Not Shonnie, But Pretty Close (and almost) BeautifulEnough to be a Reasonable Facsimile
In Nineteen-Eighty-Seven San Diego County there was only one Country & Western Bar/Dance Hall (that I knew of).
I was sorely missing Texas and even though I was never what one might call ‘A Hardcore Country Music Fan’, I was feeling nostalgic.
So I bought me a pair of Nocona’s, and no, I did not varnish them,
A Stetson, couple pair of Wrangler’s, some shirts with snaps, a string tie, and off I went, ‘Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places.‘
But in this case, I had found ‘The Right Place’. Even though I didn’t realize it at the time.
This One below is Personal and for Shonnie. Wherever she may be.
No need to watch. My narrative would survive without it. But my heart would not.
If you do choose to watch/listen, keep in mind it sums up, and also foreshadows in a nutshell, a great deal of the content in the chapters to come.
Good Gawd! I love My Texas!
Mickey Gilley – “Lookin’ for Love”
The name of joint escapes me. Not important. But it was along the lines of ‘Gilley’s’ in Pasadena, Texas, albeit much the lesser.
I mean, Gilley’s had five bars in theirBar and the largest dance floor in Texas, if not The World. (My apologies to ‘Billy Bob’s’ in Fort Worth.)
This ‘Honky-Tonk,’ and I use the term loosely, had but one bar and one medium-sized dance floor. And it didn’t even have chicken wire in front of the stage to protect the band from flying Lone Star long-neck beer bottles.
What a gyp!
Would serve my purposes however, or at least sate my low expectations. I mean, we are talking Southern California here folks, after all.
(According to SirWillie Nelson in hisfirst book,“Willie: An Autobiography,”The Good Folks who ran Gilley’s, Mickey Gilley et Al,during the Early Years (1971) were compelled to install the wire. Without it, no band would agree to perform there. Things could, and often did, get ‘Rowdy’ at Gilley’s.
By the Time Peanut and I were spending Quality Time in the place–Mid to Late Seventies–I saw no chicken wire. But the rowdy remained. More often than not with Peanut in the thick of it and too often the cause of it. “That Sonuvabitch done pissed me off!”
“Thanks for the memories, P’Nut–You fuckin’ Nut.”)
Credit: Channel Two Houston and devonhart,
June 26, 2014 in ‘Historic Houston’
So I began to frequent this establishment in earnest. The thing that stuck me upon my first visit was that all the ‘Cowboys’ and ‘Cowgirls’ looked like Yuppies. Not Dallas Yuppies, mind you: ‘Southern California Yuppies’.
The walls were adorned with all manner of Rodeo Scenes, all of which looked as if Norman Rockwell might have dragged his brush across them.
There were also some lariats, a few saddles strategically placed against a couple of walls, a few ‘decorative’ spittoons (nothing more useless in the world than a spittoon ‘what never dun been used’), and many more things I cannot find the stomach to recount.
The lighting was, well, Too Light. Hopefully, this would be rectified later in the evening’s adventure as the ‘real’ Cowfolks came sauntering in.
One sustains hope in situations such as these. There really is no other choice.
“Good Godawmighty! Lance! Son, you were more ‘at home’ in the Titty-Bars downtown San Dog than this abhorrent lame excuse for a ‘Honky-Tonk’,” voice in my head said.
The other voice in my head (Probably Peanut’s) said, “Cowboy?! You know you ain’t no real Cowboy neither; jes’ go wid it.”
There was, as I said, one bar. And immediately to the right of this bar…
(a respectable looking bar, if I do grudgingly admit, replete with no less than four barkeeps and many, many serving wenches scurrying back and forth not unlike so many dutiful worker ants—all very pretty—in that Southern California-Wanna-be-Urban-Cowgirl-Beach-Babe-Kinda-Style)
…was the stage with a Cowboy Band. Actually a damn good one. They even had a fiddle player (so at least they could play ‘Amardillo By Morning’ a song which always reminded me of ‘Monsieur Le Peanut’, and forever held a special place in my heart and in my ears.
Immediately in front of the Bar was that ‘dance floor’, (No sawdust, but that could be grudgingly forgiven, I suppose).
The rest was mainly four-seater tables and chairs (And Candles! Fer Christ’s Sake! Candles!)
For the life of me, I could not spy a single pool table nor a shuffle board nor even an air hockey table. Certainly no mechanical bull.
The bar itself drew me first (of course). I asked for a Lone Star and got a vacant look. “Ok, gimme a shot ah Beam and a… ah… a Heineken.” (‘Jerry Jeff, please forgive them; for they know not what they do’.)
Now properly attired and bona-fide in my two-fisted drinker status, I went searching for a table close to the dance floor. As it was relatively early, I had no difficulty finding same.
I sat and drank and wistfully, wishfully, sorta woefully…
‘Cowgirl’ Watched, as I drifted back into memories of ‘for real’ Cowgirls.
The place began to fill up along ‘bout 1900hrs. The joint was semi-jumping now. (For San Diego, I guess. By that time I suppose the surf was no longer ‘up’).
I studied the apparently single cowgirls and spied a rather lanky ‘tall drank ah water’, long-haired brunette with Sloe-Gin eyes and all that implies, just tearing things up with several different dance partners.
I made my move between songs. Sashayed over to her and asked for a ‘daince’, (actually tipping my hat! Yes! Yes! I know! Bullshit!) trying ever-so-hard to establish that I weren’t no ‘Coke-a-Cola Cowboy’, but a real ‘un.
Lance as “Cowboy”
We danced the dance and I could sense I was not her cup of… whatever it is that they actually drink here.
She whispered in my ear, “Hey ‘Cowboy’ (rather mockingly, I perceived), “I have a friend you should meet. Her name’s ‘Shonnie’ and she is seated (seated?) just right over there. C’mon! I’ll introduce ‘Y’all’” (Yet another perceived slight?)
I glanced in the direction she was leading us and saw a rather diminutive dirty blond, absently stirring her drink as she casually watched the band while they began to belt out some Randy Travis monstrosity.
We waltzed up to the table and my escort announced quite cheerfully, “Hey Shonnie! I found you a ‘real’ Cowboy.” (She quickly whispered to me, “Hey Sugar Britches, what’s your name?”)
