Dispatches From Afghanistan: Mouses, Goats, and Snakes, Oh My!
The Jordanians are coming!
The Jordanians are coming!
Specifically the JAF. (Jordanian Armed Forces)
They will be living here in my LSA 2.
Each of my tents have a capacity of 120 U.S. Marines. They ain’t ‘comphy’, but they cozy and U.S. Marines do not complain. They are Marines.
The JAF contingent will top off at one hundred.They have been promised three of my tents. The math doesn’t work for me. I need every tent I have (twenty-four) to serve the Marines who transit through Dwyer on their way to the war.
After some lobbying (and dire predictions of pissed off Marines who won’t have a tent to sleep in), I got the JAF allocation down to two tents.
Why after all these years the Jordanian government had decided to send troops to southern Afghanistan, I am not sure. But I have a theory: “U.S. Department of State.”
Not military necessity. Not a request from the coalition of governments already represented here. Not the U.S. Military.
I have nothing against Jordan or the Jordanian people. In fact, I love them. I lived and worked in Amman Jordan for six months back in ‘07 while working to close-out the paperwork on the USAID Rural Water Project we had completed in Iraq. (Bechtel, the prime contractor, had decided there was no point to continually put our lives at risk in Iraq doing paperwork we could just as easily finish in their Amman offices).
I had a meeting with the Mayor’s Cell here onDwyer. (The ‘Mayor’s Cell’ is the term used for the administrative branch of the Marines who actually own Camp Dwyer.) All decisions of the Mayor are final. Except, I found out, when it comes to the JAF and their accommodations.
Apprehensive over the impending arrival of the Jordanians, I asked the Mayor, “Does the Mayor’s Cell have any special directive for treatment of the JAF?”
“Not at all Son. Treat ‘em like Marines.”
“Yessir!” (This was the response I had been hoping for)
With the help of the Labor Department and a fewof my staff, I readied the two tents for the Jordanians.
We were told to expect roughly one hundred men, so we set up fifty-five military cots in each tent. These tents in LSA 2 are best described as ‘Spartan.’
There are four ‘doors’ which are simply canvas flaps about four feet wide. When the wind is up the flaps flap open allowing Afghanistan to blow inside.
You Can RunFrom The Sand, But You Cannot Hide
The occupants are not allowed to tie the flaps shut, as this creates a safety hazard in the event of a fire—no quick egress.
Each of the tents has two HVAC units. They are inadequate for the weather extremes here. The tents are in disrepair. They leak, they sag, they have mold. I cannot get approval from the Mayor’s Cell through DynCorp to provide anything more than patchy maintenance.
“A lick and a promise.” That’s all. They tell me, “No more funding is available for LSA 2. Deal with it.”
I made a prediction to Shannon (my immediate supervisor and good friend): “Duck, I said, “There ain’t no way those Jordanians are gonna sleep on cots.”
“Why not?” he says, “They Soldiers, ain’t they?”
“Hide and watch what happens when they get here and have a look inside their tents,” was all Isaid.
Two days later they arrived. I got them checked in, inspected the tents with their liaison officer, and had him sign for the cots. (Over his protestations)
Next day I observed about a dozenMarines off-loading brand new bed frames and brand new, thick mattresses (still wrapped in clear plastic!) from two flatbed trucks.
And I have trouble getting replacement cots forthe ones rendered unserviceable due to fair wear and tear.
Again, “Deal with it.”
I got on the phone and called Shannon over atLSA 3, “Hey Duck, get over here to LSA 2. You ain’t gonna believe the shit I’m lookin’ at.”
I couldn’t wait to hear his comments once he sawthe Marines struggling to assemble the bed racks and unwrapping the new mattresses.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You called this one Bro. Hey! Those are brand new fuckin’ mattresses. The red ones. The best ones! Mayor’s Cell been telling me they got no replacement mattresses for my LSA Three. Shit-Mother-Fuck!”
(LSA 3 was for permanent residents: CHUs—Containerized Housing Units–instead of tents and beds instead of cots, but money for that LSA’s maintenance was also drying up.)
LSA 3 CHUs
Over the next week there was a flurry of construction inside the two JAF tents. The Jordanian officers wanted separate rooms inside the tents.
No problem. Approved. Then built.
These flaps won’t do; we need doors.
No problem. Approved. Then built.
We want our own smoking area with table and benches.
