Lots of folks have not: Don’t despair. I spent thirty glorious days there back in ’86. After my first failed attempt at BUD/s, the Nav sent exiled me to the USS Callaghan DDG 994, a Khomeini-Class Guided Missile Destroyer.
It was called a ‘Khomeini Class’ because along with three sister-ships, she was built for the Iranian Navy (When The Shah was still the Big Man About Town). The ships were not yet commissioned, not ever close, when His Wonderfulness, The Ayatollah came back to hang up his shingle and Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, His Shah-Ness had booked out on his World Tour to cure cancer (his).
And naturally, after the Birds Sang And Shah went away, we just had to keep these ships for our own self(s). Such is History…
My Belov’d USS Callaghan
Anyway, that may be too much information for my purposes here.
After I had mustered onboard the Callaghan, I was informed that I was ‘One Lucky Squiddy Sonuvabitch’ (That’s ‘Naval’ parlance for ‘Sailor’.)
“Why? Why am I lucky?” I just had to ask, as I really wasn’t feeling all-that-lucky after having ‘rocked out’ of SEAL training only to wake up in ‘The Black Shoe, Haze Gray and Underway Gray-Hound’ Navy.
“You are lucky Son,” my Senior LPO informed me, “because we are going on a ‘World Cruise’. And most sailors spend an entire career without such an opportunity.”
“Oh Goody,” I thought, I done been ‘round the whurl’. So what? “Six months away from the only pussy I had finally managed to find for me in San Dog (San Diego). Perfect.” Didn’t actually verbalize that, by the way. I probably said something like, “Gee Wally, I love the idea.” (Without the ‘Wally’ part—I ain’t stupid, ya know.)
Now, I would love to write about this entire cruise, and perhaps I may, but for the purposes of this post, I am gonna skip to the middle, as this is supposed to be about Diego Garcia.
About Month ‘two-and-a-half’, we were cut offsevered culled from our Battle Group and ordered to do some ‘Independent Steaming’ in the Northern ‘IO’ (That’s Navy vernacular for “Indian Ocean.”) We were to rendezvous with the rest of the Fleet at some later unspecified date. (Presumably to us, after they had some proper ‘Liberty’ somewhere up in the Med… You know: Shit-Holes like Toulon France, or Athens, or Palma, Majorca.)
Mallorca
(Fun Fact: The Justified Reason for Our Wonderful World Cruise: We were to escort the USS Kitty Hawk, an old ‘Bird Farm’, i.e., Aircraft Carrier, to ‘No-Fuck’, I mean ‘Norfolk’ Virginia Naval Base. You see, The ‘Shitty Kitty’ just could not fit through the Panama Canal. Hence, we had to take the long way to her new home.
For the sake of some brevity, I will merely recount here that we got ‘Stuck’ in the Northern IO, as The Russians and the Iranians were acting ‘stupid’ and kept harassing us. (Fly-Overs by Ruskies, Iranians threatening to blockade the Straits of Hormuz. You know, typical Eighties’ shit and actually not unexpected.
Now like most U.S. Government Bureaucracies, The Department of the Navy had a budget. We spent so much time on ‘Picket Station’ (Making five knots up and down the North IO, ‘Patrolling’) that we had simply used up our fuel allotment.
(Fun Fact: In the U.S. Navy once Squiddies have not seen land for forty-five days, they get to have a ‘Beer Day’. Yep. That’s right. They chopper in cases of beer, laced with formaldehyde, as a preservative, don’cha know, and each Sailor gets two, count ‘em two beers. Gives a raging headache and ‘Old Salt’ Sailors would not even drink them; they would sell theirs to the neophytes. I was one such neophyte. And yes, I got the raging headaches. Never again.)
What to do?
Send us to port!
Hallelujah! Port!
Guess what?
The ‘Port’ was Diego Garcia: A No-Where’s-Ville In the Middle of the Vast ‘Nowhere’ that is the Indian Ocean.
the Nav sent, exiled, banished me to the USS Callaghan DDG 994, a Khomeini-Class Guided Missile Destroyer.
My new home was called a ‘Khomeini Class’ because along with her three sister-ships, she was built for the Iranian Navy (When The Shah was still the Big Man About Town).
The ships were not yet commissioned, not ever close when His Wonderfulness, TheAyatollah came back to hang up his shingle and Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, His Shah-Ness had booked out on his World Tour to cure cancer (his).