“Uh, Shonnie, Girlfriend, This here’s ‘Lance’. Say ‘Howdy.’”
I shook the diminutive hand she offered and sat down.
“Uh, Howdy Shonnie, Little Lady; Nice to meet Y’all.” (Yes, I was really laying it on thick, but I was somewhere between buzzed and drunk and starting to figure, ‘What the hell I got to lose’?)
She smiled wily, if not demurely, through semi-white teeth, Marlboro smoke, and Paul Newman Blue Eyes. I must admit: I was intrigued.
Thus began one of the most bizarre ‘flings’ I have ever had.
More to come…
“And I’ll be lookin’ for eight when they pull that gate.”
I truly do not understand the Mathematics of My life.
My Slide-Rule is Broken
No Glamour Found There:
Only Talent & Sincerity
I’ve got a crummy job;
It don’t pay near enuff
I don’t have diddly squat
Soak Up The Sun, Son
Mistake? I Don’t Think So
Sheryl, I ADORE You
I Miss Shonnie So Much.
She Always Re-mined’ed Me Of Sheryl
I Fucked Up!
I Lost Her!
Yeah, It Happens
Seems to Happen to Me Far Too Mucho Much!
“Shonnie: Just Some Last Thoughts & One “Reminisce”–
Important ‘Breaking News’ Re: Shonnie’s ‘Make-Over'”
Let’s Get This Out of the Way First:
Do NOT Read Unless You are Already Familiar With The Story from Reading the Original Series.
Skip Ahead to Here:
Some of Y’all Faithful Readers… (That is Not Sarcasm. I sincerely appreciate all Y’all who read me and have ‘Read’ me over the years, and tears, and beers)
…some of Y’all have probably noticed I have been re-visiting old work and endeavoring to ‘re-work’ same.
I am doing this because a few of the old posts still have value and meaning for me and hopefully for you as well.
Most do not, but there are a handful that do.
“Shonnie”, being one of them.
“Are you going ‘somewhere’ with this Lance?”
“Yes.I just wish to inform Y’all that my ‘Current Mission’ is to re-write the entire Shonnie Series.Chapter One is Done. Now only Thirteen to go!”
Someone once told me, “Lance, your ‘Shonnie’ is probably the only ‘real’ writing you have ever done. Most of your other shit is just that: ‘Shit.’ Granted, some of it is entertaining shit, but ‘shit’ it remains. ‘Shonnie’ is the only one that will ever have even a snowflake’s chance in Hell of getting published. Provided you allow a good editor to slice and dice it.”
“Uh… Nice ‘talkin’ to ya. Thanks.”
I killed this Series a few years ago.
Pretty Certain Alcohol was involved.
Anyway, I brought it back, (With the help of Word Press—Thank you WP) if for nothing else, my own edification.
And every word I wrote, everything I recounted, actually happened as written.
(And of course, it was resurrected because I love Sheryl Crow. And of course, as a vain writer, I just cannot cotton to killing my own words, once dragged out of my mind and put down. Hahahaha! Writers! Y’all know what I mean.)
Please Bare er, ‘bear’… with me on this one Y’all.
Time always makes things (memories) better. This is how I cope. As for me and Shonnie, memories are multiplied, ‘super-sized’, if you will.
The words I wrote of our relationship are all too true. I do hope she never reads those words, as neither she nor I are strong enough to re-live those heady days. This is how life is and I suppose how it should be.
One is young twice, but old only once. ‘Once a Man and Twice a Child’.
And youth makes one do stupid shit based upon that ‘youth’, and then, if lucky, one has a chance for redemption later in life while old and hopefully ‘wise,’ and before that ‘Second Childhood’ kicks in, making one fairly useless, even if still lovable.
(Not religious redemption: human redemption) I do not apologize for my youthful indiscretions. They belong to me alone and I will carry them alone.
If anyone has it in their head after reading my story of Lance and Shonnie, that I did not truly love her, that I allowed her to set me free for my own self-preservation, that I did not want to fight for her, then you may want to go back and read between the lines a bit.
And with that ‘mini-rant’ spotlight shined into my soul, I leave you with this idealized and fantasized version of what Shonnie meant to me.
(Ms Shonnie’s part played and well-acted by Sheryl Crow.) Yet as good as Sheryl is, she could never be as good to, nor for me, as was Shonnie.
(But, I’d grant her an audition, none-the-less)
It shames me now to admit this but I was, back then, not strong enough to be Shonnie’s man.
Would that I could be granted a second chance
And, even now, today, I probably still am not.Never will be strong enough
If you are new here and confused, here is the beginning of this little saga:
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.
UPDATE: The Shonnie Reconstruction Project is Completed.
Please read the new versions.
They are all still truth. Truth expanded. More detail, yada yada yada…
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 Heart – 1953
Video Credit: kopbyt123
Or, if you prefer: “Big-Boned Rescue Gal”
(Or All of The Above: Virtual Ink is Cheap Enough)
Nothing to do now but drive away and discover what happens next. No point in trying to flee at a high rate of speed. Most Harleys (when they are not broken down) will outrun a heavy-ass Toranado. Which brings to mind a t-shirt one of MY biker friends often wore.
Yes, I had some biker friends. They were also sailors, but I don’t think that disqualifies them.
The T-shirt read: “I’d rather push my Harley than ride your Honda.”
So off I drove into the predawn.
Never having what could be remotely considered decent navigation skills, I just headed in the general direction of what I thought to be south, hoping to hit I-Five, which would lead me to 32nd Street Naval Base and my ship.
And of course I kept frequently glancing in my rear-view.
Billy, or whomever, did in fact follow me, yet at a respectful distance. At one point I contemplated stopping and asking him for directions, but in the end thought better of that.
Eventually, either he got bored, lost his nerve, or ran out of gas.
Anyway, he disappeared from my radar. I made it back to the USS Callaghan with just enough time to change into my dungarees and make morning muster.
When the 1MC announced “Knock off Ship’s Work” at 1600hrs, I quickly changed into my civvies and ‘hit the beach’.
I grabbed a pay phone on the pier and called Shonnie up at work.
“You were expecting maybe… Madonna?”
