Part Two of a Sailor’s Scholarly Series on U.S. Naval History in The South Pacific

When last we left our Boys they had arrived at Viva Young not unlike victorious Roman Legionaries returning from Gaul—The Conquering Heroes—welcomed with gleeful squeals of joy and happiness by the Girls.

A little more detail on Viva Young The Establishment, and more than a little more detail on ‘Mama-San’ is in order here.

Upon first entering, immediately on the left was ‘Mama San’s ‘Office,’ which was simply an enclosed counter with an ancient cash register, a small table lamp, a perpetually over-flowing ashtray, and a counter sign which read: “No Credit.” Every bar or club had a ‘Mama San’—‘Manager’ to put it into Western Parlance. I had a bit of a history with this Mama San.

(Yes we were ‘Fuck Buddies’)

We were roughly the same age and found each other mutually attractive. She was tall for a Filipina, just a little bit chunky with shoulder length reddish brown hair which she kept in a semi-perm. Or perhaps it kept her; maybe that was its natural state. Dark brown eyes and the ‘Ornamental’ version of The ‘Shonnie’ Voice—semi-coarse and gruff.

She did volunteer work for the mayor of Olongapo and was quite well-read, savvy, and politically astute. She wanted a career in government. But first she had a bar to run and girls to manage. In this regard she was all cold business.

When on liberty in Olongapo I generally spent the night with Mama San. She lived with her mother and a sister and a brother and a few children in a fairly decent (though small) house about a mile from Viva Young. She was supporting the entire family and was never ‘hesitate’ to hit me up for contributions to her domicile.

“You gonna pay my bar fine?” Were some of the first ‘personal’ words she said to me on the night I ‘proposed’ to her, which was what seemed like eons before this particular port visit.

Some clarification: Subic Bay is a ‘working port’ not a ‘liberty port’. It is just like being in San Dog, only ‘with benefits.’

But still a working port.

Hence, during this particular Westpac deployment, we would find ourselves in Subic Bay every month or so ostensibly for resupply, but mainly because we were schlepping about six hundred US Marines around the South Pacific.

The Frederick LST 1184 is what is known as a ‘Gator Freighter.’ The ‘LST’ stands for ‘Tank Landing Ship.’ And yes I know the acronym is ass-backwards—‘Landing Ship, Tank’—My Navy is kind of Dyslexic.

Anyway, our primary purpose, our only purpose, our whole raison d’être is to ferry Marines about, dropping them and their AAV’s ‘Amphibious Assault Vehicles’ off at various beaches throughout the region.

“You call. We haul.”

That is the mantra of the Amphib Navy.

So we’d drop off the kids, head back out to sea and return a few days later to pick up all the ones who had not drown in the surf-zone. And sadly, I am not joking. We lost a half-dozen or so during that deployment.

Marines really cannot swim for shit and are not benefitted by the ‘Drown-Proofing’ training they teach at BUD/s (SEAL Boot-Camp, which if you recall, your humble author had been through.)

Twice.

“Drown Proofing”

It’s Great Fun!

***

Back to Mama:

Upon our first meeting, we were working on our mutual attraction. Using all my debonair wily Texan/Sailor charms, I broached the subject of “Let me take you away from all this.” (After closing time of course)

“You pay my bar fine. OK?”

“But you’re Mama-San. How can you have a bar fine?”

“You pay bar fine.”

I paid.

For the uninitiated, if one wishes the solitary company and undivided attention of a working bar girl, one must make payment to the Mama-San: the girl’s ‘bar fine.’ Call it a ‘handling fee’ if you must be so callous.

And while I am on THAT subject, allow me to inform you, I never paid any bar fines of any young girls for sex. I did not believe in it. There is much I will explain in future installments regarding this, but for now, suffice it to say that this sailor is an Honorable Man.

Fancy

Bobbie Gentry – (1969)

Street Cred for Vid: kelly heisler

***

But Mama-San is a different matter because she was a woman, not a girl.

I knew ‘the score’ and she kept the score. I happily donated to her cause to keep her score card to the positive and in the black.

What did I need money for anyway? We had a convenient relationship and we were genuinely fond of each other as far as it went. And to my mind, she was doing good work. She was ‘Mother’ to her girls and sincerely looked out for their wellbeing. She could spot a potentially abusive sailor or marine in an instant and would never allow same to leave the bar with one of her girls.

Ever.

And if by some chance she needed help with showing some asshole the door, there were the three of us Fast Freddy Sailors and the regular marines to provide assistance, not that Mama-San ever really needed it.

***

Running the length of the bar was the ‘stage’ or ‘cat walk’. Or picture a runway, similar to what one might find in a very low-rent fashion show.

***

Bordering this runway on three sides was a narrow counter top: narrow-minded and horse-shoe-shaped. The open end faced the door and Mama San’s watchful eye. Strings of lights hung precariously from the ceiling. Bar stools (ancient and uncomfortable) finished the Spartan scene.

The bar girls would line up on the runway and dance to the music from the equally ancient jukebox. Yes, this was best unflatteringly described as a ‘Meat Market’. But then, that was Olongapo in ‘89.

