Shonnie The Biker’s Wife Chapter Three: Desert Dreams, Sex and Music

Around about three a.m. I was pulling the Toranado up in front of her house, actually, turns out, her mother’s house.

During the course of our conversation after leaving the bar’s parking lot Shonnie revealed to me that she had left her husband, who was a biker, and moved in with her mother.

She had a nine-year-old son who suffered from a crippling disease and though fairly independent, still required almost twenty-four hour supervision.

I asked her why she felt compelled to move out of her house and she told me her husband was overly jealous and had a ‘bit of a mean streak’. 

(Perfect, I thought: A jealous Biker with a mean streak and I had just finished screwing his wife.)

Twice

Smooth Lance. Real smooth.

In spite of this revelation, and in the department of ‘I shouda known better’, I agreed we ‘needed’ to continue seeing each other, so we set a date for the following Saturday night, back at the bar, which I have decided to arbitrarily Christen ‘Gilley’s Lite’.

A., Because I am tired of calling it all sorts of generic names.

And B., Because this is My Blog and I can do whatever I like.

For the next several weeks we continued our weekly rendezvous, sometimes meeting on a Friday if I had ‘Duty’ on Saturday. Occasionally even sneaking in a mid-week ‘booster shot’ rendezvous on a Wednesday or Thursday night.

Basically, we would drink and dance and romance. (Still only slow dancing, but once I did allow her an attempt at teaching me the ‘Two-Step,’ with semi-disastrous results: Pretty sure I had embarrassed her no end, for she never broached That Subject again.)

Of course after we had closed down the bar, uh, I mean ‘Gilley’s Lite’, we would retire to the Toranado for some late night, great night, great sex.

And it was all good. Not just the great, energetically, intensely, passionately acting of our love-making. (We had ‘up-graded’; no longer did we ‘fuck’. We ‘made love’.) Yes, I was in the midst of ‘Stage-Four Deep Emotional Vulnerability’.

No!

Not Just The Sex!

The whole just ‘Being-with-Shonnieexperience was great.

And better now that she was arriving in her own car (Miss Layla having moved on to find a new BFF to Chaperone) and I did not have to risk accidentally running into ‘Jealous-Biker-Dude-With-A-Mean-Streak-Estranged-Husband at her momma’s house at three or four in the morning.

Eventually we grew weary of the bar, ‘Gilley’s Lite’ scene and went straight for the sex, generally in some out of the way dark and empty parking lot.

But every once in a while, usually right after one of my paydays, we’d find ourselves in some ‘Budget Motel’, read ‘Cheap and Sleezy’. Some in San Diego even rented by-the-hour, and even though I was trash, Shonnie was not. So I never, ever considered those venues as even a remotely viable option.

This new routine went on for some several more weeks.

One weekend I had a rare three whole days off duty, so we planned an ‘outing’, or rather, ‘she planned an outing’. She managed to get her mom to take full responsibility of the kid for the entire three days and we met up in a parking lot in Pacific Beach.

She got out of her car with a small suitcase, locked up, jumped into my car, inquiring breathlessly, “You got plenty of gas?”

“Not really,” I said. “Why?”

“I’m kidnapping you, and we have some miles to cover today.”

“Road trip?” I asked.

“Yep, and while we’re gassing up, we need to get some booze and maybe some munchies.”

“Hey, I’m all in. Hell! Let’s do it.”

So without even asking where we were going, I took care of the logistical tasks. Once we were fueled-up, stocked up, and by then, slightly fucked-up (With excitement and more than just a little bit giddy over the prospect of our two-and-a-half days of just being together and doing what-ever-the-hell-we-damned-well-pleased…)

As she directed me to start heading east toward the desert, I asked,

“So Shonnie, where’re we going?”

“Away from all this San Diego Shit an’ into the desert,” she said.

“This much, I have already figured out, but where, and why?”

“Tell ya when we get there,” was all she said as she dropped ZZ Top’s Tres Hombres into my cassette player, firing up “Jesus Just Left Chicago” which started mid-way through. Couldn’t really talk over that, so I just kept driving east.