Ignoring her classic wit, I said “Are you okay?”
“Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?”
Uh oh. Her tone did not bode well. “Perhaps you caught amnesia. Did Billy come calling?”
“Uh, yeah. He did.”
“Come on Shonnie, what happened?”
“He begged me to open the door, so finally I let him in.”
She didn’t seem to want to talk about this, but damn it! I was in ‘need-to-know’ status. ‘Hey! I’m needin’ to know here!’ (Sorry Dustin)
“Well? Do I have to drag this out of you?”
“Listen Lance, he broke down and cried All Right!
He promised to be a better husband and father. He begged me to take him back. He is the Father of my Son, Goddamn it! What-the-fuck-do-you-expect-me-to-do?”
(Kids always trump lovers. I suppose this is as it should be, but… this asshole was abusive. At least that was her early story.)
“So, you’re getting back together then?” I felt as if I had been kicked in the solar plexus.
Hard and more than once.
It was becoming difficult to breathe.
“You sure about this?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Goddamn it Shonnie! You can’t do this to ME! To US!”
“It has to be this way Lance.”
“Well, I guess that’s it then.”
I quickly scoured my brain for something else to add but could not continue the conversation.
“Yeah. I guess it is. Goodbye Lance.” She hung up.
“That’s IT??!!” I screamed into the dead receiver.
All clawing at my mind, tearing apart my heart, climbing over each other in their effort to get to the top of my emotional hit parade.
I never saw this coming!
I slammed the receiver into the phone and watched it bounce out and fall toward the ground, stopped short by the silver metal tether.
I stood there vacantly staring at it for a moment as it aimlessly swayed back and forth, pendulum-like.
Suppose at some point I walked toward my car, because that is where I ended up. As soon as I sat down in the driver’s seat I realized I was crying.
There seemed to be a pattern developing here:
Talk to Shonnie. Then grown men cry.
Note to self: ‘research this.’
Fuck! This Hurts! Hurts Real Bad.
I sat there and watched my heart breaking.
Bits and pieces of it fell to the floorboard.
Linda Ronstadt – Heart Like A Wheel (1976) Offenbach, Germany
A couple of weeks later I was kidnapped by some buddies from my ship.
“Marcom, you done been moping around for too long. We’re goin’ out tonight to a great joint. No arguments. Just grab yer shit and come on.”
I had to acquiesce.
Mark and Tommy mounted their Harleys. Frank, Lenny, and I climbed into Lenny’s ’68 orange Chevelle, which he referred to as his “She-Vail” Accent on the ‘Vail.’
Of ‘course’ it was ‘hot-rodded’ up, racing stripes, loud pipes, loud stereo, the whole bit. He loved that damn car. Talked about it more than booze or women.
“Where we goin’?” I asked after about five minutes of ear-splitting Guns N’ Roses (Lenny waxed and waned between ‘Pure Country’ and ‘Heavy Metal’ depending on his mood and blood alcohol level.)
“Goin’ to IB,” he shouted over Welcome to the Jungle. (‘Imperial Beach’ for those who may not have had the opportunity to visit some of the classier environs south of San Diego.) One can actually ‘smell’ Tijuana from IB, not an entirely unpleasant smell if the wind is right and it ain’t summertime.
Welcome to Imperial Beach
HAZMAT Gear On Tap for Rental at Cook’s Corner Boutique & Bar
(Subject to Availability)
We were just a couple of car lengths behind Mark and Tommy straddling their Harleys, puking blue smoke, and producing one hundred decibels above what OSHA would consider workplace violence.
They had effortlessly and instantly metamorphosed from ‘A-Jay-Squared-Away Sailors’ into ‘So-Cal Bikers’…
Replete with all the garb: leather jackets, black jack-boots, Brando Hats, ‘too dark to see through’ sunglasses.
The whole bit.
We passed through National City, (‘Nasty City’) then Chula Vista, (Chew, Ya-Wanna?’).
I couldn’t help but think of Shonnie and how much she would have loved this ‘adventure.’ And I with her, experiencing it together. Damn! Damn her! I missed her still!
“Almost there!” Lenny shouted as we pulled off of I-5 and tacked somewhat west toward the Pacific.
“Almost where?!” I shouted back, but Lenny said nothing. After navigating through some of Imperial Beach’s “Nicer Hoods” our little caravanserai pulled into a gravel parking lot, which presumably belonged to the ramshackle ‘Joint’
I now found me staring at. Lots of Harleys in the lot. I cannot recall the name of the establishment, but it was something along the lines of “The Salty Frog.” or “IB Bar N’ Grill” or “Busted Spoke.”
Oh wait! Now I remember!
No matter, I was only interested in drink, not ambience. Mark and Tommy dismounted as Frank, Lenny, and I ‘de-She-Vailed’ and headed into the ‘Dew Drop Inn’ or, what-you-will.
Inside, the joint wasn’t too bad. Good A/C, low lighting, a couple of pool tables and lots of… Yep: bikers. Well, why not?
I was sick to death of the memory of the squeaky-clean C/W Joint where I had first met Shonnie and this place was as far removed from that type of joint as I could ever hope to get.
We found a table against a back wall and proceeded headlong into the arms of intoxication. As I was not expected to drive (this was sort of a ‘coming back out of the shadow of death’ party for me after all), I planned to “Drink that woman offa my mind.”
“Drinkin’ My Baby (Off My Mind)”–Eddie Rabbitt
The drinks flowed and the bullshit rolled (mostly downhill into my lap, as it was well known that I was in ‘lost love recovery’ mode.)
I won’t go into detail about how piercingly eloquent we all became during the course of the evening. Mainly because I cannot remember all the pearls of wisdom which were cast back and forth amongst us swine.
What I do recall was my exit:
Roughly fifteen minutes after Last Call, and as all the patrons began to shuffle (or in my case, stagger) toward the exit,
I ran headlong into an immovable object: probably because I was trying to guide my feet one step at a time with my eyes cast downward and not really paying attention to the ‘bigger picture’ part of navigation.
‘Situational Awareness’ is overrated and for cowards anyway.
Looking up I realized I had run into a woman.