Matt, Rogers, and I knew all the girls. (Just not in the Biblical Sense). I suspect knew some were under age. If you’d ask one hundred bar girls in Olongapo where they were from, you’d get one hundred same pat answers:

“I from da Pra’bince (Province). I make money so go to college.”

I never met a single lil gal (see how easily I throw in some Texan Bullshit Vernacular to gloss over the horrible reality?) who told me she wasn’t actually from Olongapo. Nope, these were all ‘country gals’ with aspirations for higher education brought from ‘The Province’. Their true aspiration was to marry a U.S. Serviceman and get the hell out of the Philippines.

And who could blame them? Many a young Sailor or Marine, after having his first sexual encounter fell in love with a Filipina and did fulfill her dream. They would marry and the new bride would move to San Diego. Within a few months the rest of the family would be sent for: Mama, Daddy, Baby Sis, Baby Bro, Big Sis, Big Bro, real cousins, faux cousins, best friends, et cetera. This was known as the ‘Filipino Pipeline’.

Sadly, more often than not, once secured with U.S. Citizenship and the rescue of her family, the new bride would divorce her Sailor or Marine and make her way headlong into The American Dream, never once looking back and leaving the husband wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

I never felt sorry for the cuckolds. I was a cruel son of a bitch back then and secretly, as a perpetual con and huckster, I was always for the Filipinas anyway.

Actually everything always went wrong with such arrangements.

Well wrong for the sailor/marine.

But right for the ‘Girl-from-da-Pra’bince.’

The Girl from Ipanema

Artists: Astrud Gilberto, João Gilberto and Stan Getz

Street Cred for Vid: catman916

“If you hold sand too tightly in your hand it will run through your fingers.”

–Joni Mitchell (Telegram she sent from Crete to Graham Nash in CA, 1970)

***

Part One Here:

Part Three coming soon.

Part One of a Sailor’s Scholarly Series on U.S. Naval History in The South Pacific

I slept through ‘Throw-Back Thursday’, so I jumped on my Dash Eight and headed West until I crossed The International Date Line.

OK, NOW it’s Thursday.

Again.

Happy?

Guess where I ended up?

Disneyland!

(‘Ornamental Version’)

***

Liberty Call!

Dateline: 1989 Subic Bay Naval Base / Olongapo City, Philippines 1600hrs

“Knock Off Ship’s Work! Liberty Call! Liberty Call!” reverberated from the 1MC onboard the USS Frederick, LST 1184.

Simultaneously about a hundred sailors went into Fred Flintstone Mode:

“Yabba Dabba Dooo!!”

To beat the stampede off the ship, Matt, Rogers, and I were already in our berthing compartment donning our civvies. We were as always, five minutes ahead of the game. We double-timed up to the quarterdeck,

“Request permission to go ashore” we said in unison as we saluted the O.O.D, (Officer of the Deck) in front of us.

The officer of the deck and the messenger of the watch stand by on the quarterdeck.

“Very well,” he replied, and then we faced astern and saluted the flag or ‘ensign’ in the proper vernacular.

“Salute the Fag, then the Flag”. (Helpful hint to remember the proper protocol for departing a U.S. Navy vessel.)

Scampering down the gangway to the pier we nearly knocked each other down in our haste.

Free at last!

We hustled down toward the Shit-River Bridge which connected Subic Bay Naval Base to Olongapo. Shit River was similar to the Poo Pond I wrote about in my Letter from a South Park Jail series. But the primary difference between the two was no one ever physically came in contact with the Poo Pond.

In Olongapo Filipino children would paddle small boats under the Shit River Bridge and wait for sailors to toss coins into the water.

These children would dive down into the ‘bio-hazardous’ searching for the coins.

To my knowledge no one from my ship ever tossed coins into the river. This was considered dishonorable behavior and rightly so. And for reasons so obvious that I won’t even list them here.

Shit River

Once safely across the bridge we entered Magsaysay Blvd., AKA Magsaysay Drive. Strolling down Magsaysay requires a keen sense of situational awareness. Jeepneys, trikes, drunken sailors and marines, Shore Patrols, flying beer bottles… All of these while-on-liberty-occupational hazards must be recognized and avoided—at all costs.

Magsaysay

Olongapo City was Sexual Disneyland for Sailors and Marines.

Up and down Magsaysay Boulevard, every other venue a bar, and every other—other venue was a massage parlor (“Hey Sailor! You want massage with sensation?”) and every other, other joint was what could best be described as a ‘Mega-Club’. These had no less than three to four hundred ‘working girls.’

These Mega-Clubs, (solely owned and operated by the Chinese Mafia) often three stories high, were death traps in the event of a fire, no matter how small. The din inside was cacophonous. Ear plugs were prudent. Cigarette smoke swirled up like the morning Mekong mist in Apocalypse Now.

Imagine a super-sized opium den with high-amp electronic music and strobe lights.

Den of Sin

If the place didn’t burn down during your sojourn, you could still get trampled to death in the stampede to get out the solitary door.

No one feared the danger.

Nor cared.

This was not my first rodeo. I had been to Olongapo before (World Cruise deployment on the U.S.S Callaghan DDG 994 in 1986).