And naturally, after the Birds Sang And Shah went away, we just had to keep these ships for our own self(s). Such is History…
My Belov’d USS Callaghan
(I truly did come to love her)
Anyway, that may be too much information for my purposes here.
After I had mustered onboard the Callaghan, I was informed that I was ‘One Lucky Squiddy Sonuvabitch’ (That’s ‘Naval’ parlance for ‘Sailor’.)
“Why? Why am I lucky?” I just had to ask, as I really wasn’t feeling all-that-lucky after having ‘rocked out’ of SEAL training only to wake up in ‘The Black Shoe, Haze Gray and Underway Gray-Hound’ Navy.
“You are lucky Son,” my Senior LPO informed me, “because we are going on a ‘World Cruise’. And most sailors spend an entire career without such an opportunity.”
“Oh Goody,” I thought, “I done been ‘round the whurl’.So what?”
“Six months away from the only pussy I had finally managed to find for me in San Dog (San Diego). Perfect.”
Ididn’t actually verbalize that, by the way. I probably said something like, “Gee Wally, I love the idea.” (Without the ‘Wally’ part—I ain’t stupid, ya know.)
Now, I would love to write about this entire cruise, and perhaps I may, but for the purposes of this post, I am gonna skip to the middle, as this is supposed to be about Diego Garcia.
About Month ‘two-and-a-half’, we were cut off, severed, culled from our Battle Group and ordered to do some ‘Independent Steaming’ in the Northern ‘IO’ (That’s Navy vernacular for “Indian Ocean.”) We were to rendezvous with the rest of the Fleet at some later unspecified date.
(Presumably to us, after they had some proper ‘Liberty’ somewhere up in the Med… You know: Shit-Holes like Toulon France, or Athens, or Palma de Mallorca.)
Yeah, the rest of the Fleet had to suffer in that way while we were privileged to experience the magical wonders of the Indian Ocean.
Palma de Mallorca
(Fun Fact: The Justified Reason for Our Wonderful World Cruise: We were to escort The”Shitty Kitty,”–USS Kitty Hawk, an old ‘Bird Farm’, i.e., Aircraft Carrier, to ‘No-Fuck’, I mean ‘Norfolk’ Virginia Naval Base. You see, The ‘Shitty Kitty’ just could not fit through “The Ditch”, aka ‘The Panama Canal’. Hence, we had to take the long way to her new home.
For the sake of some brevity, I will merely recount here that we got ‘Stuck’ in the Northern IO. The Russians and the Iranians were acting ‘stupid’ and kept harassing us. (Fly-Overs by Ruskies, Iranians threatening to blockade the Straits of Hormuz. You know, typical Eighties’ shit and actually not unexpected.
Now like most U.S. Government Bureaucracies, The Department of the Navy had a budget. We spent so much time on ‘Picket Station’ (Making five knots up and down the North IO, ‘Patrolling’) that we had simply used up our fuel allotment.
(Fun Fact: In the U.S. Navy once ‘Squiddies’ have not seen land for forty-five days, they get to have a ‘Beer Day’. Yep. That’s right. They chopper in cases of beer, laced with formaldehyde as a preservative, don’cha know, and each Sailor gets two, count ‘em two beers. Gives a raging headache and ‘Old Salt’ Sailors would not even touch them. They would sell theirs to the neophytes. I was one such neophyte. And yes, I got the raging headache. Never again.)
So, what to do with us, since we were outta gas?
Send us to port!
Hallelujah! Port!
Guess what?
The ‘Port’ was Diego Garcia: A No-Where’s-Ville In the Middle of the Vast ‘Nowhere’ that is the Indian Ocean.
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.”
“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.
Comments below from the original version of this post.
Please read from the bottom up for continuity.
36 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE: THIS IS THE (NOT) THE END”
LAMarcom July 21, 2014 at 18:10 Edit
All’s well that ends well…
Cheers!
NancyTex July 21, 2014 at 08:49 Edit
Scary shit. Almost afraid to click on the final installment.
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 16:13 Edit
🙂
artourway July 16, 2014 at 16:12 Edit
so glad to have you as my friend Lance
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 16:06 Edit
Toda rabah תודה רבה
That’s Hebrew for ‘Thank you!’
I did learn just enough to get me into trouble when I was working in that part of the world.
😉
artourway July 16, 2014 at 15:57 Edit
I admire your writing Lance.
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 15:23 Edit
Dreams?
I really need to work on my French.