A very tall, very large woman. Not a fat woman, mind you, but a tall and large Jumbotron of a woman. I mean a ‘Big-Boned Gal.’ A fuckin’-beautiful-brunette-dark-eyed Big Bone Woman, who, praise Neptune, did not appear angered by my clumsiness.
I found my voice and said, “Hi… Uh… I’m Lance. Will you take me home? With you?”
BBG smiled down at me, “Yes. I sure will,” she said as she took me by the hand.
I wanted to tell her that I was a refugee from a disconcerted affair, mourning over the one that got away, but even thinking about Tom Waits, let alone quoting him, would have hurled me into an emotional tailspin and probably also into a drunken crying jag for added melodramatic value.
I dared not risk it, so I shut up and silently allowed her to lead me to her vehicle.
Well I’ve lost my equilibrium and my car keys and my pride, The tattoo parlor’s warm, and so I hustle there inside And the grinding of the buzz-saw, “What you want that thing to say?” I says,
“Just don’t misspell her name buddy, she’s the one that got away”
But as they say (Always ‘They’. Who ARE ‘They?’ The ‘They’ who always say?)
“Nothing gets you over the last one like the next one.”
My recovery was officially underway.
Thank You Big-Boned Gal!
Street Cred for Vid: barefootkd’s channel
This Concludes Our ‘All Things Shonnie’ Broad Cast (no pun). We now return you to our regularly scheduled insanity.
Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I was ‘enjoined’ to write it.
However, BOLO for some ‘Final Thoughts Part Duh’ coming real soon.
I’d provide them today, but they are gonna be Real ‘Heavy,’ Real ‘Philosophical,’ Real ‘Tedious,’ and Real ‘Sad.’
And I am not up to the task of laying them down just yet.
Peace and Beer to all Y’all!
Oh! I almost forgot.
“Coming Soon: More Big Boned Gal”
If you are new here, or a long-lost returning Pilgrim, you may want to begin your Shonnie Journey Below
And then simply “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” i.e., The Lancelot Links:
Comments from the original version of this post may be discovered below.
Please read from the bottom up for continuity.
18 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE: DENOUEMENT”
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:42 Edit
Youth is a magic healing bullet.
Thank you very much for reading this long series. Your time spent here is greatly appreciated. I know how busy all of us are and there are TONs of blogs out there to read.
I am very grateful you took the time to read mine.
Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 19:09 Edit
Fantastic read. Truth be told, I was actually a little gutted at the end. I’m not sure I could go through a break up like that.
LAMarcom July 18, 2014 at 18:19 Edit
So glad you are enjoying the tale.
Yeah, lost loves can be painful, especially when one is young and doesn’t yet possess the thick skin for protection.
Thanks very much for reading and commenting.
Teela Hart July 18, 2014 at 11:13 Edit
Great story Lance.
I enjoyed every minute.
I know how it is with lost loves.
I’m not sure I could write about mine, but I have to say once again that you have skills dude.
Can’t wait for the next adventure.
LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 20:22 Edit
Thanks my good friend.
Truth be told, I’m glad that one is done. I’m rather emotionally exhausted.
Time to move on to other Tales O’ Texas (and other places)
Have a wonderful eve,
markbialczak July 17, 2014 at 20:19 Edit
You got, you gave. Good story, Lance. A little better than good. Great, possibly. Told well, sir, told well.
lauramacky July 17, 2014 at 12:29 Edit
LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 11:38 Edit
Hahaha! Well, ya know… I was just a simple sailor.
David Scott Moyer July 17, 2014 at 09:37 Edit
I enjoyed it. Seems like you did too, for the most part.
lauramacky July 17, 2014 at 09:28 Edit
Well that didn’t take long. Out with the old, in with the new I guess! LOL. Another lol was one of Imperial Beaches “Nicer Hoods”…reminds me of Oakland hahaha
LAMarcom July 17, 2014 at 08:19 Edit
Worse woman tango! Hahaha! Love it!
happierheathen July 17, 2014 at 01:43 Edit
The only cure for the bad woman blues is the worse woman tango. 😀
Thanks for filling in the blanks, hombre. (That’s pronounced as Daffy Duck pronounces it: Homber.)
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 22:09 Edit
In truth, Sadie, I am happy to put Shonnie to bed.
And also in truth, I would like to ‘bed’ her just one-more-time.
For old time’s sake.
~ Sadie ~ July 16, 2014 at 22:04 Edit
I hope it was as cathartic for you to write it as it was enjoyable for me to read it 🙂 There’s some good memories there . . .
Peace out, Lance ☮
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 21:13 Edit
Time for me to move on, and truthfully, aside from a couple of ‘relapses’, that was the end of me and Shonnie.
You’re just going to have to trust me on this one.
And thanks so much for reading the series; means much to me.
Always love your comments.
David Scott Moyer July 16, 2014 at 21:09 Edit
I’ll believe it’s over when I believe it’s over.
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 21:05 Edit
Thanks for readin’ Annie.
Mad Annie, Bronwyn, Ann July 16, 2014 at 21:04 Edit
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.”
Ireached 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.”
“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
“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…
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
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
The ‘really end of the end’ should go up late this evening.
I do appreciate your taking time to read this story and comment.
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
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!
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.
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:10 Edit
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.
Thanks for riding along on this series. I do appreciate your time and as I have said before, your comments enrich my efforts.
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
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
We both may be slightly inebriated…
LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 23:29 Edit
Tis okay. I got it.
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,
~ 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!!
~ 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
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.
~ 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, I’m aware that David Crosby spent some ‘quality time’ in The Dallas County Jail. Ask me how many fucks I give.
Actually, I was quite proud of him for that.
“Shonnie The Biker’s Wife Part XIII: “La Jolla: Lifestyles of the Rich and Infamous” or “My Beautiful Fair Mystery Lady Wrapped in an Enigma”
And for Mom. (Mom always wanted to be “Audrey”) To me, shewas. Still is.
And for Shonnie.
Always For Shonnie.
A beautifully touching metaphoric side of Shonnie no one ever got to see.
Except for me.
Yet it was fleeting.
Like a Shooting Star or Moonlight in a Martini.
Saw it only once or twice.
But that ‘once or twice’ was enough to ensure my memories of time spent with her would live on forever.