An hour or so later we were pulling into some little town called ‘Alpine’. It seemed nice enough, I suppose, if just a little dusty and brown. But apparently, we had come in through the ‘back door’, as later I would see mountains in the background and green areas too!

Also, I discovered later, that ‘Alpine’ was the ‘Austin’ of Eastern Southern California, famous for live music and various other attractions. According to the 2000 census, Alpine had a population of 13,143 people, so probably substantially less on the weekend of our visit  (didn’t say how many dogs, but I saw a lot of dogs that day)  

And also famous for quirky sites to visit:

Alpine, California: Dead Dolly Lane

“Find us a motel. If you take the next left, I’m sure you’ll find the Perfect One, but don’t let me tell you what to do.” she said, after turning down the stereo which she had kept cranked-up during the entire trip: ZZ Top, Marshall Tucker Band, Hank Jr…. It was about two in the afternoon.

I ignored her smart-assed instructions and loved them all at the same moment.

Performing as ordered, I turned a corner and sure-as-shit, ran into this ‘Perfect-for-us’ run-down, kinda sandy, sleezy-lookin’ joint:

As we were getting out of the car I asked her, while discretely pointing at a bored-looking girl sitting on the porch, “Reckon that’s the manager? One night or two?”

“Two.”

“You’re the boss,” I said as I got out and headed to the office.

I always kept most of my civilian clothes in the trunk of my ‘Tornado’ since there really was not much room on the USS Callaghan DDG 994 for anything in my locker other than uniforms.

I grabbed some civvies out of the trunk and along with my Babe, headed toward our new little love nest.

The room was Spartan, but adequate. At least it had regular sized towels and no roaches that I could see.

Actually, it was clean and tidy. There was a tiny TV on the dresser-drawers and a regular-sized bed, two chairs and a small coffee table which had some initials carved into it along with a review offered by a previous occupant succinctly describing their experience while staying in this establishment:  

“J and J had sex here. 1981. Hiley Rec’mend” 

Very quaint, I thought.

“Hey Shonnie,” I said to her back as she unpacked, “Do you have a pocket knife? I’m feelin’ sorta ‘literary’.”

“What? Too soon to slit yer wrists City Boy. What for?”

“’City Boy’? That hurt. Never mind,” I laughed.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said, already half-way through peeling off her shirt and blue jeans. “Join me?”

“Yup.”

We did the shower sex, er… ‘love-making’ then wearing nothing but towels, sat on the bed and had a drink or two over some Marlboros.

“Okay Shonnie,” I said. “You gonna tell me now exactly why we’re here, ‘miles from nowhere’, on this hot and dusty Friday afternoon?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She said.

“Nope… I mean it’s lovely an’ all, and good to be out of town an’ all, but if you just wanted a sleazy motel room and me all to yer lonesome, we coulda done that in San Dog and saved the gas.”

“You told me you were a ‘romantic’.

“Yeah. Yeah. I did. Uh… I mean I am, but…”

“Get dressed. We have a place to be this afternoon.”

So we got dressed, grabbed the Beam and cigs, locked up our room and headed to the car.

“You got a beer cooler stashed in your trunk or somewhere?” She said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“You know I do,” I said.

“Good, take a left. There’s a Seven Eleven up the street. We need some more beers and some more cigs.”

“Roger that.”

That mission properly dispatched, Shonnie played navigator and back seat driver and eventually we ended up in a dusty park.

A dusty park teaming with people.

And Music.

Bluegrass Music.

She had kidnapped me to a Blue Grass Festival! Surprised? Yep.

Shocked?

By Shonnie?

Nope.

Nothing shocking me about this gal anymore.

We parked the now very dusty ‘Tornado’ next to all the other dusty cars and trucks and Harleys and climbed out.

People were milling about everywhere. I noticed more than a few walking around with beer bottles in their hands. Shonnie was anxiously walking ahead of me. I yelled,

“Shonnie! Stop!”