🙂
Thank you my friend.
artourway July 16, 2014 at 14:39 Edit
Vous rêves sont parfois si réels, cool Lance
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 13:06 Edit
Hehehe…
The ‘really end of the end’ should go up late this evening.
I do appreciate your taking time to read this story and comment.
Cheers!
-Lance
LVital7019 July 16, 2014 at 12:59 Edit
THAT was a shameless TEASE! “The End” but not really the end!?? Grrr… LOL
lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 11:54 Edit
Whew! You’re welcome 🙂
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:36 Edit
Okay.
Denouement will be forthcoming.
This is why I love blogging: the feedback and great conversation.
Thanks so much Laura!
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:32 Edit
I must confess, I have never seen ‘Paris Texas.’ Although it has been on my ‘to watch’ list for some decades. After viewing the clip I have moved it way up that list and will watch it this weekend if not before. It definitely looks like a film I would love. So…thanks so much for provided the impetus to get me to it.
I took a peek at the USHypocrisy site and loved it. Now following. And I will show it to my English girlfriend. She will love it too, no doubt.
Win-Win all around!
Merci!
lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 10:30 Edit
Exactly! It needs that good end. We are left to wodner although not too much since you’re still alive ‘n kicking! lol
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:20 Edit
Pretty sure you didn’t miss anything. It is most likely my failing. Perhaps I do need to provide the denouement?
😉
lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 10:18 Edit
Well I for one would like to know what happened after the harley sound. 🙂
lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 10:17 Edit
That’s the end? Did I miss something??
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:14 Edit
Breathe Laura, just breathe.
That is the end of the story….
(Please see comments below)
Of course if blowback comes, I will post an addendum or ‘post a postscript,’ if you will….)
Thanks so much for reading along on this one and also for your comments.
Cheers,
-Lance
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:10 Edit
Hahaha!
Now that’s funny!
Perfect comment. Thanks for making me laugh out loud.
Cheers to you David!
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:08 Edit
Thanks so much Diana.
🙂
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 10:07 Edit
Actually Heathen, I had not planned to continue the story. This was to be The End, but rest assured, no harm came to Shonnie. If I get pushback to post a postscript, I will do that. However… I think it’s time for me to move on to other tales.
Your thoughts?
Thanks for riding along on this series. I do appreciate your time and as I have said before, your comments enrich my efforts.
Cheers Friend.
lauramacky July 16, 2014 at 09:51 Edit
The suspense is killing me!
David Scott Moyer July 16, 2014 at 08:05 Edit
I wanted him to pull up along side you and say, “You forgot your hat, bro.”
Diana July 16, 2014 at 06:15 Edit
Great job Lance!
happierheathen July 16, 2014 at 05:35 Edit
I’m glad it came out in the comments that it was her decision that you’d never see her again, as otherwise I’d have to hire a guy to kick down your door and be only as nice as possible while extracting that bit of information. I hope the rest of the story doesn’t include her being harmed.
I’m just now thinking how lucky I am that the only woman I ever regretted losing eventually found her way back.
Thanks for telling a story that catalyzed such a fine thought in this contraption I generously refer to as my brain, man.
Mélanie July 16, 2014 at 03:50 Edit
P.S. Lance, if you ever have some spare minutes, please take a look @ this interesting and realistic blog: http://ushypocrisy.com/
Mélanie July 16, 2014 at 03:26 Edit
I meant… amigo, Lance! 🙂 you must be proud and honored by your native American heritage/roots/origins…
@Paris, Texas and their fake and kitch Tour Eiffel: you have to see it, to believe it and I did! 😀 btw, have you watched this film-culte(here in “old Europe”!) with excellent actors:
LAMarcom July 16, 2014 at 00:40 Edit
‘Gringo?!?!
Laughing my ass off.
(I invite you to know that I am part Comanche)
Just the best part…
P.S. I grew up twenty miles from Paris (Texas). I hated that town then; and still do.
Mélanie July 16, 2014 at 00:34 Edit
yesss! excellent job, Sir! last but not least: I love the Doors and I did see Jim Morrison’s tomb in “Père-Lachaise”, Paris, France(not Tejas!) – always with lots of flowers…
buenas noches, gringo! 🙂
LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 23:31 Edit
Hahaha!
Sadie,
We both may be slightly inebriated…
It happens.
🙂
LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 23:29 Edit
Tis okay. I got it.