Ditto for my two compadres and we were all GM’s—Gunner’s mates–‘Old Salts’.

Matt was a thoughtful mild mannered, about six-foot tall perfect AJ-Squared-Away first class petty officer gunner but with one fatal flaw:

He loved Filipinas, and specifically one Filipina above all others:

His wife.

Josie was a very beautiful, vivacious, vexatious, sexy, striking woman who was ‘seconded’ to San Dog (San Diego), happily fucking every Marine she could lay legs on while Matt was out to sea and some would also ungraciously add, ‘Out to Lunch’.

But this ‘TMI’ came directly to Rog and me from Matt himself and he knew it was common knowledge throughout The Fleet. (Okay, the entire Seventh Fleet did not know of Matt’s marriage troubles, but it sure did seem so at times)

He unashamedly admitted to being a cuckold, but was so blindly in love he was powerless to do anything about it.

Love has fucked up more lonely sailors and marines than I am able to count, although I really need only count to one:

Me.

Rogers was married as well, but cuckold, he was none. He was a little wiry Irish descendant, ‘bout five-foot and small change with reddish blond-hair and bluish blood-stained wild eyes.  

He was one crazy little dynamo son of a bitch with a fair allotment of Napoleon overcompensation built in.

My persona was dark and foreboding and dangerous. I had ‘rocked out’ of SEAL training for the second time and had but one year left before I could turn in my Canoe Club Card and get the hell outta This Man’s Navy.

Having failed to make it in Naval Spec-Warfare, my Naval Career was over as far as I was able to give one shit.

This made me dangerous.

Rogers loved that about me. Matt was just generally apprehensive and leery.

The three of us were absolutely the very best of buddies and shipmates in every good sense of the term.

Yet, a more divergent trio of personalities could not be dreamed.

One thing in common though: we did not enjoy the Magsaysay Big-Bar scene. It was just too rowdy—too loud—too frenetic—too immature

(Yes. I said ‘immature’)

We were not looking for prostitutes.

Matt had his ‘loving’ wife. Rogers had his Trailer-Park-Shotgun-Bride with their four tow-headed kids, each born precisely nine months and twenty minutes after the preceding.  And I had my transplanted Yankee Girlfriend waiting (?) back in San Dog.

We just wanted a joint which would have that “Cheers” ambiance. We found it at Viva Young, a little shit-hole-in-the-wall tucked in between more substantial and popular bars. For the most part, it went unnoticed, overlooked, and passed-on-by.

Viva Young Baby!

(And Viva Young was deemed ‘Off Limits’ by The Naval Command—never did understand why, but this made it even better: nothing more fun than jacking with the SP’s—Shore Patrol). 

Viva Young had become Our Place and all the girls (and the Mama-San) knew our names. There was not much to it. It was a narrow long bar, perhaps 1500 square feet, dark and smoky and the music volume did not force us to shout. Not many even knew of it, and even if they did, they would not frequent the place.

It was too dark, too run down, not to mention the fact that the regulars (Matt, Lance, and Rog—plus a handful of Marines) did not cotton to stupid, young and green Sailors and Marines fresh out of boot camp or A-School wanting to suck up Our Air.

We ran all interlopers off with gusto and frequency, much to the chagrin of Mama-San, the manager.

We made it up to her though, always spending much more than expected and for shit-sure leaving huge tips all around, just like the drunken sailors/marines that you may have heard about.

Yep.

We invented that cliché.

Upon entering Viva Young, we were instantly assaulted with an all-hands-on-deck ‘Welcome!’ from the girls.

“We love you here Sailor Man!”

“Take your shoes off! We love you!”

“We miss you!”

“We lub chew no chit!”

(Best rendition of a Filipina accent I can muster—ya kinda have to experience it for your-own-self to get the ‘full benefit’.)

Here is a song to prove I am not making this up:

I Love You No Shit

Buy Me Honda

Edmundo Olino Katuwaan Channel. Pinoy Country Singer

***

There was a long cat-walk. The cat-walk was the main attraction—taking up most of the square footage real estate. At the very back of the bar, just for fun, or an afterthought, were two pool tables. There may have been a rusty pinball machine as well, but I possibly have dreamed that.

The nubile Filipinas, fresh from Soccer Practice and still in their uniform until later in the evening were a joy to behold and to hold.

We always seemed to show up during the lax time—that time  between the end of girls’ soccer and the Real Deal.

 They would continuously shower us with their attentive affections:

“Hey Mista Rance! Hey Mista Matt! Hey Mista Rog! We love you! We love you no-shit! Buy me drink?! Buy me Honda?!”

“Sure on the drink Honey! The Honda… maybe later.”

Stay tuned… it gets better.

“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 “You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams”

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.

Frank Sinatra – Young At Heart1953

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.

“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?”

“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?” I felt as if I had been kicked in the solar plexus.

Hard and more than once.

It was becoming difficult to breathe.

“Yes.”

“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.

***

Heartbreak. Sorrow. Self-Pity. Despair. Rage. Anguish. Aloneness.

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.

Damn it!

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!

‘Cook’s Corner’

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.

Perhaps tonight,

Perhaps not.

