What An Idiot And An Odyssey!
I Shall Re-Count This,
Just As Soon as I Sober-up and Re-Discover Sobriety
Kris K: Native TEXAN!
The ‘Perfect’ Sailor Song!
Tag Archives: Sailors and their ways
“Uh, Lance, You Are a MORON!” “The Biker, Bouncer, Bartender, Big-Boned Gal From Milwaukee” or “Bloody Mary ‘Mourning’–“Baby Left Me Without Warning Sometime In The Night.”
(Please Check Out The Videos–They Are Important to Me–Thanks) I Drop Them In For Very Good Reasons
She didn’t even say
“Goodbye Asshole”
This is (sort of) a continuation of my “Shonnie Series.”
And since I like things to be linear,
We shall rejoin our “Hero” just after his ‘Denouement.’
Or perhaps just after his ‘Epiphany’.
Or perhaps just after… Oh! Who the hell knows?
Or cares?
***
SHE led me to a car and we all piled in. I say ‘we all’ simply because suddenly there were three of us. Me, HER, and a miniscule blonde. I’d seen this movie before, but this time it came with a plot twist, I guess.
I had to guess. I Mean, What Choice Did I Have?
The rest of the evening (early morning?) lies deeply submerged somewhere in the nether regions of my addled murky-muddled-memory.
After about twenty minutes… I am once again, ‘guesstimating’ here.
Could’ve been an hour or more.
Or less.
After about ‘twenty’ minutes we arrived at a ‘house’.
Could have been an apartment. Could have been a barn. Could have been The Ritz-Carlton. Could have been a flying fucking saucer.
Hell! I do not remember; is what I’m saying.
My torturously painful thoughts of losing Shonnie combined with copious quantities of consumed alcohol had done a seriously ‘detrimental-mental’ on my ability to exhibit fully functional, lucid behavior.
The wheel was turning, but the hamster was dead.
My alligator did not go all the way to the top. There was a spammer in my works. Elvis had left the building with my mind.
In other words, I was a mess.
***
SHE took me inside and led me straight-away to a bed, in a room… A bedroom. Best guess. If memory serves, a rather liberal and generous assumption, we had sex. Violent sex. (Not ‘violent’ violent. Let’s just call it ‘intense.’)
SHE was no less than six foot and change and as I did report earlier, ‘Big-Boned.” I swear, I saw my life’s movie flash in front of me as she covered me and had her way. (And of course, me mine)
As we lay there ‘after’ in someone else’s bed, she remarked, “Well, that should keep your self-winding watch going for a few days.”
I had to laugh, right before I drifted off. Passed out.
Completely whacked out and totally done in.
Used.
Abused.
Helpless.
Conquered.
It was an immensely satisfying sweet sense of surrender.
***
The next morning I awoke with the sun singeing my eyes through a casually, carelessly placed shadeless window (What’s wrong with these people?)
I could smell bacon. I rolled over and looked at my watch: 0630. I had a sudden start. Then realized it was Sunday, not a work day, and I did not have ‘duty’ on my ship. I could go back to sleep, un-worried.
But oh no! SHE was up and about. So who was cooking bacon?
(I’d forgotten about Tiny Blondie.)
“Oh. You’re awake?” She said.
“Uh, yeah. Kinda,” was all I could muster. “Where am I? Who are you?”
Not an intelligent question, probably a dangerous, stupid, perilous one, but then, I was hung over and still groggy, and surely she wouldn’t take advantage of a mentally incapacitated, defenseless sailor.
Would she?
“I am the woman to be named later,” she laughed while poking me in the ribs. (Which hurt for some reason)
I rolled over to face her. She was indeed, Beautiful. Very Beautiful. Stunningly Beautiful. Makes one’s eyes water Beautiful.
She was right out of a fantasy, with gloriously long, luscious, dark brown hair. Hair so long, so ‘deep’ so thick that a hapless sailor could go missing in it for days on end.
Long, bronze-tanned perfectly symmetrical legs that seemed to go on for days, shapely firm breasts that simply defy description, sultry dark, dark eyes channeling mystery–too much mystery.
Raw, unfiltered sexuality poured from every fiber of her.
It was unnerving.
Not necessarily in a bad way,
But I was all ‘myster-ied’ out and the only fantasy I was holding was ‘getting back that girl I had before.’ That little short, pale, half-ginger one with the electric blue eyes and the volatile attitude.
I was spent.
Running on empty.
I was exhausted, emotionally, mentally, physically.
Send my saddle home.
Please!
I needed comfort. I needed soft. I needed tender. I needed sweet. I needed to be held and caressed.
Not fucked to within an inch of my life.
I needed Gidget. I needed Gilligan’s Island Mary Ann, I needed Samantha Stevens, I needed Amy Adams, or even Mary Poppins.
As lucky and grateful as I was to have found myself sharing, if only briefly, a bed with this goddess of a woman, I was not certain nor confident I was capable of surviving yet another encounter with such an intimidating representative of the ‘fairer’ sex.
Not yet, anyhow.