No problem. Approved. Then built.
(They continued to smoke inside their tentsanyway—serious safety violation)
Another safety and health violationconcerned food. We forbid any and all food in the tents. The only consumable allowed in the tents was water.
The Jordanian officers had their junior enlisted personnel deliver plates of food to them from the DFAC. (Dining Facility)
I observed some Jordanians washing pots and pans in one of the Ablution Units Yes, ‘ablution’
(For some strange reason this is what the U.S. Military called the trailers which had the showers and shitters. Smacked of religious ritual to me.)
So I knew they were also cooking inside their tents. Of course I confronted their officers over this MAJOR safety hazard, only to be lied to:
LSA 2 Tents
“No. No cooking. Just making coffee and tea.”
“Doesn’t matter. It must stop immediately. You are putting the entire LSA at risk from fire.”
Few days later I was visited in my little office by the JAF liaison officer, (a man I had actually become good friends with)
“Salaam,” I said.
“Howdy” he said back. He had been trying to teach me Arabic and I was trying to teach him Texican.
“What can I do for you my friend?”
“We have mouses.”
I had to laugh. “Mouses, eh? You know why you have ‘mouses’, don’t you?”
“No,” he replied softly, studying his boots.
“You have mouses because your folks are bringing food into the tents.”
“Oh no, No food. Just cookies and things like that.”
“Uh huh,” was all I could muster.
“We need traps and poison.”
“I can get you those, but until your men stop eating in the tents, you’re gonna have mice. And guess what comes next?”
Looking up he said, “Don’t know. What?”
“Snakes” I said.
“I don’t like snakes,” he said, now looking horrified.
“Well, the food brings the mice and the mice bring the snakes: simple Darwin progression.”
“Who is this ‘Darwin’? He the one with the traps and poison?”
“Never mind. Look, you have to try to stop your men from keeping food in the tents. That’s the only way to get rid of the mice. Or if you don’t want to do that, you may soon discover a snake in your bed.”
“I don’t like snakes,” he said again.
“Listen my friend,” I said as sincerely as I could. “Personally I don’t care if your guys eat in their tent and I am sorry you have mice and soon you will have snakes. This doesn’t bother me at all.”
“But, what if,” I continued, “one of the snakes gets bad info from another snake as to where the mice can be found? Perhaps that snake gets lost and wanders into the wrong tent, a tent with hot and dusty and tired and hacked-off U.S. Marines.”
“Now suppose one of these Marines don’t like snakes any more than you do. Suppose this Marine freaks the fuck out and empties a clip in the general direction of the snake. You see where I’m goin’ with this? Then the Marine finds out the snake was just trying to find your tents. Now you have bigger issues than ‘mouses’, me, and snakes. You have one severely pissed off Marine.”
“I am beginning to understand,”He said.
“Good. I will get you the traps and I’ll have the Vector Control lady put out more poison. Anything else I can do for you?”
“No. Thanks,” he said as he turned toward the door, then looked back and said, “Adyoose.”
I laughed and said, “Mas Salaami.”
Some days later Ihad a visit from LaborOne. (See the Wheeless Wheelbarrow post) The Labor guys were responsible for the twice-daily cleaning of the Ablution Units,Among myriad other responsibilities.
“Labor One! What brings you to my humble LSA Office?” I greeted him.
“I have problem,” he announced. (His Romanianaccent is music)
“Well, I am here to help. If I can. What is the nature of your problem?”
“The Jordanians are making a shit in showers again,” he said.
“What do you mean ‘Again’? This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I said, somewhat pissed that thishad not been brought to my attention before now.
“Ya. They make a shit in shower. Sometimes theymake a shit in the back of toilet.”
“The ‘back’ of the toilet?”
“Ya. You know, the part that has the water.”
Still somewhat confused, I asked, “You mean the reservoir with the flushing mechanics in it?”
“Ya, They take lid off, stand on toilet seat and make a shit in dere.”
“Oh ya. Believe it.”
“OK. OK. I’ll look into this,” I said with a heavy sigh.
The problem of course is that all the ablution units had western style toilets. Middle East folks do not like to sit on a toilet. They prefer to squat. They also do NOT like to discuss anythingrelating to shit and toilets, squatting or sitting. I would have to approach this one with tact and diplomacy:
“You Shit Here:
I had fielded complaints from a few Marines about Jordanians washing their feet in the sinks as well. No ‘small feat’ (pun maybe intended), my aging body could even attempt, the limberness and elasticity having long since gone.