Hahahaha
Cheers,
Lancer
LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 23:28 Edit
To quote Joni at you Sadie:
“You are a woman of heart and mind.”
Thank you ever so much for all your wonderful comments.
Sincerely, they mean a lot to me.
Cheers, beers, and Tequila,
Lance
~ Sadie ~ July 15, 2014 at 23:26 Edit
Crap – that is not where that comment was supposed to go 🙂 It was in response to yours – I am tired. Obviously need to go to bed LOL!!
Loading…
~ Sadie ~ July 15, 2014 at 23:25 Edit
Thanks for sharing – you wrote about your bittersweet memories in such a beautiful way – great writing, storytelling, dialogue & suspense-building! I love reading your true tales. Shit, I’d be too scared to write about some of mine . . . 😉
Tears and beers (though mine is always tears & tequila!!) – proof you are alive sometimes!!
Have a great evening, Lance!! ☮
LAMarcom July 15, 2014 at 22:40 Edit
Sadie,
My Good Friend,
I needed to end this. Yes there is more to the story, but it mostly involves tears and beers, and I do not think anyone would read that part.
I choose to end it here.
Obviously, I survived as did Shonnie and I never saw her again (her decision), but…hey! C’est La Vie, eh?
Thank you for reading this too long diatribe…er… history.
It is all truth, by the way.
Cheers,
Lance
~ Sadie ~ July 15, 2014 at 22:35 Edit
For some reason, I don’t get the impression that this was the end . . .
My best friend growing up was a Harley girl and as teenagers we hung out occasionally with a couple of Bandidos (well she did,
I just tagged along) – bikers aint exactly of the ilk to be too kind about other men & their women – especially their wives.
This is a ‘Sea Story’ Albeit, A ‘Rare’ True One Here Goes!
Better Batten Down Them Hatches!
****
Just to get Y’all ‘In-The-Mood’
Irish Rovers-Drunken Sailor
Cred: Irish Rovers
As We (USS Callaghan, DDG 994)
Were steaming out of San Dog Naval Base Just beginning our World Cruise, escorting The USS Kitty Hawk (A ‘Bird Farm—Aircraft Carrier—To ‘No Fuk’ Virginia, Naval Station)
As we were just making the turn to La Jolla, we all spied a fishing boat steaming at full speed aiming at our stern. “WTF?” Our Skipper slow’d down The Callaghan. Finally Full stop. As a matter of fact.
Cap’n Allowed this fishing boat to pull up at our stern. Fishing boat came up along.
To everyone’s astonishment, some young ‘Squiddy’ (Navy Parlance for A Young idiot fresh out of boot-camp)Was on-Board
Nathan Evans – There once was a ship that put to sea
With the assistance of us, The Callaghan-Crew, and the fishermen we managed to get the young idiot on-board. Pretty Certain He was still drunk’r Than Cooter Brown We continued our freshly began voyage.
And Pretty certain ‘Capn’s Mast was in his very near future.
Turn’s out, our Capt’n was lenient and let him off with just the ‘Blue-Plate Special’
Three months restriction
Reduction in rank
Six days bread an water in the brig
Fun fact, as Ship’s Armorer, I was in charge of the brig. Bad News for him, as Having recently rocked out Of SEAL Training, I did not have a sense of humor when it came to Black-Shoe Naval Idiots
With nothing else to do and still somewhat pissed at Shonnie for putting us both in a bad situation, I walked over to The Las Vegas Club just across the street from the Union Plaza.
My intent was to pass some time playing a relaxing game of roulette. I have always enjoyed roulette. The pace is slow and generally the game draws a more serene clientele. A quiet casual game of roulette would afford me the opportunity to calm my Shonnie-Generated anger and pleasantly pass some time.
The minimum bet was one dollar, so I bought a hundred bucks worth of two-bit chips and began scattering them about the table. Never really scoring big at roulette, I did not expect anything but a hundred dollars’ worth of entertainment and some free bottom shelf booze.
I had a few wins but mostly losses and as my initial investment evaporated along with about an hour and a half of time, I cashed out the remainder of my stake (about ten bucks which I used to tip the Croupier), drained my glass, stubbed out my Marlboro and headed back to The Plaza.
I discovered Shonnie face down on the bed, hair a mess, legs splayed out all akimbo, a forsaken cigarette burning in the ashtray.
Somehow I saw myself in that cigarette.
I sat down beside her.
“You awake?” I whispered, gently pulling some strands of hair from her cheek.