Not just yet.
My world seemed to be teeming with ‘Snakes and Ladders’.
“It Breaks Your Heart Just Looking At Her.”
–Joni: Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm 1988
***
“You don’t remember my name?” She asked after lighting a cigarette.
“To be stupidly and painfully honest, no I don’t.”
“No matter. I am called ‘Layla’. Ring any bells?” (I wish I were making this up)
See this below if you’re puzzled by my ‘Layla PTSD.’
Thinking I had just fallen ass-over-tit into Dante’s Inferno it occurred to me that I needed to change my Sailor–Ways.
First Contrition, then Absolution, then Redemption, then…
Oh! Screw that! What I really needed was a Bloody Mary. A Super-Sized Bloody Mary. And soon! As in five minutes soon, if not sooner.
My mind had wandered off somewhere.
Layla repeated her question,
“Ring any bells?”
“Uh. No. Should bells be ringing? I don’t like bells. Every time I hear bells ringing, something bad happens.”
Rolling her eyes, à la ‘Shonnie’, she said, “So… You’re a Sailor? Yes?”
“Yes. And what are you? And are you from around here?”
“Not from around here. I’m just visiting my cousin. She is the one cooking breakfast.”
“Yeah. I can smell bacon.”
“Good nose. I like that in a man. Have you an appetite?”
“From some memory of last night, I’d have to say ‘affirmative’.”
“Hahahahah! Yep. You do, Sailor Man. Yep, you sure do.”
“So, if you’re not from here. Where are you ‘from’, and what do you do?”
“I’m from Wisconsin. I work as a bartender. I’m also a bouncer, when the need is needed. Oh, and I love to ride Harleys.”
***
“Perfection, I thought. Now what Cowboy? Shit. Here I am again…”
I had ‘some leave-days-on-the-books’ and seriously considered at that moment that I should take them and head home to Texas to get a re-start on my psyche saki… get a ‘refresh’ on my Texan Accent, recharge my Ni-Cad batteries, take a break.
Well, spelling and lucid, rational thinking ain’t never been my thing, but you know what I mean here.
Don’t you?
No matter.
Keep reading.
Sooner or later, it will all make perfect, logical sense.
Or not.
I mean, I was still ‘re-bounding’ for glory and quite honestly, still heart-sick over my loss of Shonnie. But I did have some time, eh? Didn’t I? Meaning I was still relatively young and deep at heart, a perpetual cock-eyed-optimist.
And I was a good and decent man.
Most of the time.
But Shonnie had set me back.
Set me back and set me down.
Hard.
Something must be done.
Something had to give.
My mind was in a very bad place.
“Hey Sailor! You want breakfast and some blood mary, or what?” came her voice from some foggy-in-my-head place below.
Apparently, while lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed She’d left me all alone.
“Uh… Yeah! I mean yes! I’ll be right down!”
“The pitfalls of the city are extremely real.”
Credit: AustinCityLimitsTV—October, 1974
***
Previously:
***
Coming Soon:
“The Biker-Bartender-Bouncer Chick, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: Part Two”
***
Commentary Below From Original Version of this Post
Please Read From Bottom Up for Continuity
18 THOUGHTS ON “THE BIKER, BOUNCER, BARTENDER, BIG-BONED GAL FROM MILWAUKEE”
johncoyote March 7, 2021 at 05:42 Edit
I enjoyed this story. I was station in Texas for almost seven years. I loved the Texas gals. They asked you to dance and they were fast and fearless. I liked the girl that cooked a meal in the morning. And we talk some after. Thank you for sharing the entertaining tale.
LAMarcom August 13, 2015 at 01:45 Edit
Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:
How can one go wrong with Willie?
LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 18:34 Edit
🙂
LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 18:27 Edit
Well, don’t go changin’! I like your stories!
LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 17:33 Edit
Hahahah!
It has been said before!
Cheers!
LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 14:14 Edit
Dare I say – You TRAMP, you! LOL 😉
LAMarcom July 25, 2014 at 22:28 Edit
Mark,
You are too kind my friend.
I do thank you though.
Marvelous much.
Cheers,
Lance
markbialczak July 25, 2014 at 21:26 Edit
With Shonnie, your adventures were better than Tom Sawyer’s. With Layla, now you’re going after the legend of Huck Finn. You were something else, my friend Lance.
LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 23:31 Edit
🙂
~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 23:02 Edit
You know I will!! 😉
LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 22:55 Edit
Thank you Sadie.
My mood(s) currently won’t let me continue this one for the next few days.
But… Never Fear!
The words will come, by an’ by…
And I hope you will read.
Cheers,
Lance
~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 22:32 Edit
Can’t wait to read more, Lance!! 🙂 You know I love your stories!!
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:29 Edit
It only hurt when I laughed.
Thanks for stopping by T. ‘Preciate it.
🙂
Teela Hart July 22, 2014 at 16:38 Edit
I’m with Nancytex.
Rib pain?
You definitely need a Samantha.
Can’t wait to read the next installment.