We’ll see.

Peace and Beer to all Y’all!

Oh! I almost forgot.

“Coming Soon: More Big Boned Gal

***

Previously:

***

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.

Cheers Friend.

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.

-L

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.

T

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,

-Lance

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

loool

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!

Gracias Amigo!

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.

😉

Cheers,

Lance

~ 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

David, Friend,

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.

Cheers,

Lance

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

Homeopathic.

Always works.

Hahahah

Thanks for readin’ Annie.

Cheers,

Lance

Mad Annie, Bronwyn, Ann July 16, 2014 at 21:04 Edit

Hair o’ the dog what bit ya!

Shonnie The Biker’s Wife: “This is (NOT) The End” or “I Heard You Been Layin’ My Old Lady”

I Heard You’ve Been Layin’ My Old Lady

Song By Rusty Wier, NATIVE TEXAN

Street Cred for Vid: HuckToohey

***

The three Harleys were gaining on me as I sped southbound down Interstate Five. It was still dark and the traffic was light. I floored the pedal on the Toranado but I knew they would eventually catch up to me.

My speedometer redlined at one hundred and I took another hurried glance at the rearview: still gaining fast. Where the hell were the famous CHiPs? For the absolute first time in my life, I wanted to get busted.

One biker managed to pull up alongside me on the passenger side. I swerved to the right just a bit to try to spook him. No dice! He easily dodged my quarter panel and I caught a brief glimpse of his grinning face, mocking me. (bikers never wore helmets) 

The two remaining bikes pulled up behind him. I was running out of options. Should I just continue on until I ran out of freeway or gas? Hope a highway patrol finally spotted us? Surrender?

I stole another glance in my side mirror and could just barely make out the third biker taking aim at my car with a handgun, rather unsteadily given our speed, but I braced for the worst, then BAM!

***

I awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. The alarm was wailing away. Shonnie stirred and moaned, “What time…? uuugghhhhh.”

I reached over Shonnie to kill the alarm and knocked it off the nightstand. “Shit!” Had to crawl over her to grab the damn thing and turn it off. “It’s five-thirty,” I said.

“Ohhh too early,” she moaned again, pulling the covers over her head.

“Go back to sleep.”

She sat up, stretching her arms upward and yawning. “No. I’ll make you some coffee,”

“Got no time for that. I gotta get back to my ship. Muster’s at zero-seven.”

“It’ll just take a minute,” she said as she extracted her naked body from the covers.

“Okay, but a minute is about all I have.”

I got out of bed and put on my jeans. Shonnie threw on her robe and disappeared downstairs. I went into the head and splashed some cold water on my face, trying to shock the dream out of my mind.

Just as I finished struggling to get into my too-tight boots, I heard the kettle whistling downstairs. Making sure I had my wallet and military ID, I descended to the kitchen to join Shonnie. She handed me a cup and I took a quick sip.

“Good coffee,” I said.

“You’re welcome Cowboy.”

“You sleep alright? I asked.

“Yeah, sorta, but you were snoring and moaning ‘till all hours.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Look, I gotta split. I wanna beat the traffic. My Master Chief don’t have a sense of humor about being late for muster.” I handed her the still mostly full cup of coffee.

She set it on the counter, threw her arms around my neck clinging tight, pulling me down and kissing me passionately. She withdrew her lips but kept my neck locked tight. “Oh Rhett! When will Ah evah see you again?”

I reached up and gently pulled her hands free and said, “Very funny Scarlett. I’ll call you this evening, but now I gotta go.”

“Okay, Darlin’, lemme walk you out.”

We walked over to the front door holding hands. I opened it. Shonnie let out a gasp. “Oh no,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Look there,” she said pointing down at the deck.

There was a white sack about a yard from the front door. It had the unmistakable mark of McDonald’s on it. I took a step outside, picked it up, turned to Shonnie and said, “What the fuc…”

“Come back inside. Hurry up,” she said in a ‘loud’ whisper.

I went back in and she shut the door, locking it with a loud click. “It’s Billy.”

“Billy?”

“My husband, you idiot.”

“Sorry. You never did tell me his name.”

“You never asked.”

Still clutching the sack in my hand, I opened it up and discovered two large coffees and two pastries.

“Give me that!” she said, almost shouting as she grabbed the sack out of my hand. “Look! This fuckin’ coffee’s still hot. He must’ve just been here.” She was visibly shaking.

“Quite the gentleman to deliver breakfast, doncha think?”

“Goddamn it Lance! This shit ain’t funny!”

“Well, what the hell do you expect from a smartass?”

“You can’t leave now,” she said as she walked over and slumped down into an overstuffed chair. She dropped the bag on the floor. The coffee almost tipped over onto the carpet.

“Seriously? Will he try to hurt you if I go?”

“No… not right away anyhow. It’s you… You! He’ll be after you! Dammit to Fuck!”

“Baby, I got no choice. I’d rather face ‘Billy’ than try to explain to Master Chief why I’m UA.”

She stared at me blankly for a moment as if I had just said something in Swahili. “Whaaat?”

“Uh ‘UA’. Unauthorized Absence. ‘Ay-Wall’. You know.”