At this point I should explain why the Jordanians were billeted in LSA 2 in the first place. Dwyerhad an Afghani LSA which seemed to me more appropriate.
After some enquiry I found out the JAF didn’tterribly much care for Afghans. Why then, sincethey are not transients, but actually doing Six-Month tours of duty here, are they not billeted in one of the LSA’s for long term residents?
The reason: They wanted to live close to theMosque. LSA 2 has the only Mosque on Dwyer. It is a tent just like the other tents, but it had somehow been ‘Mosque-a-fied’.
I confess ignorance of the ways of Islam, so I cannot tell you what that means precisely. But apparently it means a lot. At any rate, I had the care and feeding of the Jordanians for the foreseeable future.
When Ramadan came around, all five DFACs onDwyer changed their operating hours to accommodate the one hundred or so Jordanians of the JAF.
Basically this meant the evening meal hour was pushed back until after sundown, seriously pissing off any Marine you cared to ask.
This had not been done for past Ramadans even though Camp Dwyer must have had hundreds ofMuslims already living and working onboard.
My morning commute took me past the Mosque and the JAF tents on my way to my office on the opposite end of LSA 2.
The day before the end of Ramadan and the beginning of Eid al-Fitr or Feast of Breaking the Fast, I was greeted by the bleats of two very shaggy goats which were tied up to a stack of wooden pallets.
Between bleats they were munching on a pile of orange peels, apples, and some other items I didn’t recognize.
As far as I knew, the only animals authorized on board Dwyer were the military dogs owned and operated by the Marines.
“Mike’s gonna go ‘bullshit’ when he sees this” I thought as I walked past the goats toward my office. “And I’m gonna love it.” (Note: Mike was the Billeting Manager, and not one of my favorite people. For more on his story please refer to my recent post:
Every morning at 0700hrs we conducted a meeting of the Military Billeting side of the BigBilleting Department House. This meeting was always held in my office. As folks were filing in that day all had some commentary about the goats.
Persad probably had the most to say, as Persadwas always full of opinion (Note: Please refer to Below)
“Hey Mar-cone,” he began. “Did ya see dem goats over to the Jordanians?”
“Yeah Persad. Kinda hard to miss ‘em.”
“What dem Jordanian need wid dem goat?”
“Buddy, I really don’t wanna think on that before I get some coffee in me.”
“Well…I tink they don’t need dem goat here.”
“Persad, guess what I ‘tink’? I think I don’t give a shit. We’ll kick it up to Mayor’s Cell. The Mayor must have authorized the goats. I mean, how do you suppose they got past security at themain gate?”
“Mistah Mike, he gonna be pee oh’d ‘bout demgoat. Ya know, he doan like nuthin’ outta ordinary.”
“You let me worry ‘bout Mike.”
“Okay Boss, but dem goat…”
Mike showed up a few hours later and upon entering my office said, “Marcom, do you realizethere are goats in your LSA? In front of the JAFtents?”
“Goats? Mike, you know pets aren’t authorized. I ain’t seen no goats. You sure ‘bout this?”
Mike opened my office door and said, “Look down there. Goats!”
I got up from my desk and slowly walked to the door. Looking out, I said. “Mike. There are goatsin the LSA.”
“Marcom, you had to have known this. Stopfucking with me. I want you to go over to the Mayor’s Cell and tell the Mayor about thesegoats.”
“Michael, this is above my pay grade. You know I never bother the Mayor with my little issues,” Ilied. (The Mayor and I were on a ‘first-name basis’ and we were friends).
“Why don’t you, as Billeting Manager, manage on over there and talk to him? Your words will carry more weight. But I figure the Mayor knowsalready. I mean, he must have authorized the goats. I’d even venture that they have Dwyer IDbadges. Did you check to see if they had badges?”
Why he didn’t fire me, I can only speculate. I played a major role in his getting shit-canned months later, but I probably should not detailthat here, as I am using his real name and this story is all truth, and I don’t wanna get sued orsomething and… and… and.
Suffice to say, Mike was not well-liked by anyoneI have ever met. I will leave it at that.
Mike kept on fuming, “This LSA is your responsibility. You better get to the bottom of this goat business before close of businesstoday.”
