DECK APE
This was a Cheech and Chong situation if I
had ever seen one. The floor of the car I was sitting in, a Datsun 240Z, was absolutely littered with
white cross. Speed. Uppers. Go-Fast. Whatever the
hell the slang was for it then. The shit was
everywhere. Must have been two hundreds hits
spread all over the floor and the seats and between
the spent bottles of Heineken. I was bent over in the
passenger seat trying to pick the tabs out of the
carpet, my eyes tearing up from the smoke from the
lit Marlboro that was stuck in my mouth.
"Jesus Christ, Jay! If the fucking highway
patrol pulls us over we're gonna wind up getting our
assholes reamed in the Los Angeles County Jail. If we
even get that far. Doesn't that sound like fun?"
Jay belted out that loud laugh of his. "Denny
and I did a little partying last night. I forgot about
the mess."
Denny was Dennis Barry, a good buddy of
ours. Bar none the wildest son of a bitch I would
ever meet in my life. With a short squat hairy body
and huge stevedore arms, Dennis would stroll down
the decks of the ship like a lost silverback gorilla,
swinging those tree trunk arms of his. Good natured
and funny when sober, shit in your pants funny
when stoned, and short tempered and dangerous
when drinking, Dennis was one of a kind.
The son of a Hollywood film lot worker, Dennis planned on
getting on at Fox Studios as soon as his enlistment
ran out. It was amazing that he had lasted almost
four years in the service. But amongst the non-lifers
to the Dixie, Dennis had achieved God-like status.
He had been assaulted by the Captain of our
ship. And lived to tell the tale. Captain K. J. Bligh
was a blowhard of epic proportions.
A former football playing washout who had tried out with and
miserably failed with the Green Bay Packers, Bligh
was a huge lug of a man with a tiny head who
favored wearing cowboy boots and carrying a silver
six shooter in a monogrammed holster as he strutted
around the ship like a deranged combination of
George Patton and a fucking bandy rooster.
Equipped with the brain the size of a pea, he was
the never ending target of practical jokes from the
crew which included having his engraved bowling
ball thrown over the side which divers were unable
to locate in the murky waters of Sand Diego Bay,
calling his stateroom late at night: "Quit jacking off
up there, Bligh," his sheets on his bunk short-sheeted
constantly, mess cooks pissing in his coffee pot, and
the almost daily theft of his sports section from the
newspaper delivered to the door of his stateroom.
Even though a football failure he lived vicariously
through the box scores.
"Sons of bitches!" he would scream over the
ships intercom as he stood on the bridge with spit
flying out of his mouth. "Sons of bitch bastards! I
want my fucking paper back right now or liberty is
canceled for the crew for the next goddamn year."
He would never get it back.
The ship was in dry-dock and was torn all to
shit. It was like being stationed on Satan's private
yacht. Smoke. Welding sparks flying everywhere.
Flush one toilet it would back up two rows down on
someone taking a crap - now that was funny!
Hammers banging. With all the needle guns and
knuckle-busters going as deck hands chipped off
years of coats of paint you couldn't hear yourself
think.
Dennis and I were up on the O-2 level of the
ship up by officer's country, shirking from our
duties as we smoked, Coked, and joked. With all the
yard noise we were both wearing Mickey Mouse
ears and were mostly just trying to read each other's
lips. It was so fucking loud that we couldn't hear the
ship's pipe, which is the Naval term for a
loudspeaker announcement that Captain's Mast was
about to begin. Captain's Mast being the equivalent
to a civilian's misdemeanor court appearance. Only
in the civilian world you aren't normally sentenced
to 45 days restriction to a ship where you spend your
nights scrubbing shit stains and cum tracks off of
toilets.
Since we were wearing ear protection and
you couldn't hear the goddamn announcement
anyway we weren't expecting Captain Bligh, trailed
by his cast of flunky officers, to come charging
around the corner like a fucking maniac and hit
Dennis with a block that I can guarantee the dumb
bastard never threw as hard in the Packer's training
camp. If he had he might have made the team.