“Fuck that! If you leave here now, you might be ‘A-WOLL’ permanent.”

“Well, I doubt it, but anyway I gotta go.” I turned and walked back toward the door. “I’ll call you this evening. Lock the door behind me.”

“Okay,” she sighed, getting up. As I was about to open the door she spun me around and hugged me, burying her face in my chest. “Be safe Lance.”

“You too Baby.”

I opened the door and walked out. Shonnie shut it behind me and I heard the click as she turned the deadbolt.

My car was parked almost a block away from the condo. It was still an hour before sunrise but the streetlights, though not bright, afforded enough light for me to make my way without any difficulty.

I slowly walked toward the Toranado. I was glancing left and right, trying to see into the shadows, hoping I would see no one. My shoulders were tight and I wondered if they would suddenly be pierced by a round from a hand gun.

I kept walking and looking. ‘Situational Awareness’. Almost there now. The Toranado was parked directly under a street light. Shit! I would have preferred a darker venue for getting into my car. Oh well. I fumbled around for my keys, unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel.

I twisted the key in the ignition and the engine turned over a few times more than normal, but finally caught hold. The cassette player was still cranked up and in the early morning quiet seemed extremely loud. I quickly reached over and shut down Rusty Wier in the middle of ‘The Devil Lives In Dallas.’

Proving once again that my life has a soundtrack…

Street Cred for Vid: Neil Wilkins

***

The car was facing the opposite direction I needed to go. I had to pull forward into an empty driveway, back up and get turned about. Back in the street and facing the right direction, I dropped the car into drive.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a Harley cranking up and the throttle revving.

***

This Is NOT The END

***

Previously:

Coming Soon:

“Shonnie The Biker’s Wife: Denouement”

Update: Part XV is up.

***

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 below from the original version of this post.

Please read from the bottom up for continuity.

36 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE: THIS IS THE (NOT) THE END”

LAMarcom July 21, 2014 at 18:10 Edit

All’s well that ends well…

Cheers!

NancyTex July 21, 2014 at 08:49 Edit

Scary shit. Almost afraid to click on the final installment.

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 16:13 Edit

🙂

artourway July 16, 2014 at 16:12 Edit

so glad to have you as my friend Lance

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 16:06 Edit

Toda rabah תודה רבה

That’s Hebrew for ‘Thank you!’

I did learn just enough to get me into trouble when I was working in that part of the world.

😉

artourway July 16, 2014 at 15:57 Edit

I admire your writing Lance.

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 15:23 Edit

Dreams?

I really need to work on my French.

🙂

Thank you my friend.

artourway July 16, 2014 at 14:39 Edit

Vous rêves sont parfois si réels, cool Lance

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 13:06 Edit

Hehehe…

The ‘really end of the end’ should go up late this evening.

I do appreciate your taking time to read this story and comment.

Cheers!

-Lance

LVital7019 July 16, 2014 at 12:59 Edit

THAT was a shameless TEASE! “The End” but not really the end!?? Grrr… LOL

lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 11:54 Edit

Whew! You’re welcome 🙂

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:36 Edit

Okay.

Denouement will be forthcoming.

This is why I love blogging: the feedback and great conversation.

Thanks so much Laura!

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:32 Edit

I must confess, I have never seen ‘Paris Texas.’ Although it has been on my ‘to watch’ list for some decades. After viewing the clip I have moved it way up that list and will watch it this weekend if not before. It definitely looks like a film I would love. So…thanks so much for provided the impetus to get me to it.

I took a peek at the USHypocrisy site and loved it. Now following. And I will show it to my English girlfriend. She will love it too, no doubt.

Win-Win all around!

Merci!

lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 10:30 Edit

Exactly! It needs that good end. We are left to wodner although not too much since you’re still alive ‘n kicking! lol

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:20 Edit

Pretty sure you didn’t miss anything. It is most likely my failing. Perhaps I do need to provide the denouement?

😉

lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 10:18 Edit

Well I for one would like to know what happened after the harley sound. 🙂

lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 10:17 Edit

That’s the end? Did I miss something??

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:14 Edit

Breathe Laura, just breathe.

That is the end of the story….

(Please see comments below)

Of course if blowback comes, I will post an addendum or ‘post a postscript,’ if you will….)

Thanks so much for reading along on this one and also for your comments.

Cheers,

-Lance

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:10 Edit

Hahaha!

Now that’s funny!

Perfect comment. Thanks for making me laugh out loud.

Cheers to you David!

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:08 Edit

Thanks so much Diana.

🙂

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:07 Edit

Actually Heathen, I had not planned to continue the story. This was to be The End, but rest assured, no harm came to Shonnie. If I get pushback to post a postscript, I will do that. However… I think it’s time for me to move on to other tales.

Your thoughts?

Thanks for riding along on this series. I do appreciate your time and as I have said before, your comments enrich my efforts.

Cheers Friend.

lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 09:51 Edit

The suspense is killing me!

David Scott Moyer July 16, 2014 at 08:05 Edit

I wanted him to pull up along side you and say, “You forgot your hat, bro.”