T
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 10:36 Edit
If you could have seen Layla, you’d understand. I quickly recovered. (I was young and bulletproof back then ya know?)
😉
Thanks for reading. There will be more to this story….
NancyTex July 22, 2014 at 10:33 Edit
My mind is bouncing all around trying to figure out why your ribs would be hurting. That’s some aggressive sexy, my friend.
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 08:10 Edit
I read Willie’s autobiography many, many years ago. I suspect if he knew how long he was to live (and may he outlive me), he would have waited some more decades before he penned that ‘biopic.’
At any rate, I do concur: Willie is a fascinating character and a fascinating character study and also a Texas Treasure.
As for me… well, to me marriage was never much more binding than a handshake. This is why after four, I have now sworn off marriages. Just call me Hamlet: “There will be no more marriages!” Get this boy to a nunnery!
Thanks Pain for reading and commenting. Always thought provoking and a pleasure to read.
Cheers My Friend,
–Lance
Exile on Pain Street July 22, 2014 at 06:29 Edit
I was never able to pull of instantaneous, anonymous sex with a stranger when I was younger. I wish I could have because you sure make it sound fun. But I was so wracked with a crippling case of low self-esteem that I never tried. And now that I’m married, it’s too late. THERE’S a lesson for you.
I’ve been listening to Willie Nelson be interviewed on Howard Stern all morning. What an amazing life that guy had! Willie, that is. Not Stern.
Yep! Re-Shit-Posting… “The Biker, Bouncer, Bartender, Big-Boned Gal From Milwaukee” or “Bloody Mary Mourning–Baby Left Me Without Warning”
This is (sort of) a continuation of my “Shonnie Series.”
And since I like things to be linear,
We shall rejoin our “Hero” just after his ‘Denouement.’
Or perhaps just after his ‘Epiphany’.
Or perhaps just after… Oh! Who the hell knows?
Or cares?
***
SHE led me to a car and we all piled in. I say ‘we all’ simply because suddenly there were three of us. Me, HER, and a miniscule blonde. I’d seen this movie before, but this time it came with a plot twist, I guess.
I have to guess.
The rest of the evening (early morning?) lies deeply submerged somewhere in the nether regions of my addled murky-muddled-memory.
After about twenty minutes… I am once again, ‘guesstimating’ here.
Could’ve been an hour or more.
Or less.
After about ‘twenty’ minutes we arrived at a ‘house’.
Could have been an apartment. Could have been a barn. Could have been The Ritz-Carlton. Could have been a flying fucking saucer.
Hell! I do not remember; is what I’m saying.
My torturously painful thoughts of losing Shonnie combined with copious quantities of consumed alcohol had done a seriously ‘detrimental-mental’ on my ability to exhibit fully functional, lucid behavior.
The wheel was turning, but the hamster was dead. My alligator did not go all the way to the top. There was a spammer in my works. Elvis had left the building with my mind.
In other words, I was a mess.
***
SHE took me inside and led me straight-away to a bed, in a room… A bedroom. Best guess. If memory serves, a rather liberal and generous assumption, we had sex. Violent sex. (Not ‘violent’ violent. Let’s just call it ‘intense.’)
SHE was no less than six foot and change and as I did report earlier, ‘Big-Boned.” I swear, I saw my life’s movie flash in front of me as she covered me and had her way. (And of course, me mine)
As we lay there ‘after’ in someone else’s bed, she remarked, “Well, that should keep your self-winding watch going for a few days.”
I had to laugh, right before I drifted off. Passed out.
Completely whacked out and totally done in.
Used.
Abused.
Helpless.
Conquered.
It was an immensely satisfying sweet sense of surrender.
***
The next morning I awoke with the sun singeing my eyes through a casually, carelessly placed shadeless window (What’s wrong with these people?)
I could smell bacon. I rolled over and looked at my watch: 0630. I had a sudden start. Then realized it was Sunday, not a work day, and I did not have ‘duty’ on my ship. I could go back to sleep, un-worried.
But oh no! SHE was up and about. So who was cooking bacon?
(I’d forgotten about Tiny Blondie.)
“Oh. You’re awake?” She said.
“Uh, yeah. Kinda,” was all I could muster. “Where am I? Who are you?”
Not an intelligent question, probably a dangerous, stupid, perilous one, but then, I was hung over and still groggy, and surely she wouldn’t take advantage of a mentally incapacitated, defenseless sailor.
Would she?
“I am the woman to be named later,” she laughed while poking me in the ribs. (Which hurt for some reason)
I rolled over to face her. She was indeed, Beautiful. Very Beautiful. Stunningly Beautiful. Makes one’s eyes water Beautiful.
She was right out of a fantasy, with gloriously long, luscious, dark brown hair. Hair so long, so ‘deep’ so thick that a hapless sailor could go missing in it for days on end.
Long, bronze-tanned perfectly symmetrical legs that seemed to go on for days, shapely firm breasts that simply defy description, sultry dark, dark eyes channeling mystery–too much mystery.
Raw, unfiltered sexuality poured from every fiber of her.