“Owwwie… Is that you Honey?”
“Yes Dear.” (I was aiming for a sarcastic, pissed off tone—failed—I just loved her too much to sustain my displeasure) “Yeah. It’s me,” I repeated. “You were perhaps expecting someone else? George maybe?”
“Huhhh? Who’s George?
“Never mind. How’d you come out?”
“Won ‘bout four hundred an’ change. Proud of me?”
“No,” I said. “You nearly got me into trouble.”
“Always about you,” she said, turning on her side to face me with suddenly awake and angry blue eyes.
“We did have a plan, you know. What happened?”
“I couldn’t get shed of that moron.”
“You mean ‘George’, yes?”
She sat up abruptly. Sincerely pissed off now. “How th’ hell you know his fuckin’ name? I don’t even know his fuckin’ name and I had to sit next to the asshole for four hours. I tried to run him off! Goddamn it!”
“How hard is it to walk away from a blackjack table?”
She looked down at the bed and added quietly. “I was having fun.”
“You’re drunk,” I said.
“Yeah, I am. Be my hero and light me a smoke.”
“I already did my hero bit tonight when I showed up to rescue you from George and the El Cortez.”
“It would’ve been awkward to just get up and leave with you. The casino dudes might’ve gotten suspicious.”
“Shonnie, they had gone way beyond ‘suspicious’ by then. If you had just accepted my offer of a drink at the bar…”
“I know. I know! I was acting like a little bitch. I wanted to find out if you were willing to fight for me is all.”
“Damn it Shonnie! You know damn well I will fight for you, but only if it is warranted and necessary. You created thesituation. You could have ended it. Easily.”
She gave me a sorrowful, pouty look, then softly, sweetly said, “Cig?”
Whateverremained of my anger was melted away by her voice and her look.
I lit two Marlboros and handed her one. She took a long drag and asked for a cold beer. I fished two Bud longnecks out of the cooler, wiped them off on the bedspread and handed her one.
“You gonna be a gentleman an’ open this for me?” she said while aiming the longneck’s neck at my chest.
I took the bottle, twisted off the cap with one deft motion, tossed it at the television and handed her the beer.
She drained about half, belched loudly and said, “Cotton mouth.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.”
“Fuck you. I have a wicked-bad headache.”
She laid her head back on the pillow with a groan.
I kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, “We need to head outta here tomorrow by noon. I have to be back on my boat…”
“Okay! Okay! I got it. What time is it anyway?”
“It’s later than you think.”
She sat back up, drained the rest of her beer, threw her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, lay down, rolled over and went immediately to sleep. ‘Just perfect,’ I thought.
I took some minutes to finish my beer and my cigarette, then got undressed, curled up next to her and was soon fast asleep myself.
***
Next day we managed to check out of our room and hit the road by about twelve-thirty. I stopped for gas and a six-pack at Whiskey Pete’s, or as I prefer to call it,
“The Last Dance Texaco”
Fun Fact: Rickie Lee bears an eerily striking resemblance to Shonnie, though No Where near as beautiful as Shonnie, At least she can sing.Shonnie can’t sing. So there’s that.But, I’ll still take Shonnie any day. And every day. And in every way.
***
Whiskey Pete’s almost straddles the Nevada State Line. It’s the first, or last, depending upon one’s direction of travel, opportunity to make a charitable contribution to the Casino Industry’s Good Cause(s).
“Hey Baby, we got some time. Wanna see something really cool while we’re here?”
“I cannot look at another blackjack table for a while.”
“C’mon. This is different.”
I parked the car and led her into Whiskey Pete’s and straight to the Bonnie and Clyde car exhibit.
“Look at that! Isn’t that cool?”
“It’s just a car all shot fulla holes. I’ve seen a few already.”
“Baby, this ain’t just any car. This is thelegit ‘Bonnie and Clyde Death Car’.”
“Oh.”
Sometimes even my very best efforts to impress my girl fall flat.
Other times, I don’t even have to try.
If I could just manage someday to find the key, my life would be so much easier.
And devoid of magic.
Nope, I’ll keep my mysterious, mystifying, disconcerting, and sometimes infuriating Shonnie over any predictable plastic boring version.
The Joni song below is about seventy-five percent perfect in illuminating the very complex relationship Shonnie and I shared.