Diana July 16, 2014 at 06:15 Edit

Great job Lance!

happierheathen July 16, 2014 at 05:35 Edit

I’m glad it came out in the comments that it was her decision that you’d never see her again, as otherwise I’d have to hire a guy to kick down your door and be only as nice as possible while extracting that bit of information. I hope the rest of the story doesn’t include her being harmed.

I’m just now thinking how lucky I am that the only woman I ever regretted losing eventually found her way back. Thanks for telling a story that catalyzed such a fine thought in this contraption I generously refer to as my brain, man.

Mélanie July 16, 2014 at 03:50 Edit

P.S. Lance, if you ever have some spare minutes, please take a look @ this interesting and realistic blog: http://ushypocrisy.com/

Mélanie July 16, 2014 at 03:26 Edit

I meant… amigo, Lance! 🙂 you must be proud and honored by your native American heritage/roots/origins…

@Paris, Texas and their fake and kitch Tour Eiffel: you have to see it, to believe it and I did! 😀 btw, have you watched this film-culte(here in “old Europe”!) with excellent actors:

LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 00:40 Edit

‘Gringo?!?!

Laughing my ass off.

(I invite you to know that I am part Comanche)

Just the best part…

P.S. I grew up twenty miles from Paris (Texas). I hated that town then; and still do.

Mélanie July 16, 2014 at 00:34 Edit

yesss! excellent job, Sir! last but not least: I love the Doors and I did see Jim Morrison’s tomb in “Père-Lachaise”, Paris, France(not Tejas!) – always with lots of flowers…

buenas noches, gringo! 🙂

LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 23:31 Edit

Hahaha!

Sadie,

We both may be slightly inebriated…

It happens.

🙂

LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 23:29 Edit

Tis okay. I got it.

Hahahaha

Cheers,

Lancer

LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 23:28 Edit

To quote Joni at you Sadie:

“You are a woman of heart and mind.”

Thank you ever so much for all your wonderful comments.

Sincerely, they mean a lot to me.

Cheers, beers, and Tequila,

Lance

~ Sadie ~ July 15, 2014 at 23:26 Edit

Crap – that is not where that comment was supposed to go 🙂 It was in response to yours – I am tired. Obviously need to go to bed LOL!!

Loading…

~ Sadie ~ July 15, 2014 at 23:25 Edit

Thanks for sharing – you wrote about your bittersweet memories in such a beautiful way – great writing, storytelling, dialogue & suspense-building! I love reading your true tales. Shit, I’d be too scared to write about some of mine . . . 😉

Tears and beers (though mine is always tears & tequila!!) – proof you are alive sometimes!!

Have a great evening, Lance!!

LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 22:40 Edit

Sadie,

My Good Friend,

I needed to end this. Yes there is more to the story, but it mostly involves tears and beers, and I do not think anyone would read that part.

I choose to end it here.

Obviously, I survived as did Shonnie and I never saw her again (her decision), but…hey! C’est La Vie, eh?

Thank you for reading this too long diatribe…er… history.

It is all truth, by the way.

Cheers,

Lance

~ Sadie ~ July 15, 2014 at 22:35 Edit

For some reason, I don’t get the impression that this was the end . . .

My best friend growing up was a Harley girl and as teenagers we hung out occasionally with a couple of Bandidos (well she did, I just tagged along) – bikers aint exactly of the ilk to be too kind about other men & their women – especially their wives.

And YES they do have an unmistakable sound!!

Great piece Lance!! (And LOVE the Doors!! 😉 )

Shonnie The Biker’s Wife Part XII: “Back to the Real World”

With nothing else to do and still somewhat pissed at Shonnie for putting us both in a bad situation, I walked over to The Las Vegas Club just across the street from the Union Plaza.

My intent was to pass some time playing a relaxing game of roulette. I have always enjoyed roulette. The pace is slow and generally the game draws a more serene clientele. A quiet casual game of roulette would afford me the opportunity to calm my Shonnie-Generated anger and pleasantly pass some time.

The minimum bet was one dollar, so I bought a hundred bucks worth of two-bit chips and began scattering them about the table. Never really scoring big at roulette, I did not expect anything but a hundred dollars’ worth of entertainment and some free bottom shelf booze.

I had a few wins but mostly losses and as my initial investment evaporated along with about an hour and a half of time, I cashed out the remainder of my stake (about ten bucks which I used to tip the Croupier), drained my glass, stubbed out my Marlboro and headed back to The Plaza.

I discovered Shonnie face down on the bed, hair a mess, legs splayed out all akimbo, a forsaken cigarette burning in the ashtray.

Somehow I saw myself in that cigarette.

I sat down beside her.

“You awake?” I whispered, gently pulling some strands of hair from her cheek.

“Owwwie… Is that you Honey?”

“Yes Dear.” (I was aiming for a sarcastic, pissed off tone—failed—I just loved her too much to sustain my displeasure) “Yeah. It’s me,” I repeated. “You were perhaps expecting someone else? George maybe?”

“Huhhh? Who’s George?

“Never mind. How’d you come out?”

“Won ‘bout four hundred an’ change. Proud of me?”

“No,” I said. “You nearly got me into trouble.”