It was unnerving.
Not necessarily in a bad way,
But I was all ‘myster-ied’ out and the only fantasy I was holding was ‘getting back that girl I had before.’ That little short, pale, half-ginger one with the electric blue eyes and the volatile attitude.
I was spent.
Running on empty.
I was exhausted, emotionally, mentally, physically.
Send my saddle home.
Please!
I needed comfort. I needed soft. I needed tender. I needed sweet. I needed to be held and caressed.
Not fucked to within an inch of my life.
I needed Gidget. I needed Gilligan’s Island Mary Ann, I needed Samantha Stevens, I needed Amy Adams, or even Mary Poppins.
As lucky and grateful as I was to have found myself sharing, if only briefly, a bed with this goddess of a woman, I was not certain nor confident I was capable of surviving yet another encounter with such an intimidating representative of the ‘fairer’ sex.
Not yet, anyhow.
Not just yet.
My world seemed to be teeming with ‘Snakes and Ladders’.
“It Breaks Your Heart Just Looking At Her.”
–Joni: Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm 1988
***
“You don’t remember my name?” She asked after lighting a cigarette.
“To be stupidly and painfully honest, no I don’t.”
“No matter. I am called ‘Layla’. Ring any bells?” (I wish I were making this up)
See this below if you’re puzzled by my ‘Layla PTSD.’
Thinking I had just fallen ass-over-tit into Dante’s Inferno it occurred to me that I needed to change my Sailor–Ways.
First Contrition, then Absolution, then Redemption, then…
Oh! Screw that! What I really needed was a Bloody Mary. A Super-Sized Bloody Mary. And soon! As in five minutes soon, if not sooner.
My mind had wandered off somewhere.
Layla repeated her question,
“Ring any bells?”
“Uh. No. Should bells be ringing? I don’t like bells. Every time I hear bells ringing, something bad happens.”
Rolling her eyes, à la ‘Shonnie’, she said, “So… You’re a Sailor? Yes?”
“Yes. And what are you? And are you from around here?”
“Not from around here. I’m just visiting my cousin. She is the one cooking breakfast.”
“Yeah. I can smell bacon.”
“Good nose. I like that in a man. Have you an appetite?”
“From some memory of last night, I’d have to say ‘affirmative’.”
“Hahahahah! Yep. You do, Sailor Man. Yep, you sure do.”
“So, if you’re not from here. Where are you ‘from’, and what do you do?”
“I’m from Wisconsin. I work as a bartender. I’m also a bouncer, when the need is needed. Oh, and I love to ride Harleys.”
***
“Perfection, I thought. Now what Cowboy? Shit. Here I am again…”
I had ‘some leave-days-on-the-books’ and seriously considered at that moment that I should take them and head home to Texas to get a re-start on my psyche saki… get a ‘refresh’ on my Texan Accent, recharge my Ni-Cad batteries, take a break.
Well, spelling and lucid, rational thinking ain’t never been my thing, but you know what I mean here.
Don’t you?
No matter.
Keep reading.
Sooner or later, it will all make perfect, logical sense.
Or not.
I mean, I was still ‘re-bounding’ for glory and quite honestly, still heart-sick over my loss of Shonnie. But I did have some time, eh? Didn’t I? Meaning I was still relatively young and deep at heart, a perpetual cock-eyed-optimist.
And I was a good and decent man.
Most of the time.
But Shonnie had set me back.
Set me back and set me down.
Hard.
Something must be done.
Something had to give.
My mind was in a very bad place.
“Hey Sailor! You want breakfast and some blood mary, or what?” came her voice from some foggy-in-my-head place below.
Apparently, while lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed She’d left me all alone.
“Uh… Yeah! I mean yes! I’ll be right down!”
“The pitfalls of the city are extremely real.”
Credit: AustinCityLimitsTV—October, 1974
***
Previously:
***
Coming Soon:
“The Biker-Bartender-Bouncer Chick, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: Part Two”
***
Commentary Below From Original Version of this Post
Please Read From Bottom Up for Continuity
18 THOUGHTS ON “THE BIKER, BOUNCER, BARTENDER, BIG-BONED GAL FROM MILWAUKEE”
johncoyote March 7, 2021 at 05:42 Edit
I enjoyed this story. I was station in Texas for almost seven years. I loved the Texas gals. They asked you to dance and they were fast and fearless. I liked the girl that cooked a meal in the morning. And we talk some after. Thank you for sharing the entertaining tale.
LAMarcom August 13, 2015 at 01:45 Edit
Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:
How can one go wrong with Willie?
LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 18:34 Edit
🙂
LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 18:27 Edit
Well, don’t go changin’! I like your stories!
LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 17:33 Edit
Hahahah!
It has been said before!
Cheers!
LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 14:14 Edit
Dare I say – You TRAMP, you! LOL 😉
LAMarcom July 25, 2014 at 22:28 Edit
Mark,
You are too kind my friend.
I do thank you though.
Marvelous much.