Turning around, somewhat glaring at me, she demanded, “What IS it?” (Occasionally, Shonnie exhibits No Patience)

“Come with me back to the car for a sec, Ok?”

Grumbling as she made her way back to the car, then once next to me, in a lower, calmer voice, said, slowly and ‘matter-of-factly’,

“Ok, here we are, back-at-the-fuckin-car. Why? You don’t like ‘Blue Grass’?”

“Darlin’ I love ‘Every-Thing’ when I’m with You, but we forgot something.”

She yawned as she leaned against the driver’s side door while lighting a Marlboro.

Opening the trunk, I began fishing bottles of beer out of the cooler, drying each bottle with a towel I kept with the beers for just such purpose.

“Baby,” I said. “Come over here with that big-ass purse of yours that never has nothin’ in it.”

She sauntered over to stand next to the trunk and opened her bag, allowing me to cram several beers into it.

“Ya know, Cowboy, we can always walk back over here and get more beers. Don’t have to make me carry a portable brewery around in this damn heat all day.”

“Shit! You’re right. What was I thinking?” I said.

Shonnie rolled her baby blues at me and opened her bag once again.

I retrieved a few of the beers and placed them back into the cooler, leaving only four in her ‘purse-big-ass-bag’.

“Much better. Now those beers can  breathe, and so can I,” she laughed.

“Smart ass.” Was I could come up with, by way of a retort.

“Come on. Let’s get on over to the stage.”

During our casual trek, I was observing all the folks in attendance. All sorts of folks, mostly dressed in ‘Real, Bona-Fide’ attire: Straw Cowboy hats, Gimme Caps, Jeans, Some Daisy-Dukes and halter tops on a few of the Ladies, Boots, Beers in hand, Smiling, Rowdy Faces, and on and on…

Real “My kind of People” stuff adorned them, is what I’m sayin’.

There were older, younger, very older, very younger and everything-in-between folks. Little kids runnin’ wild laughing and whooping it up.

Everyone was havin’ FUN!

Woodstock it weren’t, but

DAMN!

It was Heaven to this Cowboy, especially after suffering that joint in San Dog where Shonnie and I had first met.

As we drew near the stage the crowd grew denser and tighter (No ‘Social Distancing’ back then and certainly not at this venue.)

Everyone was pleased-as-pie just to share the love of the music and the camaraderie.

The band on–stage started up with their rendition of ‘Uncle Pen’, a song which was in fact, very familiar to me.

The folks in front of the stand went nuts!

Clapping their hands and stomping their feet.

A-Whoopin’ and A- Hollerin’

Shonnie and I joined in.

And I Loved it!

And She Loved it!

And I may have been falling in ‘for-real-love’ with Shonnie at this point.

Screw that!

That is a lie!

I had been in ‘for real love’ with her from ‘Night One.’

Just had a little trouble admitting it to myself.

Until That Moment.

For You See?

I Had Fooled Around And Fallen In Love

Title: Fooled Around And Fell In Love (Elvin Bishop)

Band: The Winery Dogs

Shared Vid Cred: no1here4unow

***

Previously:

Coming Soon: Shonnie, The Biker’s Wife, Part Four

Update: Part Four May be Found Below:

If you are new here, you may want to begin your Shonnie Journey

Below and then simply “Follow the Yellow Brick Road”

i.e., The Lancelot Links:

******

Commentary From The Original Version. As before, for continuity, I recommend you start at the bottom and read your way up.

***

LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:33 Edit

I don’t know what I’m doin’ half the time…

Hahaha.

Thanks for the read my Friend.

Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 18:11 Edit

I have no idea where this is going. (This is a good thing.)

LAMarcom July 21, 2014 at 13:06 Edit

Hi Shelley,

Sorry for the tardy response. Slipped in under my radar.

Thanks for reading and commenting. Always.

Cheers,

Lance

peakperspective July 12, 2014 at 14:04 Edit

You had me wondering where the field trip was heading–nearly thought it might have been the end for you there, Lance, but how lucky … Bluegrass. Hot diggedy.