“Shonnie Darling, my hopeful dream and only channeled aspiration is to write you honestly, passionately, and well. I am doing my best. Please be pleased.”
–The Cowboy / Sailor who keeps you and loves you still
“There was once a very lovely, very frightened girl. She lived alone except for a nameless cat.”
“There’s such a lot of the world to see”
Shonnie Begins Here:
It’s a pretty good drive from Seaport Village to La Jolla. We stopped along the way for cigarettes, sandwich stuff and beer and arrived at “Auntie’s House” about seven-thirty. This isn’t it, but a reasonable facsimile:
I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a shit-load of money
“Your aunt rich?” I asked stupidly.
“Yes. What was your first clue?”
“Lucky guess, I suppose.”
“Come on. It’s even better inside.”
She led me into the condo.
“First class joint,” I said. “Really classy.”
“Allow me, Good Sir, to give you the nickel tour.”
(“Good Sir?” “Allow me???”)
She led me through the living room, past the dining room and into the kitchen. It was all stainless steel, dark wood, and stone.
Wow! It made my eyes hurt.
We put the sandwich stuff and the beer in the fridge. Shonnie produced two tumblers and threw some ice into each. I took the bottle of Jim Beam, splashed a little into each glass, and handed one to her.
“A Toast!” I said. “To us!”
We clinked tumblers, took a swig and fell into each other’s arms. Lips to lips. “You make me happy my dear,” I whispered into her ear as we broke our lip lock.
“I had a wonderful time in Vegas. I won’t be forgetting that anytime soon.”
“Yeah, but next time please, please listen to me a little more often.”
“Hahaha! Sure Cowboy. I promise to be good… ‘Next time’. Come on. I want to show you the rest of this ‘joint’.”
We took the stairs and she led me into what I surmised to be the master bedroom suite. It was large as condo bedrooms go I suppose, but then I was no expert on anything ‘condo’. In truth, this was my very first ‘Close-Condo-Encounter-Of-Any-Kind’ experience. There were double French doors opening up to a small patio overlooking the Pacific.
The bed was gigantic. I pushed down on it with my hand and watched as it rippled. Waterbed. Last time I had seen a waterbed was back in The Seventies. I wondered silently if this one leaked…
There were Asian paintings on the walls and very deep beige shag-carpet on the floor. Some legit hand-carved Maasai Warrior statuettes stood lookout on the dresser. I recognized them from my eight days spent in Kenya back in ’86.
The bathroom had an old-timey tub, green towels, and a shower stall… and a bidet! Wow! Mishmash of so many cultures. (And decades) Well, California. What could one say?
“Why don’t you rinse off in the shower while I gather some more ice and build our bar?”
“Uh… Okay,” I said. “I’ll do that.”
After my ‘rinse off’, I wrapped a green beach towel about me, lay on the bed with my drink and my Marlboro. (Figured it permissible to smoke, as there were about five ashtrays strategically placed about the room.)
Shonnie reappeared with the whiskey, two sandwiches and a pack of Doritos precariously balanced on a serving tray in her right hand.
Two longneck beers peeked out from a bucket of ice tucked under her left arm. An unopened pack of Marlboros was clinched between her teeth. Quite the juggler, she was.
She walked over to the rather huge oaken set of dresser drawers; released the pack of cigarettes from her mouth. I observed it bounce once on the dresser’s edge then disappear into the beige shag-carpet forest.
“It’s okay. Don’t get up. I’ve got this,” she said with some small sarcasm, as she set down the rest of her items.
“You must be hungry” I said.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Lose that towel.”
I did and she ‘lost’ her jeans et al.
We made slow love for some thirty minutes. Deep kisses, lots of teasing, and finally, we came together…
As we lay back in the bed, silently smoking, she turned and said seriously, almost ominously, “You’re quite the catch, aren’t you Cowboy?”
“Not sure your meaning, Little Lady.”
“Just saying. You’re quite the catch.”
“Not really. Just another lonely sailor far from his home port.”
“Yes with fireplace eyes, the gift of bullshit, some smarts, and an ‘any-port-in-a storm’ laissez-faire philosophy.”
“Somewhat true enough, I suppose,” Then added quickly and clumsily, “Used to be ‘true enough.’ Those days are long since gone for me now.”
She gave me a ‘look’ which told me she wasn’t buying it.
(‘Fireplace eyes?’ I’d only been described, accused of this once before. From…, by… my wife.
Somewhat unnerving to hear it again verbatim after so many years. And ‘laissez-faire??’ From the lips of My Shonnie? What-the-hell is happening? Is this a ‘haunted’ condominium? Do I need to call an exorcist?)
From the very moment we set foot inside the condo, a change, although quite a subtle one, had come over Shonnie. Difficult to describe, but I’ll try. I sensed more than ’witnessed’ it.But I witnessed enough. More than enough.
The first change was the tone of her voice. It immediately lost a bit of its gravelly coarseness; not actually becoming ‘soft,’ but most definitely ‘toned down’ a few degrees.
Next thing was her gait or ‘walk.’ Very difficult to describe as well, but she had suddenly acquired an almost elegant manner of moving from place to place.
I would not go so far as to describe it as ‘gracefully gliding’, but it was a noticeable departure from her frenetic ‘bull-in-the-china-closet’ mode of self-transport I had learned to live with and to love.
And here is the weirdest thing of all:
Her vocabulary had grown exponentially, and her employment of the vernacular was… different—sophisticated–weird.
To the untrained eye and ear, these subtle changes would have gone happily, blissfully ignorantly unnoticed.
But this cowboy/sailor had not survived three years in the Sinai, Egypt, Israel war zones and four years in the Janet-the-first-wife war zone along with the Nacogdoches, Texas,
‘Boy Y’all ain’t from ‘round he’ah ar’ Y’all?’ war zone by not paying, as they say in the Navy, close ‘attention to detail.’
And always, always maintaining ‘situational awareness.’
(The very first thing the Navy did to me was drill a hole in my head and pour those in.
“Always Pay Attention To Detail. Always Maintain Situational Awareness.”
I already had these traits. The Navy merely refined them, upgraded them, topped them off, and permanently cemented them into my mind.)