Cheers,
Lance
markbialczak July 25, 2014 at 21:26 Edit
With Shonnie, your adventures were better than Tom Sawyer’s. With Layla, now you’re going after the legend of Huck Finn. You were something else, my friend Lance.
LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 23:31 Edit
🙂
~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 23:02 Edit
You know I will!! 😉
LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 22:55 Edit
Thank you Sadie.
My mood(s) currently won’t let me continue this one for the next few days.
But… Never Fear!
The words will come, by an’ by…
And I hope you will read.
Cheers,
Lance
~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 22:32 Edit
Can’t wait to read more, Lance!! 🙂 You know I love your stories!!
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:29 Edit
It only hurt when I laughed.
Thanks for stopping by T. ‘Preciate it.
🙂
Teela Hart July 22, 2014 at 16:38 Edit
I’m with Nancytex.
Rib pain?
You definitely need a Samantha.
Can’t wait to read the next installment.
T
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 10:36 Edit
If you could have seen Layla, you’d understand. I quickly recovered. (I was young and bulletproof back then ya know?)
😉
Thanks for reading. There will be more to this story….
NancyTex July 22, 2014 at 10:33 Edit
My mind is bouncing all around trying to figure out why your ribs would be hurting. That’s some aggressive sexy, my friend.
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 08:10 Edit
I read Willie’s autobiography many, many years ago. I suspect if he knew how long he was to live (and may he outlive me), he would have waited some more decades before he penned that ‘biopic.’
At any rate, I do concur: Willie is a fascinating character and a fascinating character study and also a Texas Treasure.
As for me… well, to me marriage was never much more binding than a handshake. This is why after four, I have now sworn off marriages. Just call me Hamlet: “There will be no more marriages!” Get this boy to a nunnery!
Thanks Pain for reading and commenting. Always thought provoking and a pleasure to read.
Cheers My Friend,
–Lance
Exile on Pain Street July 22, 2014 at 06:29 Edit
I was never able to pull of instantaneous, anonymous sex with a stranger when I was younger. I wish I could have because you sure make it sound fun. But I was so wracked with a crippling case of low self-esteem that I never tried. And now that I’m married, it’s too late. THERE’S a lesson for you.
I’ve been listening to Willie Nelson be interviewed on Howard Stern all morning. What an amazing life that guy had! Willie, that is. Not Stern.
Oh! Why Not? Some Shonnie Reminisce “Shonnie The Biker’s Wife: Denouement” Re-Posted Moldy Oldie
Or: “ Fairy Tales can come true; it can happen to you… When you’re young at heart– and stupid and think yourself bulletproof.”
Or, if you prefer: “Big-Boned Gal”
Parts One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen This is the End
***
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 Toronado. 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), which 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 for a spell. At one point I contemplated stopping and asking him for directions, but in the end thought better of that.
Eventually, he either got bored, lost his nerve, or ran out of gas. Anyway, he disappeared from my radar. I made it back to the USS Frederick with just enough time to change into my dungarees and make morning muster.
When the 1MC announced “Knock off Ship’s Work” at 1600 hrs, I quickly changed into my civvies, left the ship, grabbed a pay phone on the pier, and called Shonnie up at work.
“Hello?”
“Shonnie?”
“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.”
“And?”
“What?”
“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?” In asking this, I felt as if I had been kicked in the solar plexus. Hard. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
“Yes.”
“You sure about this?”
“Yes. I am.”
I could not continue the conversation. “Well, I guess that’s it then.”
“Yeah. I guess it is. Goodbye Lance.” She hung up.
Rage. Heartbreak. Sorrow. Self-Pity. Despair. Aloneness: All competing in my soul to climb to the top of my emotional hit parade. I slammed the receiver into the phone and walked toward my car. As soon as I sat down in the driver’s seat I realized that I was crying. Fuck! (There seemed to be a pattern developing here, Shonnie: Then grown men crying–note to self–‘research this.’)
A couple of weeks later I was kidnapped by some of my buddies from my ship.
“Marcom, you done been mopping around for too long. We’re going 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 Chevelle, which he referred to as his “She-Vail” Accent on the ‘Vail.’
“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.
We were just a couple of car lengths behind Mark and Tommy who, wearing their bandanas, leather jackets, black jackboots, and seated astride their Harleys puking blue smoke, producing one hundred decibels above what OSHA would consider workplace violence, had metamorphosed elegantly from A-Jay-Squared-Away Sailors into So-Cal Bikers. Passing through National City, (‘Nasty City’) then Chula Vista, (Chew, Ya-Wanna?’) I couldn’t help but keep thinking of Shonnie and how much she would have loved this ‘adventure.’ And I with her, experiencing it together. Damn! 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 myself staring at. Lots of bikes 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.” 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 toward the arms of intoxication. As I was not expected to drive (this was sort of a ‘coming back out of the shadows/death’ party for me after all), I planned to “Drink that woman offa my mind.”
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 and not really paying attention to the larger part of navigation.