Waiting with bated breath for Chapter 4. 🙂

markbialczak June 18, 2014 at 21:40 Edit

🙂

LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 21:37 Edit

Mark,

I was joking.

I am a sap for a happy ending.

Always

😉

markbialczak June 18, 2014 at 21:25 Edit

Not necessarily, Lance.

LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 19:49 Edit

Thanks Mark.

There is enough for five or six more…

Happy Endings are so boring though. Wouldn’t you agree?

markbialczak June 18, 2014 at 19:02 Edit

I indeed am rooting for a happy ending. Yet the realist in me … You go, Lance! Make the magic last five or six more chapters, please do!

LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 18:32 Edit

Aw C’mon Mark.

Don’t ya want the story to have a happy ending?

Hehehe

Cheers,

-Lance

LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 18:31 Edit

Hahaha! Nope, wasn’t me!

“Me no Alamo.”

Hey thanks Friend.

LAMarcom June 18, 2014 at 18:27 Edit

I agree. Imagine the nerve of that woman! Calling me, ME! A City Boy!

Hahahaha

Thanks Annie.

🙂

Mad Annie, Bronwyn, Ann June 18, 2014 at 13:48 Edit

“City boy”… when I called someone that, it was the Kiss of Death! LOL

happierheathen June 18, 2014 at 07:55 Edit

My Texican second wife tried to teach me to two-step. I usually made it three or four steps. Step, step, get confused, shuffle a bit, step, shuffle, shuffle, trip, cuss. She and I once made an escape to a “rustic” motel in the desert, too. And she had a thing for picking up guys at urban poser cowboy bars. If it weren’t for it being a crippled son instead of two perfectly healthy daughters I’d think one of you had changed her name and you were banging my wife.

Hanging on the edge of my seat here, man.

markbialczak June 18, 2014 at 07:19 Edit

Oh, great bluegrass fest twist, Lance. I’m digging the serial and biding my time until Biker hubby appears, in, what, next chapter, or the one after?

LAMarcom June 17, 2014 at 22:59 Edit

Yes. She cut me to the quick on that one!

Cheers!

Love that you are reading.

–Lancers

🙂

~ Sadie ~ June 17, 2014 at 22:57 Edit

City boy – LMAO!!!!

***

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 least two or three weeks.

But if you can’t wait… Here ya go!

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

Shonnie The Biker’s Wife, Chapter Two: “You Look So Good In Love”

“Well Shonnie, was nice of your friend to introduce us. Did Y’all come here together?”

“Yeah, we come here two, three times a week.”

“I didn’t catch her name.”

“Layla.”

(Well, I guess ‘that’ fits, I thought.)

“See seems like a real nice Lady,” I lied.

“She’s a good friend. We work together.”

“I see. Do you need a fresh drink?”

“Uh, yeah I do. Thanks.”

I managed to get the attention of one of the Serving Wenches, a slightly chunky Brunette, wearing too-tight jeans, and rockin’ a Neon-Green ‘Cowgirl’ Hat, with little flashing lights adorning the brim. (???) Other than the hat, she seemed fit enough for her duties.

“Shonnie, what ya drinkin’”

“Jack and coke,” she said. (A kindred spirit? Well, if you lose the coke, but what the hell, right?)

To the waitress I said, “For the Lady a Jack an’ Coke, and for me a shot ah Beam and a Heineken.”

“OK. Be right back with those. Wanna run a tab?”

“Sure. Thanks. Nice hat, by the way.”

“Thanks, uh… Cowboy’.”

The word ‘Cowboyseemed to get caught in her throat. Likely her first or second night on the job here at… still cannot remember the name of the joint. Oh well. She was probably a refugee from some higher-end beach bar in La Jolla.

The band started up with “You Look So Good In Love” (George Strait)

Vid Share Cred: ‘asphyxed’

“I love this song,” Shonnie said.

“Wanna dance?” (I knew I could manage a slow dance and that was about it. My Two-Step resembles a blind turkey caught in a rain storm)

“Sure,” she said, standing up. Wow! I thought, she really is tiny, as I took her hand and led her to the floor.