***
“You know the times you impress me most
Are the times when you don’t try
When you don’t even try”
Credit for Video Montage: DJ Bayonic
***
We reverse-road-tripped westward toward San Diego, arriving about six in the evening. I dropped Shonnie at her mom’s and headed back to the Callaghan. I hit my rack and slept like the dead.
I had duty the next day, so I could not leave the ship. On Tuesday at sixteen hundred after liberty call I donned my civvies and hit the beach. Found a pay phone on the pier and called her up.
“Hello?”
“Hiya Baby. How Y’all doin’?”
“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” She sounded pissed.
“You know damn well I had ‘the duty’ yesterday,” I shot back.
“Oh… Yeah. Sorry. I forgot.”
“Where do you wanna meet up?” I asked.
“Seaport Village. In the back of the parking lot. In thirty minutes. And don’t make me wait.”
“Make you wait?! That’s rich Shonnie, very rich, given our recent ‘make me wait’ experience. Make it forty-five and we’ve got a bona-fide rendezvous.”
“Okay!” Loud click in my ear as she not-so-gently ‘placed’ her receiver back in the phone cradle.
I laughed out loud as I gently returned my receiver to the pay phone.
‘Lance can be a ‘button-pushing’ little bitch too.’
***
I pulled into the parking lot at Seaport Village around five p.m. No sign of Shonnie. I killed the Toranado but left the stereo playing (Tom Waits: “Warm Beer and Cold Women…I just don’t fit in.”)
Pulling from a pint of Jim Beam, I lit a cigarette and watched some seagulls diving on scraps in San Diego Bay.
A haze-gray-and-underway-piece-of-shit was heading out to sea, black-shoe-sailors were manning the rails wearing dress whites.
Young happy couples were walking hand-in-hand heading toward the boardwalk. I began allowing myself to entertain some second thoughts about my relationship with Shonnie:
Was it going anywhere?
Was it worth the risk? Was she fun? Was she great in the sack?
Was she not beautiful?
Didn’t I truly love her?
My mindless debate was abruptly and noisily ended as she pulled up alongside me, screeching tires and slinging gravel.
Grand Entrance!
She exited her ‘La Bomba’ and walked toward my vehicle.
She looked absolutely California Texas Stunning.
She was sporting tight faded blue jeans with some holes in them, à la Dwight Yoakam ‘cowboy hip’ style, a halter top, cowgirl boots, cowgirl hat, and carrying a fifth of whiskey and an attitude. She ‘runway’ sashayed over to my window and inquired,
“Hey Sailor, New in town?”
Aiming for ‘laconic’ I said, “I’m the ’Only’ Sailor for you Little Cowgirl and I’m Fair to mid’lin’. You?”
“Finer-n-frog hair,” she said.
“Don’t be mockin’ a good ol’ Texas Boy,” I said back.
(Yes! I truly did love her of course but even worse, I was In-Love with her: Madly and Beyond Redemption. There never really was any doubt.)
“I have a surprise for you Lover.”
“I’m not particularly fond of surprises” I said.
“You’re gonna love this one, and it’s gonna save you some money too.”
“Okay, go on. What’s the surprise? And please don’t tell me I’ll know when we get there.”
Enthusiastically she announced, “I’m ‘house-sitting’ my aunt’s condo in La Jolla this week. It’s all ours!”
“Your ‘aunt?’ ‘Condo?’ In ‘La Jolla?’ No way!”
“Yes! Way!”
“Well, ya know, I’m kinda partial to parking lots and sleazy motel rooms,” I protested.
“Don’t be an asshole and don’t be ridiculous,” she said as she climbed into the shot-gun seat of my Toranado. “Drive. I’ll show you the way.”
So I drove.
(With some anticipation tempered with some trepidation)
16 THOUGHTS ON “SHONNIE THE BIKER’S WIFE PART XII: BACK TO THE REAL WORLD”
LAMarcom October 8, 2020 at 04:22 Edit
Thank you John
johncoyote October 3, 2020 at 04:59 Edit
When Vegas, drink and road trip are together. Some hell raising days are coming. I liked the set-up of the story and Shonnie. Is a interesting lady. A very entertaining chapter my friend.
LAMarcom February 16, 2015 at 05:15 Edit
Reblogged this on Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics and commented:
Not sure why, but I thought I’d re-blog this. (Probably ’cause I like Tom Waits)
Oh! And I miss that woman: Shonnie
LAMarcom July 22, 2014 at 19:37 Edit
Hehehehe.