Thusly cursed with my talent for applying ‘attention to detail’, ‘maintaining situational awareness’, and also properly cursed with a thoughtful and enquiring mind, I wondered if the Shonnie I had so hopelessly fallen in love with was the ‘Real Shonnie’ or just a ‘Make-Believe Shonnie’ who the ‘True Shonnie’ had used so effortlessly to capture my heart.
Was she just playing around with me? Was she a Black Widow type? (‘Just fuck ’em and eat ’em’) Was she too clever for me? Was I in way over my head? Was my heart in peril?
I emphatically answered ‘No’ to all of these questions.
Best and most logical explanation is that my Shonnie, the one I fell in love with, was ALL TOO MUCH REAL.
I’ll admit, I did not understand the true magnitude of her deeply profound and complicated psyche at first, but I did sense it.
Hence the initial attraction—an attraction whose growth I did nothing to curtail–allowing it to grow stronger and stronger day by day until I found myself in my current situation. A ‘situation’ I had allowed to flourish.
And to cherish.
And would never give up.
This may be going a ‘bridge too far’ but it was as if she had morphed from ‘Eliza Doolittle’ into ‘Holly Golightly’.
In an instant!
As if by Magic!
I found the change somewhat disconcerting, yet fascinating and tantalizing. I truly and fervently wish there were ways to fully and articulately describe this ‘sophisticated’ transformation of hers, but alas…
That would require a much more skilled raconteur than the one who is now so ‘unsophisticatedly’ spilling virtual ink on this virtual page.
Here is one thing I can unabashedly report and with great sincerity and veracity: this proves beyond any doubt, any doubt at all…
That Shonnie was the most fascinating woman I have ever known, or will ever know. I will climb even further out on this limb with my saw strapped over my shoulder:
There is no woman, real or imagined, whom I will ever love more than this biker chick. (By proxy and by definition to her core, she was a true biker chick, albeit a multidimensional, brilliantly unusually unique one)
“Eat your sandwich,” she said. “Then we can watch a movie. The night is still young.”
She got up and I watched her walk toward the bathroom. She navigated her perfectly petite body while (purposely? hell yeah! she knew I’d be watching) intentionally twitching her little ass, tantalizing me still–and although I was quite sated at that moment–I could never become totally immune to her wily charms.
I reached for the sandwich even though I was not hungry. Suddenly becoming self-conscious about my nakedness and feeling vulnerable, I got up and put my pants on. I lay back on the bed, picked up the sandwich, took one bite and put it down.
There was a large television conveniently facing the bed. I picked up the remote from the night stand and switched it on. CNN appeared. Some info-babe talking head was blathering on and on about something horrible that had just happened in Iraq:
I muted the volume.
“You’re watching the News?” She said incredulously, suddenly appearing in front of me wearing a white terry-cloth robe and a frown.
“Hey, did you lift that robe from the Plaza?”
“Don’t be stupid. This belongs to my aunt. And don’t change the subject. You’re watching The News. I hate the news. It’s always bad.”
“I think it’s watching me.”
“How depressing. You must be a very lonely man when you’re not with me.”
“Current events are important,” I said.
“Not to me.”
“Well, here’s a news’ flash for ya: You are drop-dead sexy and beautiful and gorgeous.”
“Careful there, Cowboy…”
She walked over to the ‘Entertainment Center’ which was part of the whole TV thing and began perusing some VHS tapes. “What kind of movies do you like?” she asked.
“Hysterical hilarious history drama,” I said.
“Well, that does narrow it down a bit.” She selected and loaded a tape. With a remote in each hand, she began pushing buttons. “Top Gun” appeared on the screen as if by technological magic.(Or Witchcraft)
“I was thinking of maybe something a little less contemporary,” I said as Kenny Loggins began his bit.
Video Credit: KennyLogginsVEVO
“Nonsense!” she said. “This is perfectly apropos for you. You’re a sailor.”
(There she goes again! ‘apropos’?? I am losing my damn mind!)
“Yeah I am, but not a fighter jock. And I despise Tom Cruise.”
“Relax. Have you seen this movie?”
“’Fraid I have, but okay. Kelly McGillis is never a waste of my time.”
“Well, I have not seen it. I’d like to see it. With you. Do you mind? Besides, I’ll allowyou to provide the ‘Color Commentary’ which I am certain you won’t be able to resist doing anyhow.”
With that she jumped on the bed causing me to spill some amber onto the sheets and almost drop my cigarette. She grabbed my head with both hands and planted a deep kiss, sticking her tongue deep down my throat.
“Madame! I am aghast!” I said as I was freed from her embrace.
“Shut up and watch the movie.”
Kenny was just finishing up ‘Danger Zone’, and proving once again that I needed to pay closer attention to my life’s soundtrack, especially when it is foreshadowing and trying to connect.
We got through the horrible movie thanks to several glasses of Beam and a few beers and not a small number of cigarettes.
It was, I have to admit looking back, the best screening of one of the worst movies of all time. I kept Shonnie in laughter as I picked apart the utter bullshit and un-factual parts of the movie. Yes, sometimes I can do sarcasm with the best.
As the final credits were rolling, Shonnie snuggled up to me and asked, “Lance, do you love me? Truly love me?”
“Probably,” I said.
“I’m a little hard to love.”
“Not for a schmuck like me.”
“I’m serious here. I have issues.”
“Yeah, don’t we all?”
“Goddamn it! I am serious.”
“’Serious’ is not something I’m good at.”
“You are EXASPERATING!”
“That’s a pretty good four-bit word,” I said with a mocking grin.
“Actually, it’s five bits, you bastard.”
I counted off the syllables in my head.‘Ex-as-per-at-ing.’ Yep. Five.
“You’re right,” I said.
“You know my estranged husband is one mean son-of-a-bitch, right?”
“Never met the stud. Do tell.”
“Trust me. And he called me up at Mama’s the other day and asked me who was my new boyfriend.”
“Yeah. I think he’s been following me.”
“I’m not much into ‘threesomes’.”
“Listen Asshole. I’m getting scared.”
“Wanna end it?” (What an incredibly stupid, stupid, stupid bluff on my part! If she calls it, I am properly and deservedly destroyed. There are some things even I should never gamble.)