We began our dance and her head barely came up to my chest. I estimated she was about five foot nothin’, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. She held me very tightly as we slowly moved back and forth to the music.

She smelled sweetly of some perfume I could not identify. Not surprising, as I am not really a connoisseur. Whatever it was, it was very alluring, and seemed ‘perfect’ for her.

To any Ladies reading these words, is it common to ‘fit’ the perfume to the ‘venue’? Certainly it must be.

Her semi-long blond hair just covering her shoulders was somewhat unkempt and slightly askew. Well, that may be unkind. Let’s call it ‘Country Casual’.

She had a very nice figure, breasts just about right (far as I could tell) for her frame, nice ass (Yes. Yes. I know. I am being sexist, but I suspect she was ‘checking me out’ as well.

And at one point she actually put HER hand on MY ass. So there!

As we danced I admitted to her that slow dancing was all I could muster and that I had never even mastered the simplest dance of all: ‘The Two-Step’. She giggled in my ear and offered to teach me. Told her I would have to think on that.

As the song finished, we stood there momentarily to see if they were going to play another slow song.

They awarded our wait by busting out with ‘Cotton-Eye-Joe’, a song I remember far too well from the Seventies and the line dance that went with it.

No way!

I hustled us off the dance floor mucho más pronto.

***

Below is How One Dances to ‘Cotton-Eye-Joe’

(It is requisite that one be ‘at least’ four sheets to the wind before performing this dance. In fact, that is a State Law in Texas. Though probably not in California)

Surely you can understand no way I’m gonna attempt THAT, making a fool out of myself in front of a Potential New Girlfriend. Uh Uh. Nope!

Texas Style Cotton-Eye-Joe

“The Bullshit Song”

“Texans don’t like line dancing, with one exception. When this song is done at the end of the night it is a real crowd pleaser. If you don’t know how to dance the Cotton Eyed Joe yet (the real way)  you will, two and a half minutes from now.”

Video Content & Quotation Credit: ‘Wisegeorge’

***

Happily our drinks had arrived while we were dancing and we settled back down and began to get to know each other over booze, Marlboros, and Country Music.

While we were continuing our small talk, Layla suddenly (and loudly) reappeared.

“How’re you kids doing?” She shouted over the band.

Just as I was about to say “Fine,” Shonnie said, “Great!”

(Hmmmm…. ‘Great?’ OK, I’ll take ‘great’.)

“Uh, Layla… That’s your name, right? Would you like to join us for a drink? Take a load off?” I asked somewhat disingenuously.

“Love to!”

(Damn!)

“Well, name your poison,” I said.

“Wine cooler, white.” (Go figure)

I decided to just go to the bar to place the order, as our little wanna-be Honky-Tonk venue was now just about completely full and I did not want any delays in getting Miss Layla her (hopefully) solitary drink, and then her continuing to make her ‘Rounds’.

I took the liberty of ordering drinks for me and Shonnie while I was at it, returned and sat down.

Shonnie and Layla had their heads together and were giggling over something. (Probably my ‘dancing’).

“Drinks on the way,” I announced, thus interrupting their little giggle fest.

“Oh goody” (goody?) Layla exclaimed.

“So, Layla, Shonnie tells me Y’all work together.”

“Yep, and we’re best of friends, so you better take good care of her,” she said, still in giggle mode.

(Good ‘care’ of her? Hmmm…)

The drinks arrived and I decided to kick it up a notch, so I proposed a toast: “Here’s to new Friends,” I said, raising my shot of Beam.

The ladies followed suit and two glasses and one shot glass collided with a soft ‘clink’.

“Hear! Hear!” Layla giggled (what is with this woman? Drunk or stoned, or both?)

We tried to settle into some conversation, but Layla clearly was not interested, as she spent more time perusing the other tables and the dance floor than she did ‘focused’ on the ‘conversation’. I could see she was as anxious to extricate herself from our table as I was to see her succeed.