Looking up I realized I had run into a woman. A very tall, very large woman. Not a fat woman, mind you, but tall and large. I mean a ‘Big-Boned Gal.’ A fuckin’-beautiful-brunette-dark-eyed Big Bone Woman, who, praise Neptune, did not appear to be angry at my clumsiness.
I found my voice and said, “Hi… I’m Lance. Will you take me home? With you?”
BBG smiled down at me, “Yes, I sure will,” she said as she took my hand.
And as they say (Always ‘They’), “Nothing gets you over the last one like the next one.”
My “recovery” was officially underway.
This Concludes Our ‘All Things Shonnie’ Broad Cast (no pun). We now return you to our regularly scheduled inaneness.
Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I was enjoined to write it.
Peace and Beer to all Y’all!
Last thoughts HERE
More Big-Boned Gal HERE
Lance OUT
“The Biker, Bouncer, Bartender, Big-Boned Gal From Milwaukee” or “Bloody Mary Mourning–Baby Left Me Without Warning”
This is (sort of) a continuation of my “Shonnie Series.”
And since I like things to be linear,
We shall rejoin our “Hero” just after his ‘Denouement.’
Or perhaps just after his ‘Epiphany’.
Or perhaps just after… Oh! Who the hell knows?
Or cares?
***
SHE led me to a car and we all piled in. I say ‘we all’ simply because suddenly there were three of us. Me, HER, and a miniscule blonde. I’d seen this movie before, but this time it came with a plot twist, I guess.
I have to guess.
The rest of the evening (early morning?) lies deeply submerged somewhere in the nether regions of my addled murky-muddled-memory.
After about twenty minutes… I am once again, ‘guesstimating’ here.
Could’ve been an hour or more.
Or less.
After about ‘twenty’ minutes we arrived at a ‘house’.
Could have been an apartment. Could have been a barn. Could have been The Ritz-Carlton. Could have been a flying fucking saucer.
Hell! I do not remember; is what I’m saying.
My torturously painful thoughts of losing Shonnie combined with copious quantities of consumed alcohol had done a seriously ‘detrimental-mental’ on my ability to exhibit fully functional, lucid behavior.
The wheel was turning, but the hamster was dead. My alligator did not go all the way to the top. There was a spammer in my works. Elvis had left the building with my mind.
In other words, I was a mess.
***
SHE took me inside and led me straight-away to a bed, in a room… A bedroom. Best guess. If memory serves, a rather liberal and generous assumption, we had sex. Violent sex. (Not ‘violent’ violent. Let’s just call it ‘intense.’)
SHE was no less than six foot and change and as I did report earlier, ‘Big-Boned.” I swear, I saw my life’s movie flash in front of me as she covered me and had her way. (And of course, me mine)
As we lay there ‘after’ in someone else’s bed, she remarked, “Well, that should keep your self-winding watch going for a few days.”
I had to laugh, right before I drifted off. Passed out.
Completely whacked out and totally done in.
Used.
Abused.
Helpless.
Conquered.
It was an immensely satisfying sweet sense of surrender.
***
The next morning I awoke with the sun singeing my eyes through a casually, carelessly placed shadeless window (What’s wrong with these people?)
I could smell bacon. I rolled over and looked at my watch: 0630. I had a sudden start. Then realized it was Sunday, not a work day, and I did not have ‘duty’ on my ship. I could go back to sleep, un-worried.
But oh no! SHE was up and about. So who was cooking bacon?
(I’d forgotten about Tiny Blondie.)
“Oh. You’re awake?” She said.
“Uh, yeah. Kinda,” was all I could muster. “Where am I? Who are you?”
Not an intelligent question, probably a dangerous, stupid, perilous one, but then, I was hung over and still groggy, and surely she wouldn’t take advantage of a mentally incapacitated, defenseless sailor.
Would she?
“I am the woman to be named later,” she laughed while poking me in the ribs. (Which hurt for some reason)
I rolled over to face her. She was indeed, Beautiful. Very Beautiful. Stunningly Beautiful. Makes one’s eyes water Beautiful.
She was right out of a fantasy, with gloriously long, luscious, dark brown hair. Hair so long, so ‘deep’ so thick that a hapless sailor could go missing in it for days on end.
Long, bronze-tanned perfectly symmetrical legs that seemed to go on for days, shapely firm breasts that simply defy description, sultry dark, dark eyes channeling mystery–too much mystery.
Raw, unfiltered sexuality poured from every fiber of her.
It was unnerving.
Not necessarily in a bad way,
But I was all ‘myster-ied’ out and the only fantasy I was holding was ‘getting back that girl I had before.’ That little short, pale, half-ginger one with the electric blue eyes and the volatile attitude.
I was spent.
Running on empty.
I was exhausted, emotionally, mentally, physically.
Send my saddle home.
Please!
I needed comfort. I needed soft. I needed tender. I needed sweet. I needed to be held and caressed.
Not fucked to within an inch of my life.
I needed Gidget. I needed Gilligan’s Island Mary Ann, I needed Samantha Stevens, I needed Amy Adams, or even Mary Poppins.