She paused and I saw some sorrow creep into her eyes. “Might be a good idea,” she said. Then quickly added, “But just for a little while. I don’t want to lose us.”
“Let’s sleep on it. I have to leave here at zero-five-thirty so I can make morning muster on my ship.”
She buried her head under my arm and we fell asleep under the blue TV screen light.
“Shonnie The Biker’s Wife: This is the (NOT) The End”
Update: Part XIV 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.
19 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE. CHAPTER XIII: LA JOLLA”
johncoyote October 3, 2020 at 05:06 Edit
My friend. Create a wonderful story. I liked the house and the conversation. You are making the characters worthwhile and interesting. I like how you made the small details important. The ashtrays, for a example. A vey good chapter.
Teela Hart July 18, 2014 at 18:27 Edit
LAMarcom July 18, 2014 at 18:21 Edit
Thank you Teela for the compliment.
Made my eve.
P.S. Donna was great!
Teela Hart July 18, 2014 at 10:48 Edit
I was about 9 years old the first time I heard Donna Summer, after that, I fell asleep listening to her.
Have I told you lately that you are an amazing talent?
You are, I meant that.
LAMarcom July 18, 2014 at 02:10 Edit
This made it’s way into my spam. Sorry ’bout that.
LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 15:59 Edit
She truly was a rare talent.
Mélanie July 14, 2014 at 15:57 Edit
I loved la Jolla… 🙂
P.S. I was in Naples, Florida when Donna Summer passed away, 2 years ago, RIP. A wonderful artist and a lovely lady!
LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 10:46 Edit
big ol’ Texas smile *
lauramacky July 14, 2014 at 10:44 Edit
lolol you’re welcome Lance. I always feel like I’m in a time capsule when I read your posts. Love ’em!
LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 10:37 Edit
Especially the dysfunction junction!
Thanks Laura for the read and great comment.
lauramacky July 14, 2014 at 10:29 Edit
Brings back such memories for me….the music, the wild times and the dysfunction LMAO.
artourway July 14, 2014 at 09:15 Edit
Je peux pas parler longtemps … if you would like to now Lance
artourway July 14, 2014 at 07:21 Edit
LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 00:58 Edit
Thank you my friend.
inspiredbythedivine1 July 14, 2014 at 00:43 Edit
I’m really enjoying these tales.
LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 21:39 Edit
Great clip/song Sadie. Thanks for taking me back. I remember when I was at SFM back in the late Seventies and Rod Stewart came out with his ‘disco’ album: ‘Blondes Have More Fun’. Most of us at SFM were hard-core rockers and despised ‘disco’ (although I had a secret major crush on Donna Summer… please never tell…)
We even had our own pure rock band there: The ‘Sisco Ducks’ — get it? Hahahah
Anyhow, when Stewart let loose that ‘Disco’ Album, all said,
“Whelp, I bet that’s the end of Rod Stewart as a serious musician-man.”
Glad I did not take that bet. (and you know I am a gambler)
Rod Stewart is absolutely one of the all-time greats. And he do have some longevity too!
Your comments always brighten my day/night/mornings.
Cheers & Thank You,
~ Sadie ~ July 13, 2014 at 21:21 Edit
Damn it Lance LOL!! You are killing me here . . . . 😉
Like I said before – great storytelling & great suspense!!!
Breathlessly . . . you just keep me hanging on . . .
We freshened up, got dressed, and headed down to the Casino floor. Generally I don’t gamble in The Plaza, but this night I was freshly feeling full of myself and wanted to capitalize on that feeling before the fresh wore off.
Allow me to explain something: I do not believe in Santa, The Easter Bunny, Karma, Fate, Oklahoma, or God. But I do believe in Dama Fortuna, and I could sense her radiance shining down upon me that night.
The casino was all flashing lights, laughter, musical sounds from the slot-machines—basically your typical Las Vegas Scene.
I led Shonnie over to a bank of ‘dollar slots’, pulling out a crisp one dollar bill, I fed it into the machine. “Pull the lever and stand by,” I said to her.
“I’ve never gambled before,” she said.
“Honey, if my instincts are right, this ain’t gambling. Go ahead. It’s my dollar anyhow, so you really ain’t gambling. Per se.” “Pear who? Okay,” she said, “Here goes nothing,” while pulling the Bandit’s one arm.”
“I certainly hope not,” I said, as we watched the cylinders spin.
Double bar. Double Bar. Double Bar! Casino silver dollars poured into the tray, making that oh so magical sound of metal raining on metal. One hundred bucks! A propitious beginning!
“Oh My Fucking God!” she screamed.
“Baby, God had nothing to do with it. Thank Dame Fortuna, if you feel compelled to thank someone.”
“Wow! Look at all that shiny money!”
“It’s yours. Take that bucket and fill it up.”
“Should we go again?” She asked breathlessly.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “Come on. I’m gonna show you the real games.”
“You’re the Boss,” she giggled.
I leaned very close to her and pulling at my collar, breathed into her ear, “Speak into the microphone My Dear.”
“Lance, you’re crazy!”
“Yeah. C’mon.” I led her to a craps table.
“Oh! This looks complicated,” she said.
“Well, yeah. It is and it isn’t. Don’t worry. I will walk you through it. One question though, do you throw a baseball like a girl?”
“Ok then. We should be fine.”
Craps is the best game known to man. I love the high-energy. The camaraderie. The cacophony. The excitement. The electricity. The laughter. The tears. The suspense as the galloping dominoes bounce down the table.
And last but certainly not least, the ability to win (and sometimes lose) large amounts of money in a very short time. And yes, I am what some might call, a ‘Dice Degenerate’. Started when I was hustling crap games in Junior high. In the hall ways between classes. Only got busted once. Proud of my record.
Shonnie and I shouldered our way in at one of the far ends of the table.
We sandwiched ourselves between a middle-aged, gray-haired man (on our left) in a business suit (I immediately pegged him as a ‘Corporation Man’ on Convention) grasping what looked like a scotch and water and there was a cigar in a tiny ashtray set on the rail in front of him.
On the right side of us, a ‘normal’ looking guy, about thirty something, sporting a too loud red t-shirt and a gimme cap. Baseball.