Thankfully, a California Cowboy finally came over and led her out onto the dance floor. (“Keep her as long as you like Cowboy.” Of course, I only said that inside my head.)

***

Shonnie and I danced every slow dance song that came up for the next couple of hours (between several more rounds of drinks).

About every twenty minutes or so Layla would pop back by, ostensibly to be ‘social’, but methinks, to ‘check on us’, as if we were her charges.

Good Grief!

Finally, as it was getting up along twelve midnight, and Shonnie and I had, indeed, seemed to find some mutual attraction, I broached:

“How ‘bout I give you a ride home? And Layla can be freed of her chaperone duty?” It was a gambit and I gave it fifty-fifty.

“Sure,” she said instantly. “Just let me tell her what’s up, okay?”

“Of course.”

I watched as Shonnie tracked her down and gave her the happy news. I could see they were having some discussion over this, but it did not seem ‘too’ heated, only ‘marginally’ heated.

Shonnie returned to me and announced gruffly, “Let’s go.”

“Yes Ma’am. Just let me settle-up with the bar, and we can split.” (Not really a Cowboy term, ‘Split’, but hell! I was in Southern Cali after all.)

We walked to my Toronado which was parked way in the back of the parking lot, by now pretty much emptied out. After we settled in and I was about to start the car, Shonnie said, “Ya wanna smoke a joint?”

“I would love to ‘Darlin’, but you know I’m in the Navy, and they have random piss tests all the time, so I just can’t.”

She looked a little disappointed, but it was a fleeting look. I turned my attention back to the keys in the ignition when she put her hand on my arm and said, “Well, would you like to fuck me then?”

Bam!

“Love to.” And it was definitely ‘On’. Since she was so tiny and my car so huge, with front seats that could be moved way back, we had no trouble with her straddling me on the passenger side.

The sex was passionate, slightly drunken, and fucking great! Seems there was much energy stored in that diminutive frame of hers and she unleashed all of it on one unsuspecting Cowboy.

After we had finished and I was back in the driver side seat fishing for two Marlboros, she started crying. (Crying??)

“What’s wrong Honey?” I sincerely asked.

“I’m married,” She said.

Almost laughing as I said,

“That’s okay Baby, so am I.”

She stopped crying and started laughing, laughing really hard and loud. She had a great laugh, by the way, boisterous, loud and proud, not even an ounce of pretention–seemingly impossible to be emanating from such a petite, sweet, lil’ thang.

And I joined in with her laughter.

We found time to fuck again.

Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble – Pride And Joy (Live at Montreux 1982)

Shonnie & Lance:

Keepin’ it Real”

Reasons Explained as to why I am Re-Working This Old Series:

Chapter One Below:

Chapter Three Here:

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 least two or three weeks.

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

Shonnie The Biker’s Wife Chapter Three: Desert Dreams, Sex, and Music

Continuation of the Shonnie Saga

Part One Here

Part Two Here

*****

About three a.m. we were pulling the Toronado up in front of her house, actually, her mother’s house. During the course of our conversation after leaving the bar’s parking lot Shonnie revealed to me that she had left her husband, who was a biker, and moved in with her mother. She had a nine-year-old son who suffered from a crippling disease and though fairly independent, still required almost twenty-four hour supervision. I asked her why she felt compelled to move out of her house and she told me her husband was overly jealous and had a ‘mean streak’. (Perfect, I thought: A jealous Biker with a mean streak and I had just finished screwing his wife. Twice. Smooth Lance. Real smooth.)

In spite of this revelation, and in the department of ‘I shouda known better’, I agreed we should continue seeing each other, so we set a date for the following Saturday night, back at the bar.

For the next several weeks we continued our weekly rendezvous, sometimes meeting on a Friday if I had ‘Duty’ on Saturday. Basically, we would drink and dance (still only slow dancing, but once I did allow her to attempt to teach me the ‘Two-Step’ with semi-disastrous results: I think I embarrassed her and she did not broach the subject again.). And of course after we had closed the bar those nights we would retire to the Toronado for some late night sex. It was all good. And better now that she was arriving in her own car and I did not have to risk running into Biker Dude at her momma’s house at three or four in the morning.

