The Eighties Kinda Sucked For Me. Not horribly but slightly. Now I will digress and tell you why.
During the Eighties, I came home from Egypt and SFM. I had spent the last three years of the Seventies in the Sinai Desert and these were glorious years for me.
During the (very early) Eighties, actually very late Seventies, I got married.
At the beginning of the Eighties, Ronald Reagan was president and I was twenty-two years old: could not deny me or tell me anything! I had ‘seen’ the World!
During the Early Eighties, the Prime Lending Rate went from nine percent to twenty percent, thus making it real difficult for me to sustain a Small Business loan for my Tropical Fish Store.
I overcame all of this. By sheer guts and asshole-ness. (and by writing a seriously hot check, for three thousand dollars! I gave a shit not.)
But, I embraced it:
And somewhat thrived. Trickle Down, as they say, but not to mention, my bride and I slept on Army Cots for two years…We slept with the fishes.
And ate baked potatoes, cooked in a microwave which we had stolen borrowed. With pressed ham.
And the occasional onion… on Saturdays. And bacon on Sundays. And sometimes sour cream on Mondays.
We eventually left that place (after four years) Yep, we escaped Nacogdoches, Texas, which for us had been what we could imagine living in The Movie ‘Deliverance’ would have been like.
We escaped to Plano, Texas, which for many (but not us), was like living in the TV Show ‘Dallas’.
We discovered that we were more poor there than anywhere. In Nacogdoches we were ‘business owners’. In Plano we were just scum: no furniture, no fixtures, no nada: SCUM. We got thrown out of our first apartment because “Y’all don’t have no furniture and y’all are sleeping on the floor. This violates y’all’s lease agreement. Goodbye.”
We soldiered on…
We did sell, at a garage sale, damn near everything we owned, to include my prized Celestron Telescope and my wife’s Mikasa China from her first marriage.
Just to eat.
(Food was a prerequisite back then)
Finally….
We made a stance.
My Long-time Bride and my Soul-Mate, and a veteran of the “hard days” tole me one day,
She said, “Lance’, this is no way to live! Do something! Any thing!”
So, I did. I told her I was gonna join the U.S. Navy. And send her all her allotment and everything else. And meant it.
She initially balked at this (and she was former U.S. Army Reserve) at that time.
She said to me, and I quote:
“Lance, you are gonna do this thing, right? Then, I ask of you one thing: I wanna be a house-wife for just one year… can you give me that?”
Matt, Rogers, and I were in Viva Young, Olongapo City. I had been struck by The Thunderbolt. Rog was buying the beer for the next ten years. Matt was drawing a charcoal portrait on a cocktail napkin of a sweet, young lovely Filipina with a glass eye. Mama-San was not happy.
My Primary Problem:
Mama-San
SNAFU (‘Situation Normal: All Fucked Up’)
My Secondary Problem:
‘Thunderbolt Smitten Status’
Breaks down like this:
The ‘Smite-he’—Me—couldn’t get close enough to the ‘Smite-er—Her—she proved elusive, un-approachable, un-attainable, closely watched overby Mama-the Big-She-San.
Yes. It was all very confounding, convoluted, and complicated.
***
Matt and I retired to the pool tables. Me hoping to fleece him outta some beer money—He hoping for good conversation, free billiard lessons, and some Lance Good-Natured Wolf-Ticket Talk.
(Rog had declined my offer of a double-or-nothing eight-ball re-match)
But Matt was willing and ‘free’, as the Filipina ‘model’ for his napkin art had been compelled (by Mama-San) to taxi onto the runway.
He also knew I would take it easy on him and his wallet. I only truly enjoyed taking Rog’s money, no one else’s. Well, except for the occasional Jar-Head’s, even though the fleecing of ‘Marine-Sheeps’ could, and often did prove somewhat problematical, health-wise—my health-wise.
Matt and I both were getting what we wanted until…
Until Pain walked in.
Pain (his real name) was my roommate back when I was in BUD/s Class 140, 1986.
Pain was a pain in the ass.
He was a tow-head boy, weighing in at about one-hundred and fifty. One-hundred-fifty pounds of attitude. Bad attitude.
Peanut sans the good to outweigh the bad. I did not appreciate his style.
Nor his presence.
One of My Girls, (yes they were ‘mine’—this was My Bar, wasn’t it?) brought me a beer and said,
“Hey! Dat guy jus’ walk in, he Naa-bee-steeel.”
“Yes Honey. I know him.”
“He yor pren?”
(Filipinas have some difficulty pronouncing the letter ‘F’)
“Nope. He’s trouble, and thanks for the beer.”
Still holding my pool cue, I walked over to Pain.
“Hey Pain!” I said. “How’s it been hangin’?”
“Whaaa?? Hey. Uh…Oh, don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh yeah. Buds. Back in ’86.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Class One-Forty. You were my roommate for about a week until I got you kicked out of the room for smacking my other roommate upside the head.”