“Always about you,” she said, turning on her side to face me with suddenly awake and angry blue eyes.

“We did have a plan, you know. What happened?”

“I couldn’t get shed of that moron.”

“You mean ‘George’, yes?”

She sat up abruptly. Sincerely pissed off now. “How th’ hell you know his fuckin’ name? I don’t even know his fuckin’ name and I had to sit next to the asshole for four hours. I tried to run him off! Goddamn it!”

“How hard is it to walk away from a blackjack table?”

She looked down at the bed and added quietly. “I was having fun.”

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“Yeah, I am. Be my hero and light me a smoke.”

“I already did my hero bit tonight when I showed up to rescue you from George and the El Cortez.”

“It would’ve been awkward to just get up and leave with you. The casino dudes might’ve gotten suspicious.”

“Shonnie, they had gone way beyond ‘suspicious’ by then. If you had just accepted my offer of a drink at the bar…”

“I know. I know! I was acting like a little bitch. I wanted to find out if you were willing to fight for me is all.”

“Damn it Shonnie! You know damn well I will fight for you, but only if it is warranted and necessary. You created the situation. You could have ended it. Easily.”

She gave me a sorrowful, pouty look, then softly, sweetly said, “Cig?”

Whatever remained of my anger was melted away by her voice and her look.

I lit two Marlboros and handed her one. She took a long drag and asked for a cold beer. I fished two Bud longnecks out of the cooler, wiped them off on the bedspread and handed her one.

“You gonna be a gentleman an’ open this for me?” she said while aiming the longneck’s neck at my chest.

I took the bottle, twisted off the cap with one deft motion, tossed it at the television and handed her the beer.

 She drained about half, belched loudly and said, “Cotton mouth.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Fuck you. I have a wicked-bad headache.”

She laid her head back on the pillow with a groan.

I kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, “We need to head outta here tomorrow by noon. I have to be back on my boat…”

“Okay! Okay! I got it. What time is it anyway?”

“It’s later than you think.”

She sat back up, drained the rest of her beer, threw her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, lay down, rolled over and went immediately to sleep. ‘Just perfect,’ I thought.

I took some minutes to finish my beer and my cigarette, then got undressed, curled up next to her and was soon fast asleep myself.

***

Next day we managed to check out of our room and hit the road by about twelve-thirty. I stopped for gas and a six-pack at Whiskey Pete’s, or as I prefer to call it,

“The Last Dance Texaco”

Fun Fact: Rickie Lee bears an eerily striking resemblance to Shonnie, though No Where near as beautiful as Shonnie, At least she can sing. Shonnie can’t sing. So there’s that. But, I’ll still take Shonnie any day. And every day. And in every way.

***

Whiskey Pete’s almost straddles the Nevada State Line. It’s the first, or last, depending upon one’s direction of travel, opportunity to make a charitable contribution to the Casino Industry’s Good Cause(s).

“Hey Baby, we got some time. Wanna see something really cool while we’re here?”

“I cannot look at another blackjack table for a while.”

“C’mon. This is different.”

I parked the car and led her into Whiskey Pete’s and straight to the Bonnie and Clyde car exhibit.

“Look at that! Isn’t that cool?”

“It’s just a car all shot fulla holes. I’ve seen a few already.”

“Baby, this ain’t just any car. This is the legit ‘Bonnie and Clyde Death Car’.”

“Oh.”

Sometimes even my very best efforts to impress my girl fall flat.

Other times, I don’t even have to try.

If I could just manage someday to find the key, my life would be so much easier.

And devoid of magic.

Nope, I’ll keep my mysterious, mystifying, disconcerting, and sometimes infuriating Shonnie over any predictable plastic boring version.

The Joni song below is about seventy-five percent perfect in illuminating the very complex relationship Shonnie and I shared.

***

“You know the times you impress me most

Are the times when you don’t try

When you don’t even try”

Credit for Video Montage: DJ Bayonic

***

We reverse-road-tripped westward toward San Diego, arriving about six in the evening. I dropped Shonnie at her mom’s and headed back to the Callaghan. I hit my rack and slept like the dead.

I had duty the next day, so I could not leave the ship. On Tuesday at sixteen hundred after liberty call I donned my civvies and hit the beach. Found a pay phone on the pier and called her up.

“Hello?”

“Hiya Baby. How Y’all doin’?”

“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” She sounded pissed.

“You know damn well I had ‘the duty’ yesterday,” I shot back.

“Oh… Yeah. Sorry. I forgot.”

“Where do you wanna meet up?” I asked.

“Seaport Village. In the back of the parking lot. In thirty minutes. And don’t make me wait.”

“Make you wait?! That’s rich Shonnie, very rich, given our recent ‘make me wait’ experience. Make it forty-five and we’ve got a bona-fide rendezvous.”

“Okay!” Loud click in my ear as she not-so-gently ‘placed’ her receiver back in the phone cradle.

I laughed out loud as I gently returned my receiver to the pay phone.

‘Lance can be a ‘button-pushing’ little bitch too.’

***

I pulled into the parking lot at Seaport Village around five p.m. No sign of Shonnie. I killed the Toranado but left the stereo playing (Tom Waits: “Warm Beer and Cold Women…I just don’t fit in.”)

