare key.

Afterward, I didn’t hear any rumors about an undressed officer running amok in the billeting building. So, we’ll just say it never happened. This is between me, you, the poor gentleman trying to get a room, and a billeting agent who needs a little more training on how to deal with disrobed patrons.