“Yeah, you were a little snitch-bitch. An’ your other roommate was an idiot.”
“Don’t think so. He was my Friend.”
“What was yer name? Mark… Clark… something or other… Mark..um…?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Marcom.”
“You rocked out didn’t ya?”
“Yeah, I rocked out. Got hurt. Apparently you made it. In SEALs.”
“Got ‘hurt’ eh? Whatever. Yeah, I didn’t rock out.”
“Good for you.”
“Wanna beer?”
“No Pain, I do not. What I want is for you to take your ass outta here. You see, this bar is for ‘Black Shoe Sailors’—Fleet Sailors—only. This is Our bar, and we don’t really want any prima-donnas hangin’ out here swillin’ beer and breathin’ air. This bar—MY Bar—is a private bar, so… mosey on The Fuck On.”
“I go where I please. Fuck you!”
“Excuse me, but this ain’t your kind of place. This joint’s not big e’nuff to house your inflated Navy Spec-War ego; I suggest you SEAL-Flop your fishy-smellin’ ass on down to The California Club. It’s close to Shit River on Magsaysay—can’t miss it—look for the neon that says, ‘Morons Welcome’. The ceilings have high enough clearance for your big head, and there’s lots of girls. You and your ego and your attitude and your money will be welcome there.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
By this point, I had unconsciously reversed my grip on the pool cue, turning it into a baseball bat. Matt came up to my shoulder and whispered,
“Uh… Lance, don’t do it.”
I had forty pounds on Pain. I could take him with or without the pool cue-turned-seal-smasher.
Mama-San, ever astute, came up to me and said,
“Sailor Man, you need sit down.”
I said, “Mama-San, Not until this asshole leaves.”
She said, “Okay, but you gonna pix the purniture.”
Standing two heads high over him, I turned back to Pain, “You need to leave Son.”
Apparently a light suddenly lit and he, making good use of his ‘situational awareness’ said, “Maybe I’ll check out that California Club after all.” And left.
The Jar Heads on the other side of the bar applauded. One said with a belly-laugh,
“Hoo-Ah Squiddy! That guy’s an asshole! Seen him around town.”
“Thanks,” I said, pitching my cue-stick to Matt, who clumsily failed to catch it, spilling his beer in the attempt as he watched the cue bounce off the deck.
I laughed at Matt then yelled, “Hey! Mama-San! Send me an’ Matt ah coupla beers! I just saw my life flash!”
(Not really. I fear no man, but it makes for good prose, eh?)
Matt, Rogers, and I were in Viva Young, Olongapo City. I had been struck by The Thunderbolt. Rog was buying the beer for the next ten years. Matt was drawing a charcoal portrait on a cocktail napkin of a sweet, young lovely Filipina with a glass eye. Mama-San was not happy.
My Primary Problem:
Mama-San
SNAFU (‘Situation Normal: All Fucked Up’)
My Secondary Problem:
‘Thunderbolt Smitten Status’
Breaks down like this:
The ‘Smite-he’—Me—couldn’t get close enough to the ‘Smite-er—Her—she proved elusive, un-approachable, un-attainable, closely watched overby Mama-the Big-She-San.
Yes. It was all very confounding, convoluted, and complicated.
***
Matt and I retired to the pool tables. Me hoping to fleece him outta some beer money—He hoping for good conversation, free billiard lessons, and some Lance Good-Natured Wolf-Ticket Talk.
(Rog had declined my offer of a double-or-nothing eight-ball re-match)
But Matt was willing and ‘free’, as the Filipina ‘model’ for his napkin art had been compelled (by Mama-San) to taxi onto the runway.
He also knew I would take it easy on him and his wallet. I only truly enjoyed taking Rog’s money, no one else’s. Well, except for the occasional Jar-Head’s, even though the fleecing of ‘Marine-Sheeps’ could, and often did prove somewhat problematical, health-wise—my health-wise.
Matt and I both were getting what we wanted until…
Until Pain walked in.
Pain (his real name) was my roommate back when I was in BUD/s Class 140, 1986.
Pain was a pain in the ass.
He was a tow-head boy, weighing in at about one-hundred and fifty. One-hundred-fifty pounds of attitude. Bad attitude.
Peanut sans the good to outweigh the bad. I did not appreciate his style.
Nor his presence.
One of My Girls, (yes they were ‘mine’—this was My Bar, wasn’t it?) brought me a beer and said,
“Hey! Dat guy jus’ walk in, he Naa-bee-steeel.”
“Yes Honey. I know him.”
“He yor pren?”
(Filipinas have some difficulty pronouncing the letter ‘F’)
“Nope. He’s trouble, and thanks for the beer.”
Still holding my pool cue, I walked over to Pain.
“Hey Pain!” I said. “How’s it been hangin’?”
“Whaaa?? Hey. Uh…Oh, don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh yeah. Buds. Back in ’86.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Class One-Forty. You were my roommate for about a week until I got you kicked out of the room for smacking my other roommate upside the head.”