Eventually we grew weary of the bar scene and went straight for the sex, generally in some out of the way dark and empty parking lot. This new pattern went on for some more weeks.

One weekend I had a rare three whole days off duty, so we planned an ‘outting’, or rather, she planned it. She managed to get her mom to take the kid for the entire three days and we met up in some parking lot in Pacific Beach.

She got out of her car with a small suitcase, locked up, jumped into my car, announcing, “You got plenty of gas?”

“Not really,” I said. “Why?”

“I’m kidnapping you, and we have some miles to cover today.”

“Road trip?” I asked.

“Yep, and while we’re gassing up, we need to get some booze and maybe some munchies.”

“Hey, I’m all in. Hell! Let’s do it.”

So without even asking where we were going, I took care of the logistical tasks. Once we were stocked up, and now (directed by her) heading east toward the desert, I asked, “So Shonnie, where’re we going?”

“Away from all this San Diego Shit an’ into the desert,” she said.

“This much, I have already figured out, but where, and why?”

“Tell ya when we get there,” was all she said as she dropped ZZ Top’s Tres Hombres into my cassette player and cranked up “Jesus Just Left Chicago” which started mid-way through. Couldn’t really talk over that, so I just kept driving east.

An hour or so later we were pulling into some little town called ‘Alpine’. It seemed nice enough, I suppose, if just a little dusty and brown.

“Find us a motel,” she said, after turning down the stereo which she had kept cranking during the entire trip: ZZ Top, Marshall Tucker Band, Hank Jr…. It was about two in the afternoon.

We drove around a bit, found a motel and I asked, “One night or two?”

“Two.”

“You’re the boss,” I said as I got out and headed to the office.

I always kept most of my civilian clothes in the trunk of my Toronado since there really was not much room on the USS Callaghan  I meant USS Frederick, LST 1184, (sometimes I forget which ship I was on) for anything in my locker other than uniforms and I grabbed some and along with my Babe, we headed to our little love nest. The room was Spartan, but adequate. At least it had regular sized towels and no roaches that I could see. Actually, it was clean and tidy. There was a tiny TV on a table and a regular size bed, two chairs and a small coffee table which had some initials carved into it with a message:  “J and J had sex here. 1981. Hiley Recomend” Very quaint, I thought.

“Hey Shonnie,” I said to her back as she unpacked, “Do you have a pocket knife? I’m feeling literary.”

“What? Too soon to slit yer wrists City Boy. What for?”

“’City Boy’? That hurt. Never mind,” I laughed.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said, already half-way through peeling off her shirt and blue jeans. “Join me?”

“Yup.”

We did the shower sex, then wearing nothing but towels sat on the bed and had a drink or two over some Marlboros.

“Okay Shonnie,” I said. “You gonna tell me now exactly why we’re here, ‘miles from nowhere’, on this hot and dusty Friday afternoon?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She said.

“Nope… I mean it’s lovely an’ all, and good to be out of town an’ all, but if you just wanted a sleazy motel room and me all to yer lonesome, we coulda done that in San Dog and saved the gas.”

“You told me you were a ‘romantic’.

“Yes. Yes. I did. Er… I am, but…”

“Get dressed, we have a place to be this afternoon.”

So we got dressed, grabbed the Beam and cigs, locked up our room and headed to the car.

“You got a beer cooler stashed in your trunk or somewhere?” She said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“You know I do,” I said.

“Good, take a left. There is a Seven Eleven up the street. We need some beers and some more cigs.”

“Roger that.”

That mission properly dispatched, Shonnie played navigator and back seat driver and eventually we ended up in a dusty park. Which was beaming with people. And music. Bluegrass Music. She had kidnapped me to a Blue Grass Festival! Surprised? Yep. Shocked? Shonnie? No shocking me about this gal anymore.

And I Loved it. And I may have been falling in love with her at this point.

More to come…  Here