As lucky and grateful as I was to have found myself sharing, if only briefly, a bed with this goddess of a woman, I was not certain nor confident I was capable of surviving yet another encounter with such an intimidating representative of the ‘fairer’ sex.
Not yet, anyhow.
Not just yet.
My world seemed to be teeming with ‘Snakes and Ladders’.
“It Breaks Your Heart Just Looking At Her.”
–Joni: Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm 1988
***
“You don’t remember my name?” She asked after lighting a cigarette.
“To be stupidly and painfully honest, no I don’t.”
“No matter. I am called ‘Layla’. Ring any bells?” (I wish I were making this up)
See this below if you’re puzzled by my ‘Layla PTSD.’
Thinking I had just fallen ass-over-tit into Dante’s Inferno it occurred to me that I needed to change my Sailor–Ways.
First Contrition, then Absolution, then Redemption, then…
Oh! Screw that! What I really needed was a Bloody Mary. A Super-Sized Bloody Mary. And soon! As in five minutes soon, if not sooner.
My mind had wandered off somewhere.
Layla repeated her question,
“Ring any bells?”
“Uh. No. Should bells be ringing? I don’t like bells. Every time I hear bells ringing, something bad happens.”
Rolling her eyes, à la ‘Shonnie’, she said, “So… You’re a Sailor? Yes?”
“Yes. And what are you? And are you from around here?”
“Not from around here. I’m just visiting my cousin. She is the one cooking breakfast.”
“Yeah. I can smell bacon.”
“Good nose. I like that in a man. Have you an appetite?”
“From some memory of last night, I’d have to say ‘affirmative’.”
“Hahahahah! Yep. You do, Sailor Man. Yep, you sure do.”
“So, if you’re not from here. Where are you ‘from’, and what do you do?”
“I’m from Wisconsin. I work as a bartender. I’m also a bouncer, when the need is needed. Oh, and I love to ride Harleys.”
***
“Perfection, I thought. Now what Cowboy? Shit. Here I am again…”
I had ‘some leave-days-on-the-books’ and seriously considered at that moment that I should take them and head home to Texas to get a re-start on my psyche saki… get a ‘refresh’ on my Texan Accent, recharge my Ni-Cad batteries, take a break.
Well, spelling and lucid, rational thinking ain’t never been my thing, but you know what I mean here.
Don’t you?
No matter.
Keep reading.
Sooner or later, it will all make perfect, logical sense.
Or not.
I mean, I was still ‘re-bounding’ for glory and quite honestly, still heart-sick over my loss of Shonnie. But I did have some time, eh? Didn’t I? Meaning I was still relatively young and deep at heart, a perpetual cock-eyed-optimist.
And I was a good and decent man.
Most of the time.
But Shonnie had set me back.
Set me back and set me down.
Hard.
Something must be done.
Something had to give.
My mind was in a very bad place.
“Hey Sailor! You want breakfast and some blood mary, or what?” came her voice from some foggy-in-my-head place below.
Apparently, while lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed She’d left me all alone.
“Uh… Yeah! I mean yes! I’ll be right down!”
“The pitfalls of the city are extremely real.”
Credit: AustinCityLimitsTV—October, 1974
***
Previously:
***
Coming Soon:
“The Biker-Bartender-Bouncer Chick, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: Part Two”
***
Commentary Below From Original Version of this Post
Please Read From Bottom Up for Continuity
18 THOUGHTS ON “THE BIKER, BOUNCER, BARTENDER, BIG-BONED GAL FROM MILWAUKEE”
johncoyote March 7, 2021 at 05:42 Edit
I enjoyed this story. I was station in Texas for almost seven years. I loved the Texas gals. They asked you to dance and they were fast and fearless. I liked the girl that cooked a meal in the morning. And we talk some after. Thank you for sharing the entertaining tale.
LAMarcom August 13, 2015 at 01:45 Edit
Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:
How can one go wrong with Willie?
LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 18:34 Edit
🙂
LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 18:27 Edit
Well, don’t go changin’! I like your stories!
LAMarcom July 28, 2014 at 17:33 Edit
Hahahah!
It has been said before!
Cheers!
LVital7019 July 28, 2014 at 14:14 Edit
Dare I say – You TRAMP, you! LOL 😉
LAMarcom July 25, 2014 at 22:28 Edit
Mark,
You are too kind my friend.
I do thank you though.
Marvelous much.
Cheers,
Lance
markbialczak July 25, 2014 at 21:26 Edit
With Shonnie, your adventures were better than Tom Sawyer’s. With Layla, now you’re going after the legend of Huck Finn. You were something else, my friend Lance.
LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 23:31 Edit
🙂
~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 23:02 Edit
You know I will!! 😉
LAMarcom July 23, 2014 at 22:55 Edit
Thank you Sadie.
My mood(s) currently won’t let me continue this one for the next few days.
But… Never Fear!
The words will come, by an’ by…
And I hope you will read.
Cheers,
Lance
~ Sadie ~ July 23, 2014 at 22:32 Edit
Can’t wait to read more, Lance!! 🙂 You know I love your stories!!