Yeah, from Day One with Shonnie, I had that same bad foreboding.
Thanks Friend.
Tony Single July 22, 2014 at 18:53 Edit
Where on earth is this going? I’ve got a bad feeling about this…
LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 16:03 Edit
Shonnie was the one who ‘introduced’ me to Tom Waits and for that, I am eternally in her debt.
😉
Mélanie July 14, 2014 at 15:59 Edit
OMG! Tom Waits – a living legend… 🙂
lauramacky July 14, 2014 at 10:15 Edit
lol
lauramacky July 14, 2014 at 09:42 Edit
😛
LAMarcom July 14, 2014 at 09:22 Edit
I completely agree with you on Roulette. I have ‘experienced’ Roulette all over the world from Europe to Africa to the Far East (and of course Vegas). Love the game and the atmosphere of it.
Exile on Pain Street July 14, 2014 at 06:21 Edit
Roulette really is the most elegant game in the house. You don’t have to concentrate the way you do with craps. And I like the accouterments. The wheel. The ball. The clakity-clack sound.
Lots of smoking in these stories. I get cotton mouth just reading them.
LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 23:26 Edit
Just a ‘Tale of Two Cities: San Dog and Vegas…’
😉
LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 16:17 Edit
Hi Sadie,
‘Captivated’ readers are the best!
😉
Thank you for the kind words.
Cheers,
Lance
LAMarcom July 13, 2014 at 16:11 Edit
😉
~ Sadie ~ July 13, 2014 at 14:18 Edit
Can’t wait for the next chapter!!! I think this series would make a great short story, or possibly novella 🙂 You definitely have me captivated! 😉
“Petty Officer Marcom! Your Fifty Cals are Rusty!”
U.S. Navy photo by Photographer’s Mate Third Class Daniel J. Mark. Cleared for release by ALBG PAO, LCDR Jeff Bender.
Marco The Sailorman
I had to admit. Yes they were. I had tried so hard to keep ahead of the rust, but here I found myself on the leeward side of the second half of a six-month, ‘round-the-whurl-West Pacific Deployment’, and somewhere just off the coast of Somalia.
Yes, rust was my enemy, certainly never my friend—the machine guns were always mounted while we (The USS Callaghan DDG 994, full cast and crew) were Haze-Gray and Underway.
Yes, always mounted and underway:
Haze-Graying, even then
And rusty
My Guns were always supposed to be… somewhere upon the sea… this is what they were purchased for…
And subject to rust. Rust Relentless. Relentless She Be: That Sea. That Salt of the Fucking Sea
Rust.
My Moby Dick-lessness! How could I not keep Rust off my guns?
Freud certainly would have had fun with me
(Sadly, now I know why)
************
My professional life was to be found somewhere rusting in those machine guns.
And that rust you see, that rust occupied a great deal of my daily routine.
The Navy had a solution though. She had provided canvas covers to cover those guns and make them safe from rust. Alas, those canvas covers had seen better days, probably back when Pearl Harbor was just an ordinary Naval Base that no one had ever heard of.
But rust is relentless and timeless.
While scrubbing the Indian Ocean rust off’n my fifty-cals one morning I hatched a plan. Knowing full well we were soon to pull into Mombasa Kenya, after so many month at sea, I conspired to save my money:
Once in Mombasa, I would smuggle one of the moth infected, salt- digested, jig saw’d, Swiss Cheese, ‘holy’ canvas shards off the ship. I would rent a taxi, find me a young child, show him my smuggled ‘prize’, ask him to direct me somewhere, where I could find and nickel and dime (I did not have much money then, not un-life-like now) find a leather shop in Mombasa, present to the leather-maker my Holy Canvas, My Shroud, My Naval Career, and demand, (for US Dollars), that he make me four such more yet new and brand new.
And functional.
And This is exactly what I did, and to the amazement and astonishment of my Master Chief Petty Officer and my Department Head (almost a Navy Commander… he kind of looked like JFK, now that I think on it. I did not like particularly like him, but I respected him. Hell, he reminded me of all the things I could have been if I had joined the Nav when I was twelve instead of twenty-eight (Different story. Sorry)
The next time they inspected my Fifty Cals, they were pristine! (They did not take notice nor time to notice that the canvas covers were not exactly Haze-Gray-Naval Gray. No, more like Third-World-Rustic, with just a tiny bit of water buffalo…left over…but Goddamn sure water and sea salt proof.