“Okay Mike. Relax. I will sort this out, but thatone goat, the one with the baby-shit-brown eyes, she kinda cute.”
He turned on his heel and left my office, slamming the door.
Lashonda remarked, “Lance, one day you gonnapush that man too far.”
“Naw. We friends an’ shit Lashonda. It’s all good.”
Lashonda rolled her eyes, then said, “Lance, I love you, you crazy white-boy sonuvabitch.”
(She had been treated badly by Mike in the past and did not favor him at all)
I walked down to the JAF tents looking for my Jordanian friend (the liaison one). Found him and asked about the goats.
“They are for our Eid al-Fitr,’ he informed me.
“Friend, you cannot have goats here. How did you get them past security?”
“They said it was okay.”
“Really? Did the Mayor sign off on this?”
“Not exactly. I told the security men that this was OK with the Marines.”
“So, the Mayor’s Cell knows nothing of this?”
“No My Friend, they don’t,” he said, once again,studying his boots as he did so.
“You do realize I must tell the Mayor, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he sighed, looking up at me. “But if you will give me a few hours, I will make themdisappear. Eid is very important to us and we need to have our feast.”
“Okay My Friend, but if you slaughter these goats and cook them in my LSA, I am not gonna be happy. Not even one drop of goat blood better hit the ground of my LSA. Understood?”
“Don’t worry. I will take them out of Camp withtonight’s patrol and we will cook them there and bring them back in the morning.”
“Good enough. But I want a plate of roasted goat delivered to me for lunch tomorrow.”
Vid Cred: Too many to sort out. This Vid is all-over-the place. Fuck it! I suppose I could credit ‘Kenny Rogers and The First Edition’ Yeah. At least I can do that. At the very least… I can do that. Suppose I just did. Yer Welcome Kenny. Only thing you ever did that was worth a fuck
This is painful.
Because I am a proud veteran and proud of my macho almost Navy SEAL times two service attempts
(At least I showed up—twice)
I come with hat in hand.
Anyone reads me with regularity knows I am an alcoholic.
Pretty much a ‘functioning one’
Money management is something I have always sucked at.
But I always maintained a backstop insurance policy.
A rich woman.
A women I spent a great deal of my money and time when I worked in Iraq and Afghanistan, flying her all over the world to meet for for R&R’s… Barcelona, Rome, Dubai, London, on and on…
You know her name.
It starts with an R and ends with a…
I have spilt lots of ink on her already.
Point is, she has decided to cut me off in my last hour of need.
Refused to HBO!
Help a Brother Out!
I will run out of booze and life within half a day.
It’s Like Wearing Chain Leggings After A Ship Wreck and Yer Just Hoping To Reach The Beach. But To Be Completely Honest With My Readers, (Which I Have Always Promised to Be)… Trying to Mend My Speech Runs So Contrary Against My Sanity. I’m Just Sayin’. Still Waters Run Deep. Please Try To Remember That.
“You Don’t Find Roses Growin’ On Stalks Of Clover”
is a ‘Fricken’…
Just Fuckin’ Wow!
Eat Your Heart Out!
This One Below!
I fu*ked up the Sequence!
So typical of Me!
Creds For The Two Above: Martina McBride
Cred: Lynn Anderson
But I Do respect The Fact That Some of My Prose Is Found To Be Offensive. I am trying To Do Better—Please Don’t Hate Me.
I am a Sailor—Old Habits Die Hard. I am Really Trying To Do Better. It has Never been My Intention to Offend (Well There Have Been A FEW Exceptions)
Theist Named “Kent”
But My Intend Is To Leave this World As A Better Man
Than I Have Been
Clint Black was born in Long Branch, New Jersey, one of four children born to G.A. and Ann Black. The family moved back to Texas, where G.A. Black had been raised, before Clint was one year old. He was raised in Katy, Texas. Music was always present in the house.
(I cannot rem from where I stole this. Screw it!)
Cred For Vid: Gaming with Shao
I yam what I yam!
I use A LOT of Profanity
I’m a fucking sailor!
What else would you expect?
From a fuckin’ sailor
And saying “I’m sorry” for what I am ain’t in my repertoire, or bag of tricks.
Some shit that needs to be removed from the writing/speaking vernacular:
“At the end of the day…”
(I heard some asshole use this one three times on CNN during a ninety second interview. I wish I were making this up. I ain’t.)