Pulling from a pint of Jim Beam, I lit a cigarette and watched some seagulls diving on scraps in San Diego Bay.

A haze-gray-and-underway-piece-of-shit was heading out to sea, black-shoe-sailors were manning the rails wearing dress whites.

Young happy couples were walking hand-in-hand heading toward the boardwalk. I began allowing myself to entertain some second thoughts about my relationship with Shonnie: 

Was it going anywhere?

Was it worth the risk? Was she fun? Was she great in the sack?

Was she not beautiful?

Didn’t I truly love her?

My mindless debate was abruptly and noisily ended as she pulled up alongside me, screeching tires and slinging gravel. 

Grand Entrance! 

She exited her ‘La Bomba’ and walked toward my vehicle.

She looked absolutely California Texas Stunning.

She was sporting tight faded blue jeans with some holes in them, à la Dwight Yoakam ‘cowboy hip’ style, a halter top, cowgirl boots, cowgirl hat, and carrying a fifth of whiskey and an attitude. She ‘runway’ sashayed over to my window and inquired,

“Hey Sailor, New in town?”

Aiming for ‘laconic’ I said, “I’m the ’Only’ Sailor for you Little Cowgirl and I’m Fair to mid’lin’. You?”

“Finer-n-frog hair,” she said.

“Don’t be mockin’ a good ol’ Texas Boy,” I said back.

(Yes! I truly did love her of course but even worse, I was In-Love with her: Madly and Beyond Redemption. There never really was any doubt.)

“I have a surprise for you Lover.”

“I’m not particularly fond of surprises” I said.

“You’re gonna love this one, and it’s gonna save you some money too.”

“Okay, go on. What’s the surprise? And please don’t tell me I’ll know when we get there.”

Enthusiastically she announced, “I’m ‘house-sitting’ my aunt’s condo in La Jolla this week. It’s all ours!”

“Your ‘aunt?’ ‘Condo?’ In ‘La Jolla?’ No way!”

“Yes! Way!”

“Well, ya know, I’m kinda partial to parking lots and sleazy motel rooms,” I protested.

“Don’t be an asshole and don’t be ridiculous,” she said as she climbed into the shot-gun seat of my Toranado. “Drive. I’ll show you the way.”

So I drove.

(With some anticipation tempered with some trepidation)

***

Previously:

***

Coming Soon:

“Shonnie The Biker’s Wife. Chapter XIII: La Jolla”

Update: Part XIII is Up.

***

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:

***

Below You Will Find Most Of The Original Posts. Once / If You Arrive At Thirteen There Are Links To The Final Few Chapters. Please keep in mind however, that each and every one of them is in the process of being rewritten: first to last. This will probably take at another week or so.

But if you can’t wait… Here ya go!

Parts One  Two  Three  Four  Five  Six  Seven  Eight  Nine  Ten  Eleven  Twelve  Thirteen

***

Comments from the original post:

16 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE PART XII: BACK TO THE REAL WORLD”

LAMarcom October 8, 2020 at 04:22 Edit

Thank you John

johncoyote October 3, 2020 at 04:59 Edit

When Vegas, drink and road trip are together. Some hell raising days are coming. I liked the set-up of the story and Shonnie. Is a interesting lady. A very entertaining chapter my friend.

LAMarcom February 16, 2015 at 05:15 Edit

Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:

Not sure why, but I thought I’d re-blog this. (Probably ’cause I like Tom Waits)

Oh! And I miss that woman: Shonnie

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:37 Edit

Hehehehe.

Yeah, from Day One with Shonnie, I had that same bad foreboding.

Thanks Friend.

Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 18:53 Edit

Where on earth is this going? I’ve got a bad feeling about this…

LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 16:03 Edit

Shonnie was the one who ‘introduced’ me to Tom Waits and for that, I am eternally in her debt.

😉

Mélanie July 14, 2014 at 15:59 Edit

OMG! Tom Waits – a living legend… 🙂

lauramacky July 14, 2014 at 10:15 Edit

lol

lauramacky July 14, 2014 at 09:42 Edit

😛

LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 09:22 Edit

I completely agree with you on Roulette. I have ‘experienced’ Roulette all over the world from Europe to Africa to the Far East (and of course Vegas). Love the game and the atmosphere of it.

Exile on Pain Street July 14, 2014 at 06:21 Edit

Roulette really is the most elegant game in the house. You don’t have to concentrate the way you do with craps. And I like the accouterments. The wheel. The ball. The clakity-clack sound.

Lots of smoking in these stories. I get cotton mouth just reading them.

LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 23:26 Edit

Just a ‘Tale of Two Cities: San Dog and Vegas…’

😉

LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 16:17 Edit

Hi Sadie,

‘Captivated’ readers are the best!

😉

Thank you for the kind words.

Cheers,

Lance

LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 16:11 Edit

😉

~ Sadie ~ July 13, 2014 at 14:18 Edit

Can’t wait for the next chapter!!! I think this series would make a great short story, or possibly novella 🙂 You definitely have me captivated! 😉

lauramacky July 13, 2014 at 09:18 Edit

You little dickens