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:29 Edit
It only hurt when I laughed.
Thanks for stopping by T. ‘Preciate it.
🙂
Teela Hart July 22, 2014 at 16:38 Edit
I’m with Nancytex.
Rib pain?
You definitely need a Samantha.
Can’t wait to read the next installment.
T
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 10:36 Edit
If you could have seen Layla, you’d understand. I quickly recovered. (I was young and bulletproof back then ya know?)
😉
Thanks for reading. There will be more to this story….
NancyTex July 22, 2014 at 10:33 Edit
My mind is bouncing all around trying to figure out why your ribs would be hurting. That’s some aggressive sexy, my friend.
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 08:10 Edit
I read Willie’s autobiography many, many years ago. I suspect if he knew how long he was to live (and may he outlive me), he would have waited some more decades before he penned that ‘biopic.’
At any rate, I do concur: Willie is a fascinating character and a fascinating character study and also a Texas Treasure.
As for me… well, to me marriage was never much more binding than a handshake. This is why after four, I have now sworn off marriages. Just call me Hamlet: “There will be no more marriages!” Get this boy to a nunnery!
Thanks Pain for reading and commenting. Always thought provoking and a pleasure to read.
Cheers My Friend,
–Lance
Exile on Pain Street July 22, 2014 at 06:29 Edit
I was never able to pull of instantaneous, anonymous sex with a stranger when I was younger. I wish I could have because you sure make it sound fun. But I was so wracked with a crippling case of low self-esteem that I never tried. And now that I’m married, it’s too late. THERE’S a lesson for you.
I’ve been listening to Willie Nelson be interviewed on Howard Stern all morning. What an amazing life that guy had! Willie, that is. Not Stern.
Shonnie The Biker’s Wife: Denouement
Or: “Dreams do come true; it can happen to you… When you’re young at heart and stupid and bulletproof.”
Or, if you prefer: “Big-Boned Gal”
Parts One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen This is the End
***
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 Toronado. 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), which 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 for a spell. At one point I contemplated stopping and asking him for directions, but in the end thought better of that.
Eventually, he either got bored, lost his nerve, or ran out of gas. Anyway, he disappeared from my radar. I made it back to the USS Frederick with just enough time to change into my dungarees and make morning muster.
When the 1MC announced “Knock off Ship’s Work” at 1600 hrs, I quickly changed into my civvies, left the ship, grabbed a pay phone on the pier, and called Shonnie up at work.
“Hello?”
“Shonnie?”
“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.”
“And?”
“What?”
“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?” In asking this, I felt as if I had been kicked in the solar plexus. Hard. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
“Yes.”
“You sure about this?”
“Yes. I am.”
I could not continue the conversation. “Well, I guess that’s it then.”
“Yeah. I guess it is. Goodbye Lance.” She hung up.
Rage. Heartbreak. Sorrow. Self-Pity. Despair. Aloneness: All competing in my soul to climb to the top of my emotional hit parade. I slammed the receiver into the phone and walked toward my car. As soon as I sat down in the driver’s seat I realized that I was crying. Fuck! (There seemed to be a pattern developing here, Shonnie: Then grown men crying–note to self–‘research this.’)
A couple of weeks later I was kidnapped by some of my buddies from my ship.
“Marcom, you done been mopping around for too long. We’re going 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 Chevelle, which he referred to as his “She-Vail” Accent on the ‘Vail.’
“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.
We were just a couple of car lengths behind Mark and Tommy who, wearing their bandanas, leather jackets, black jackboots, and seated astride their Harleys puking blue smoke, producing one hundred decibels above what OSHA would consider workplace violence, had metamorphosed elegantly from A-Jay-Squared-Away Sailors into So-Cal Bikers. Passing through National City, (‘Nasty City’) then Chula Vista, (Chew, Ya-Wanna?’) I couldn’t help but keep thinking of Shonnie and how much she would have loved this ‘adventure.’ And I with her, experiencing it together. Damn! 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 myself staring at. Lots of bikes 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.” 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 toward the arms of intoxication. As I was not expected to drive (this was sort of a ‘coming back out of the shadows/death’ party for me after all), I planned to “Drink that woman offa my mind.”
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 and not really paying attention to the larger part of navigation.
Looking up I realized I had run into a woman. A very tall, very large woman. Not a fat woman, mind you, but tall and large. I mean a ‘Big-Boned Gal.’ A fuckin’-beautiful-brunette-dark-eyed Big Bone Woman, who, praise Neptune, did not appear to be angry at my clumsiness.
I found my voice and said, “Hi… I’m Lance. Will you take me home? With you?”
BBG smiled down at me, “Yes, I sure will,” she said as she took my hand.
And as they say (Always ‘They’), “Nothing gets you over the last one like the next one.”
My recovery was officially underway.
This Concludes Our ‘All Things Shonnie’ Broad Cast (no pun). We now return you to our regularly scheduled inaneness.
Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I was enjoined to write it.
Peace and Beer to all Y’all!
Last thoughts HERE
More Big-Boned Gal HERE
Lance OUT