I forget the team. Normal Guy had control of the dice, so that meant once his roll ended it would be Shonnie’s turn to be the shooter.
The table was just about at ‘capacity’. I glanced around, looking at the contestants. You see, in Craps the idea is to find the table with the highest energy level.
You want the most up-beat, loudest players: Players who are having fun. Sad to say, but one can never (in my experience) win any money at an empty table or one with an atmosphere of doom, which does sometimes come rolling in.
Savvy crap shooters recognize the early warning signs of ‘The Atmosphere of Doom’ and fly away like scalded rabbits just before, or as it descends. This table was on the upswing and I intended to make quick work of it before the worm turned. (The worm always turns, but sometimes thankfully, it takes some long turning time.)
Looking down the side of the table, opposite the ‘Boss’ and the dealers and the stick men and all, I studied the players.
There was a young couple to the right of ‘Normal Guy’. Right out of “Honey Moon Ville,” I guessed. Next to them stood a Middle-Eastern type wearing a white starched shirt and lots of bling. Next to him, a dude with a crew cut, tight shirt, bulging biceps, who may have been suffering from Roid Rage, given his overly passionate ramblings at the dice as they bounced down the lane.
At the far end of the table there was a young bleach-blond hanging onto the arm of another elderly well-dressed business man. (‘A man and his Hooker’, I ungraciously thought). Next to them a diminutive oriental man.
I was thinking ‘China’, but could not be certain.
I had a wonderful experience once at a craps table at The Golden Nugget following the streak of another China Man. Won almost two grand while he was in control of the dice. You see, craps players are infamously superstitious. And I was certainly no different.
There were several other players mixed in and even some standing behind, perhaps waiting for some space to open up. I was happy with the crowd and after the present ‘roll’ had ended (wins all around) I pulled out four Benjamins and put them on the table in front of one of the dealers.
“Give me two hundred green ($25), and two hundred red ($5),” I announced. The dealer spread out my four bills so ‘The Eye in the Sky’ could get a look. He then stacked my chips and slid them toward me.
“Good luck Sir,” he said, as I split the chips (‘Checks’ in the Vegas’ vernacular.)
With all the bets paid, Normal Guy was ready to go at it again. I instructed Shonnie to take a red chip and place it in front of her on the “Pass” line (If you don’t know how Craps works, you may be at some loss here—I will try to make it as easy to understand as possible.)
I placed a red chip in front of me on the Pass line as well. All bets placed, Normal Guy tossed the dice toward the far end of the table. He rolled a four. (Meaning he had to roll another four before he rolled a seven, thus crapping out.)
“Put two red chips behind your bet,” I told Shonnie.
“We’re taking the odds,” I said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Just do it. Smartly.”
She stacked up the chips behind her original bet and I did the same.
On a hunch, I tossed a red chip onto the middle of the table and said,
“Hard Four!” (Betting that the shooter will make his ‘four’—called his ‘point’, but that he will do it ‘the hard way,’ i.e. two deuces and not an ace and a three.
This is really a sucker bet, but I had Dama Fortuna in my corner. The bet pays ten for one, which if won, would net me $45 dollars, plus of course our pass line bets with the odd’s bets behind them.)
Normal guy tosses… wait for it… Double Deuces! Pandemonium from the players. Everybody wins!
“How did you know to do that?” Shonnie asks, as some decent stacks of red chips came our way.
I put my hand on her neck, pull her ear to me and say, “Stick close Baby. Gonna be a bumpy night.”
Winners paid, Shonnie and I put another two red chips on the pass line. Normal guy rolls an eight. We back up our bets with two each red chips. Normal guy then rolls a seven. Aw Shit! Crapped out! No worries. We are still way ‘ahead’.
Now the dice pass to Shonnie. I can see she has stage fright. One of the dealers sees this too.
“Don’t worry Little Lady! Newbies are always lucky!” He says.
The ‘table’ agrees and I see chips of all colors dropping to the ‘Pass Line’.
Shonnie and I both drop one each green chip onto the Pass Line. Yes. I was confident. All bets now placed, I watch as she picks up the dice. Picked them up as one might imagine someone picking up a rotten banana, or a dead rat.
“They won’t bite,” I assured her. Just toss them at the end of the table. Oh and shake ‘em a little. But you can only use one hand when tossing them.”
“One hand?” she protested. “I always throw a baseball with both hands.”
“Hun, this ain’t a league of your own. Use one hand or they will frown and be perverse.”
“Okay,” she said. Then after shaking the dice a bit, she wound up… and threw! Right over the heads of the players at the far end of the table on off into space.
Collective groan from the table. In craps, the absolute worst thing one can do is miss the fucking table. It is always bad Juju.
Ninety-Nine times out of a hundred, the next roll will produce a crap out. In Shonnie’s case, the anticipated next roll would be snake-eyes, Box cars, or ace-deuce.
I watched as most of the table players pulled chips back from their original bets. Not me. As someone went searching for the errant dice, I told Shonnie to put two more green chips on her pass line.
I did the same. We now had one hundred-fifty-dollars bet, even though I was not certain she would find green felt upon her second try.
She was offered two more dice by the dealer (stick man, just another word for him). I whispered in her ear, “Just relax Honey. Use a little less passion and a little more finesse this time. You’ll do great.”
She shook the dice, wound up, and pitched ‘em down the lane. When they came to rest: Natural Eleven! Winner!
Well… now! Suddenly the table went nuts! Large bets were placed all around (after some applause).
Shonnie kept ‘control’ of the dice for the next fifteen minutes: an eon in ‘Craps’ Time. We won almost a grand, (thanks to my recklessly wild betting and the favor of Dame Fortuna. And of course to Shonnie’s curve ball.)
When she finally crapped out, there was more applause. Everyone had ‘gotten well’ with her streak. And there are no more appreciative gamblers than craps’ shooters when it comes to situations like this.
“Color us up,” I said to the dealer as I pushed our chips toward him.
“But Sir,” He protested, “You’re up. Aren’t you gonna shoot?”
“Nope. We’re done here, but thanks.”
Shonnie and I gathered our (now mostly black–$100 chips—and I led her away)
“What now!” She demanded.
“Lance. You’re nuts! I have never had this much fun! I love you!”