And I was so desirous that they did NOT notice, but my Master Chief did notice, yet, never ever noticing nor voicing his ‘inner thoughts’ in front of what he referred to as “Shit Birds” — ‘Officers’ — Never let on.
Master Chief never, ever let out his truth thoughts in front of Shit – Birds. This was his genius.
And I should have been cognizant of this, yet I was so somewhat giddy after my .50 Cals had finally passed inspection, that I did not stop to think on that anymore. “Not even Master Chief had seen through my ruse” Yeah, Rite!
I was drunk with my own cleverness and lying back on my back in my rack, curtain drawn, congratulating me.
(Now, you must realize how the Military Mind works. I was my Ship’s Armor All–Armorer– IN Charge of All The Ship’s Small Arms! .225 Cal to .50 Cal. If it took two men to lift, wasn’t mine. But one-man-band? Yep! I was the shit! I was a Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class! Freshly rocked out of SEAL Training (twice now, but who counts these sorts of thing? I suppose I do) and trying to retain what little was left of my pride and my so-fifty-caliber-called-life.)
And I loved and Respected My Master Chief. Did not ever want to become an embarrassment to him, nor to my Fellow Gunner’s Mates who worked on the “Big Guns”. (Those ones what ‘bullets’ took two and a half-men to lift)
And even more important, (anyone who has ever ‘Served’ will know this), the Military is Run On Fear:
Well, as I was lying on my back in my middle rack right before Taps with my little blue ‘privacy’ curtain drawn back when someone jerked that sucker back.
Along with my reverie.
Yep.
Master Chief Anderson!
MY MASTER CHIEF
“Son, tell me where you found those brand new gun covers.”
Trying to lie on my side and find an elbow to lean to, I half-coughed out, feigning sleepy-eyed ignorance,
“Master Chief, I had them made while we were in Mombasa.”
(There are people one may lie to in life, but, A Master Chief Petty Officer in the US Navy is not one found amongst those people. Not if one wishes life beyond that moment of sweet deception)
“I see”, was all he said, as he yanked my curtain back shut, thus leaving me alone with my various and sundry.
I did not sleep that night. For you see, I knew I had broken Naval Regs by doing something not-in-the Naval-Seaman’s-Bible–The Blue Book–The book, inches thick as a brick, “The Book” I had been made to almost memorize while at Recruit Training Command, i.e. boot camp.
I had broken the rule.
In the Nav, there is a sea sailor preamble, most requisite when one wants to recount a story of ‘when ships were made of wood and men were made of iron’… “Back when Moses was a pup, and this is a no-shitter” This validates and is a ritual never broken. In other words, one never breaks the rule.
Sometime mid-morning the next day, I was summoned to the berth/office of The Department Head of my Division, Lt. Commander ‘Kennedy’.
Shitting bricks is too trite.
I was nervous.
I gave a hearty rap on the bulkhead door as I was trained to do in boot camp…
“Enter!”
“Petty Officer 3rd Class Marcom Sir!”
“I know who you are Lance; sit down.”
(What??? Lance??? Sit Down???)
Mouth agape I sat down, speechless
“Son, Master Chief Anderson tells me you went out on your own, designed, commissioned, smuggled off a prototype, and paid for, with your own money, those .50 Cal Gun Covers. Is this true?”
“Yes, uh, yessir,” I stammered.
“Well, that shows some fine initiative. How much did you pay Son?”
“Un Sir. Doesn’t matter…. I just, well, the .50 Cals, you know SIR, cost ten-thousand dollars each, and I thought…rust….an…”
“How much did you pay?!”
“250 Dollars Sir.”
Without saying a word he opened a little three-lock-box (OK; I made that up. It was only a one-lock-box) that he had in a drawer, carefully opened it, and proceeded to hand me two-hundred and fifty bucks.
American
I sat there, dumb founded, a moment too long, still in shock, looking at the bills in my hand…
“Petty Officer Marcom! “
“Huh…Uh, Huh… Sir?”
“You’re dismissed!”
Jumping up, knocking my chair over, some tears welling in my eyes,
“Yessir!”
As I saluted him and abruptly left his quarters, quite in haste.
And thus I had survived yet another day in MY Beloved Navy.
And Just As a Reminder Kids:
Don’t Rain on my Parade: I have enuff Rain for All
*And this just once more a rough draft, full of error, so be kind. Trust me: there is no harsher critic of me than me. I sweat commas.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