“Think outside the box”
“As we speak”
“All that said”
I could go on, but pretty sure you caught my drift (another trite Cliché–sometimes, I will admit, they are ‘useful’
Alternate Title: “Fairy-Tales can come true; it can happen to you if you’re young at heart… and stupid and credulous and careless and think you’re bulletproof.”
But be forewarned: They are fleeting, ephemeral, transitory.
“You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams, if you’re young at heart.”
I’m callin’ ‘Bullshit’ on that statement.
“Look at all You’ll Derive From Being Alive”
Frank Sinatra – Young At Heart – 1953
Video Credit: kopbyt123
Or, if you prefer: “Big-Boned Rescue Gal”
(Or All of The Above: Virtual Ink is Cheap Enough)
Nothing to do now but drive away and discover what happens next. No point in trying to flee at a high rate of speed. Most Harleys (when they are not broken down) will outrun a heavy-ass Toranado. Which brings to mind a t-shirt one of MY biker friends often wore.
Yes, I had some biker friends. They were also sailors, but I don’t think that disqualifies them.
The T-shirt read: “I’d rather push my Harley than ride your Honda.”
So off I drove into the predawn. Never having what could be remotely considered decent navigation skills, I just headed in the general direction of what I thought to be south, hoping to hit I-Five, which would lead me to 32nd Street Naval Base and my ship. And of course I kept frequently glancing in my rear-view.
Billy, or whomever, did in fact follow me, yet at a respectful distance. At one point I contemplated stopping and asking him for directions, but in the end thought better of that.
Eventually, either he got bored, lost his nerve, or ran out of gas. Anyway, he disappeared from my radar. I made it back to the USS Callaghan with just enough time to change into my dungarees and make morning muster.
When the 1MC announced “Knock off Ship’s Work” at 1600hrs, I quickly changed into my civvies and ‘hit the beach’.
I grabbed a pay phone on the pier and called Shonnie up at work.
“You were expecting maybe… Madonna?”
Ignoring her classic wit, I said “Are you okay?”
“Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?”
Uh oh. Her tone did not bode well. “Perhaps you caught amnesia. Did Billy come calling?”
“Uh, yeah. He did.”
“Come on Shonnie, what happened?”
“He begged me to open the door, so finally I let him in.”
She didn’t seem to want to talk about this, but damn it! I was in ‘need-to-know’ status. ‘Hey! I’m needin’ to know here!’ (Sorry Dustin)
“Well? Do I have to drag this out of you?”
“Listen Lance, he broke down and cried All Right! He promised to be a better husband and father. He begged me to take him back. He is the Father of my Son, Goddamn it! What-the-fuck-do-you-expect-me-to-do?”
(Kids always trump lovers. I suppose this is as it should be, but… this asshole was abusive. At least that was her early story.)
“So, you’re getting back together then?” I felt as if I had been kicked in the solar plexus.
Hard and more than once.
It was becoming difficult to breathe.
“You sure about this?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Goddamn it Shonnie! You can’t do this to ME! To US!”
“It has to be this way Lance.”
“Well, I guess that’s it then.”
I quickly scoured my brain for something else to add but could not continue the conversation.
“Yeah. I guess it is. Goodbye Lance.” She hung up.
“That’s IT??!!” I screamed into the dead receiver.
All clawing at my mind, tearing apart my heart, climbing over each other in their effort to get to the top of my emotional hit parade.
I never saw this coming!
I slammed the receiver into the phone and watched it bounce out and fall toward the ground, stopped short by the silver metal tether. I stood there vacantly staring at it for a moment as it aimlessly swayed back and forth, pendulum-like.
Suppose at some point I walked toward my car, because that is where I ended up. As soon as I sat down in the driver’s seat I realized I was crying.
There seemed to be a pattern developing here:
Talk to Shonnie. Then grown men cry.
Note to self: ‘research this.’
Fuck! This Hurts! Hurts Real Bad.
I sat there and watched my heart breaking.
Bits and pieces of it fell to the floorboard.
Linda Ronstadt – Heart Like A Wheel (1976) Offenbach, Germany
A couple of weeks later I was kidnapped by some buddies from my ship.
“Marcom, you done been moping around for too long. We’re goin’ out tonight to a great joint. No arguments. Just grab yer shit and come on.”
I had to acquiesce.
Mark and Tommy mounted their Harleys. Frank, Lenny, and I climbed into Lenny’s ’68 orange Chevelle, which he referred to as his “She-Vail” Accent on the ‘Vail.’
