Afg has brought me Pain
Picking up from the last half-chapter…
Matt, Rogers, and I were in Viva Young. I had been smitten.
But the smite –her was elusive, so Matt and I retired to the pool tables. Me hoping to fleece him outta some beer money. He hoping for good conversation and Lance Good Wolf-Ticket talk.
We both got what we wanted, until…
Until Pain walked in.
Pain (his real name) was my roommate back when I was in BUD/s Class 140. Pain was a pain in the ass. He was a tow-head boy, weighing in at about 150. All attitude. Bad attitude. He reminded me of Peanut, without the good to outweigh the bad. I did not like his style.
One of My Girls, (yes they were ‘mine’—this was My Bar, wasn’t it?) brought me a beer and said,
“Hey! Dat guy just walk in, he Na-bee Seal.”
“Yes Honey. I know him.”
“He yor frien?”
“Nope. He is trouble, and thanks for the beer.”
Still holding my pool cue, I walked over to Pain.
“Hey Pain!” I said. “How’s it hangin’?”
“Hey Ya. Uh… don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh yeah; Buds. Back in ’86.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Class one forty. You were my roommate for a spell, until you got kicked out for smacking my other roommate upside the head.”
“Yeah he was an idiot.”
“Don’t think so. He was my Friend.”
“What was yer name? Mark… something or other… Mark..um…?”
“Yeah, that’s right: Marcom.”
“You rocked out didn’t ya?”
“Yeah, I rocked out. Got hurt. Apparently you made it. In SEALs.”
“Yeah, I didn’t rock out.”
“Good for you.”
“No Pain, I do not. What I want is for you to take your ass outta here. You see, this bar is for ‘Black Shoe Sailors’—Fleet Sailors. This is MY bar, and we don’t really want all you prima-donnas hangin’ out here. This is a private bar—my bar—So… mosey on on.”
“I go where I please. Fuck you!”
“Excuse me, but this ain’t your kind of place. This place is not big enuff to house your Navy SEAL ego; I suggest you amble on down to The California Club on Magsaysay. They have high enough ceilings for your big head, and lots of bar girls. You will be welcomed there.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
By this point, I had reversed my grip on the pool cue, and turned it into a baseball bat. Matt came up to my shoulder and whispered,
“Lance, don’t do it.”
I had forty pounds on Pain. I could take him with or without the pool stick.
Mama-San, ever astute, came up to me and said,
“Sailor Man, you may need to sit down.”
I said, “Mama-San, Not until this asshole leaves.”
She said, “Okay, but you gonna fix the furniture.”
Standing two heads high over him, I turned back to Pain, “You need to leave Son.”
“Maybe I will check out that California Club after all.” He said. And left.
The Jar Heads on the other side of the bar applauded. One said,
“Great job! Squiddy! That guy is an asshole. Seen him around town.”
“Thanks!” I said. Then yelled, “Hey! Mama-San! Bring me a beer! I just saw my life flash in front of me!” (Not really. I fear no man, but it makes for good prose, eh?)
Pain was actually a good guy. But an asshole. Certainly I can relate,