“Yeah, you were a little snitch-bitch. An’ your other roommate was an idiot.”
“Don’t think so. He was my Friend.”
“What was yer name? Mark… Clark… something or other… Mark..um…?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Marcom.”
“You rocked out didn’t ya?”
“Yeah, I rocked out. Got hurt. Apparently you made it. In SEALs.”
“Got ‘hurt’ eh? Whatever. Yeah, I didn’t rock out.”
“Good for you.”
“Wanna beer?”
“No Pain, I do not. What I want is for you to take your ass outta here. You see, this bar is for ‘Black Shoe Sailors’—Fleet Sailors—only. This is Our bar, and we don’t really want any prima-donnas hangin’ out here swillin’ beer and breathin’ air. This bar—MY Bar—is a private bar, so… mosey on The Fuck On.”
“I go where I please. Fuck you!”
“Excuse me, but this ain’t your kind of place. This joint’s not big e’nuff to house your inflated Navy Spec-War ego; I suggest you SEAL-Flop your fishy-smellin’ ass on down to The California Club. It’s close to Shit River on Magsaysay—can’t miss it—look for the neon that says, ‘Morons Welcome’. The ceilings have high enough clearance for your big head, and there’s lots of girls. You and your ego and your attitude and your money will be welcome there.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
By this point, I had unconsciously reversed my grip on the pool cue, turning it into a baseball bat. Matt came up to my shoulder and whispered,
“Uh… Lance, don’t do it.”
I had forty pounds on Pain. I could take him with or without the pool cue-turned-seal-smasher.
Mama-San, ever astute, came up to me and said,
“Sailor Man, you need sit down.”
I said, “Mama-San, Not until this asshole leaves.”
She said, “Okay, but you gonna pix the purniture.”
Standing two heads high over him, I turned back to Pain, “You need to leave Son.”
Apparently a light suddenly lit and he, making good use of his ‘situational awareness’ said, “Maybe I’ll check out that California Club after all.” And left.
The Jar Heads on the other side of the bar applauded. One said with a belly-laugh,
“Hoo-Ah Squiddy! That guy’s an asshole! Seen him around town.”
“Thanks,” I said, pitching my cue-stick to Matt, who clumsily failed to catch it, spilling his beer in the attempt as he watched the cue bounce off the deck.
I laughed at Matt then yelled, “Hey! Mama-San! Send me an’ Matt ah coupla beers! I just saw my life flash!”
(Not really. I fear no man, but it makes for good prose, eh?)
The Eighties Kinda Sucked For Me. Not horribly but slightly. Now I will digress and tell you why.
During the Eighties, I came home from Egypt and SFM. I had spent the last three years of the Seventies in the Sinai Desert and these were glorious years for me.
During the (very early) Eighties, actually very late Seventies, I got married.
At the beginning of the Eighties, Ronald Reagan was president and I was twenty-two years old: could not deny me or tell me anything! I had ‘seen’ the World!
During the Early Eighties, the Prime Lending Rate went from nine percent to twenty percent, thus making it real difficult for me to sustain a Small Business loan for my Tropical Fish Store.
I overcame all of this. By sheer guts and asshole-ness. (and by writing a seriously hot check, for three thousand dollars! I gave a shit not.)
But, I embraced it:
And somewhat thrived. Trickle Down, as they say, but not to mention, my bride and I slept on Army Cots for two years…We slept with the fishes.
And ate baked potatoes, cooked in a microwave which we had stolen borrowed. With pressed ham.
And the occasional onion… on Saturdays. And bacon on Sundays. And sometimes sour cream on Mondays.
We eventually left that place (after four years) Yep, we escaped Nacogdoches, Texas, which for us had been what we could imagine living in The Movie ‘Deliverance’ would have been like.
We escaped to Plano, Texas, which for many (but not us), was like living in the TV Show ‘Dallas’.
We discovered that we were more poor there than anywhere. In Nacogdoches we were ‘business owners’. In Plano we were just scum: no furniture, no fixtures, no nada: SCUM. We got thrown out of our first apartment because “Y’all don’t have no furniture and y’all are sleeping on the floor. This violates y’all’s lease agreement. Goodbye.”
We soldiered on…
We did sell, at a garage sale, damn near everything we owned, to include my prized Celestron Telescope and my wife’s Mikasa China from her first marriage.
Just to eat.
(Food was a prerequisite back then)
Finally….
We made a stance.
My Long-time Bride and my Soul-Mate, and a veteran of the “hard days” tole me one day,
She said, “Lance’, this is no way to live! Do something! Any thing!”
So, I did. I told her I was gonna join the U.S. Navy. And send her all her allotment and everything else. And meant it.
She initially balked at this (and she was former U.S. Army Reserve) at that time.
She said to me, and I quote:
“Lance, you are gonna do this thing, right? Then, I ask of you one thing: I wanna be a house-wife for just one year… can you give me that?”