Of ‘course’ it was ‘hot-rodded’ up, racing stripes, loud pipes, loud stereo, the whole bit. He loved that damn car. Talked about it more than booze or women.
“Where we goin’?” I asked after about five minutes of ear-splitting Guns N’ Roses (Lenny waxed and waned between ‘Pure Country’ and ‘Heavy Metal’ depending on his mood and blood alcohol level.)
“Goin’ to IB,” he shouted over Welcome to the Jungle. (‘Imperial Beach’ for those who may not have had the opportunity to visit some of the classier environs south of San Diego.) One can actually ‘smell’ Tijuana from IB, not an entirely unpleasant smell if the wind is right and it ain’t summertime.
Welcome to Imperial Beach
HAZMAT Gear On Tap for Rental at Cook’s Corner Boutique & Bar
(Subject to Availability)
We were just a couple of car lengths behind Mark and Tommy straddling their Harleys, puking blue smoke, and producing one hundred decibels above what OSHA would consider workplace violence.
They had effortlessly and instantly metamorphosed from ‘A-Jay-Squared-Away Sailors’ into ‘So-Cal Bikers’…
Replete with all the garb: leather jackets, black jack-boots, Brando Hats, ‘too dark to see through’ sunglasses.
The whole bit.
We passed through National City, (‘Nasty City’) then Chula Vista, (Chew, Ya-Wanna?’).
I couldn’t help but think of Shonnie and how much she would have loved this ‘adventure.’ And I with her, experiencing it together. Damn! Damn her! I missed her still!
“Almost there!” Lenny shouted as we pulled off of I-5 and tacked somewhat west toward the Pacific.
“Almost where?!” I shouted back, but Lenny said nothing. After navigating through some of Imperial Beach’s “Nicer Hoods” our little caravanserai pulled into a gravel parking lot, which presumably belonged to the ramshackle ‘Joint’ I now found me staring at. Lots of Harleys in the lot. I cannot recall the name of the establishment, but it was something along the lines of “The Salty Frog.” or “IB Bar N’ Grill” or “Busted Spoke.”
Oh wait! Now I remember!
No matter, I was only interested in drink, not ambience. Mark and Tommy dismounted as Frank, Lenny, and I ‘de-She-Vailed’ and headed into the ‘Dew Drop Inn’ or, what-you-will.
Inside, the joint wasn’t too bad. Good A/C, low lighting, a couple of pool tables and lots of… Yep: bikers. Well, why not? I was sick to death of the memory of the squeaky-clean C/W Joint where I had first met Shonnie and this place was as far removed from that type of joint as I could ever hope to get.
We found a table against a back wall and proceeded headlong into the arms of intoxication. As I was not expected to drive (this was sort of a ‘coming back out of the shadow of death’ party for me after all), I planned to “Drink that woman offa my mind.”
“Drinkin’ My Baby (Off My Mind)”–Eddie Rabbitt
The drinks flowed and the bullshit rolled (mostly downhill into my lap, as it was well known that I was in ‘lost love recovery’ mode.) I won’t go into detail about how piercingly eloquent we all became during the course of the evening. Mainly because I cannot remember all the pearls of wisdom which were cast back and forth amongst us swine.
What I do recall was my exit:
Roughly fifteen minutes after Last Call, and as all the patrons began to shuffle (or in my case, stagger) toward the exit, I ran headlong into an immovable object: probably because I was trying to guide my feet one step at a time with my eyes cast downward and not really paying attention to the ‘bigger picture’ part of navigation.
‘Situational Awareness’ is overrated and for cowards anyway.
Looking up I realized I had run into a woman. A very tall, very large woman. Not a fat woman, mind you, but a tall and large Jumbotron of a woman. I mean a ‘Big-Boned Gal.’ A fuckin’-beautiful-brunette-dark-eyed Big Bone Woman, who, praise Neptune, did not appear angered by my clumsiness.
I found my voice and said, “Hi… Uh… I’m Lance. Will you take me home? With you?”
BBG smiled down at me, “Yes. I sure will,” she said as she took me by the hand.
I wanted to tell her that I was a refugee from a disconcerted affair, mourning over the one that got away, but even thinking about Tom Waits, let alone quoting him, would have hurled me into an emotional tailspin and probably also into a drunken crying jag for added melodramatic value.
I dared not risk it, so I shut up and silently allowed her to lead me to her vehicle.
Well I’ve lost my equilibrium and my car keys and my pride, The tattoo parlor’s warm, and so I hustle there inside And the grinding of the buzz-saw, “What you want that thing to say?” I says,
“Just don’t misspell her name buddy, she’s the one that got away”
But as they say (Always ‘They’. Who ARE ‘They?’ The ‘They’ who always say?)
“Nothing gets you over the last one like the next one.”
My recovery was officially underway.
Thank You Big-Boned Gal!
Street Cred for Vid: barefootkd’s channel
This Concludes Our ‘All Things Shonnie’ Broad Cast (no pun). We now return you to our regularly scheduled insanity.
Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I was ‘enjoined’ to write it.
However, BOLO for some ‘Final Thoughts Part Duh’ coming real soon.
I’d provide them today, but they are gonna be Real ‘Heavy,’ Real ‘Philosophical,’ Real ‘Tedious,’ and Real ‘Sad.’
And I am not up to the task of laying them down just yet.
Peace and Beer to all Y’all!
Oh! I almost forgot.
“Coming Soon: More Big Boned Gal”
If you are new here, or a long-lost returning Pilgrim, you may want to begin your Shonnie Journey Below
And then simply “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” i.e., The Lancelot Links:
Comments from the original version of this post may be discovered below.
Please read from the bottom up for continuity.
18 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE: DENOUEMENT”
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:42 Edit
Youth is a magic healing bullet.
Thank you very much for reading this long series. Your time spent here is greatly appreciated. I know how busy all of us are and there are TONs of blogs out there to read.
I am very grateful you took the time to read mine.
Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 19:09 Edit
Fantastic read. Truth be told, I was actually a little gutted at the end. I’m not sure I could go through a break up like that.
LAMarcom July 18, 2014 at 18:19 Edit
So glad you are enjoying the tale.
Yeah, lost loves can be painful, especially when one is young and doesn’t yet possess the thick skin for protection.
Thanks very much for reading and commenting.
Teela Hart July 18, 2014 at 11:13 Edit
Great story Lance.
I enjoyed every minute.
I know how it is with lost loves.
I’m not sure I could write about mine, but I have to say once again that you have skills dude.
Can’t wait for the next adventure.
LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 20:22 Edit
Thanks my good friend.
Truth be told, I’m glad that one is done. I’m rather emotionally exhausted.
Time to move on to other Tales O’ Texas (and other places)
Have a wonderful eve,
markbialczak July 17, 2014 at 20:19 Edit
You got, you gave. Good story, Lance. A little better than good. Great, possibly. Told well, sir, told well.
lauramacky July 17, 2014 at 12:29 Edit
LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 11:38 Edit
Hahaha! Well, ya know… I was just a simple sailor.
David Scott Moyer July 17, 2014 at 09:37 Edit
I enjoyed it. Seems like you did too, for the most part.
lauramacky July 17, 2014 at 09:28 Edit
Well that didn’t take long. Out with the old, in with the new I guess! LOL. Another lol was one of Imperial Beaches “Nicer Hoods”…reminds me of Oakland hahaha
LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 08:19 Edit
Worse woman tango! Hahaha! Love it!
happierheathen July 17, 2014 at 01:43 Edit
The only cure for the bad woman blues is the worse woman tango. 😀
Thanks for filling in the blanks, hombre. (That’s pronounced as Daffy Duck pronounces it: Homber.)
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 22:09 Edit
In truth, Sadie, I am happy to put Shonnie to bed.
And also in truth, I would like to ‘bed’ her just one-more-time.
For old time’s sake.
~ Sadie ~ July 16, 2014 at 22:04 Edit
I hope it was as cathartic for you to write it as it was enjoyable for me to read it 🙂 There’s some good memories there . . .
Peace out, Lance ☮
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 21:13 Edit
Time for me to move on, and truthfully, aside from a couple of ‘relapses’, that was the end of me and Shonnie.
You’re just going to have to trust me on this one.
And thanks so much for reading the series; means much to me.
Always love your comments.
David Scott Moyer July 16, 2014 at 21:09 Edit
I’ll believe it’s over when I believe it’s over.
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 21:05 Edit
Thanks for readin’ Annie.
Mad Annie, Bronwyn, Ann July 16, 2014 at 21:04 Edit