Dennis never saw it coming and went flying
into the bulkhead (wall), bounced off it and came
back with a cocked fist that he most likely would
have broken the nose of his assailant with in any
other set of circumstances, until he stunningly saw
the commissioned moron standing in front of him.
"Goddamn you! Don't you know how to
come to attention, asshole?" screamed Bligh. The
spit of course flying out of his mouth again,
spattering the front of Dennis's coveralls.
"I'll have your ass court martialed! I'll have
you in the brig tonight sucking a Marine's cock!"
He turned and stormed off down the deck followed
by his stunned henchman. Bligh had his time line all wrong. By that night Dennis's parents had secured the services of a
top notch attorney. Within a month, Captain Bligh,
who was in line for admiral had not only lost his
command but was forced to retire. Fuck thinking
about making Admiral.
Dennis was rewarded with an early
honorable discharge and we all kept in touch after
he got out.. But he wouldn't let the Bligh incident
go. For sort of a hobby he had taken to calling Bligh
late at night and tormenting him about the loss of
his command and promotion. Dennis had a buddy at
Ma Bell who kept getting Bligh's phone number
when he kept changing it. Within a year, Dennis
would be dead of a morphine overdose. Bligh
eventually capped himself with his service revolver.
In his typical fuckup style he wasn't successful and
spent his remaining years in a veteran's nursing
home.
***
"Fucking A! There's even some black
beauties and a hit of ...shit this looks like a tab of
blotter acid," I yelled out in glee. "This is gonna be
a fun drive I can see." I popped the top on the only
remaining full beer, warm, and washed down a
white cross, a black beauty, and the tab of acid.
The year was 1979 and our ship, the USS
Dixie, was home-ported out of San Diego. The ship
had been in a major overhaul at Todd Shipyard in
San Pedro when Jay and I had met.
Since then, the ship had finished up it's overhaul early - which is
another epic story in itself and had cruised back on
down to San Diego. Jay and I drove back to LA
almost every weekend together. He owned and lived
in a apartment complex in Hollywood. I had kept
my apartment in Long Beach when the ship
returned to San Diego and commuted on weekends
and days off. I planned on living in Los Angeles
when my enlistment ran out. It had been slightly
over a year since I had left Hawaii. It had been the
only year of my time in the Navy that had been
relatively calm. Although I still worried about
Brewer talking about the NIS incident, it was filed
farther back in my mind. The briefcase rested
comfortably in a safe deposit box in Long Beach.
The Dixie hadn't been a bad ship to finish up
my tour of the Navy on. It was a destroyer tender. A
huge floating hulk with dozens if not hundreds of
shops on it. Any Navy ship, destroyer class or
smaller, could tie up alongside of her and get damn
near any problems it had taken care of. It rarely got
underway so the many of the crew lived off of the
ship. It was a den of thieves, drug dealers, drunks,
and Navy castoffs - a typical post Viet Nam Navy
vessel. I had laid low my year onboard the ship but
had witnessed hundreds of drug deals, busts,
assaults, and even an attempted male on male rape.
Recently four crewman had been arrested for
hanging out along the Mexico border, which was
just a few miles away, and robbing illegal aliens as
they crossed the border.
"Hey man! Check it out, dude. That new
guy is Beaver from that television show." There was
new meat laying a fresh coast of paint on the
anchor. I had walked over and taken a look at him.
Negative. I walked back over to the guy spreading
the scuttlebutt. "You're full of shit, Jimmy. That's
definitely not Jerry Mathers." Jimmy was Jimmy
Carnahan, a pasty skinned little fart that liked to
paste a sign up in the bus windows every night
when the lifers bussed us back to the barracks.
Same goddamn message every night. "Girls - show
us your tits!!" The little bastard drove me nuts.
"Hey new guy," I shouted. "What's your
name?"
"Jay ******," Jay had shouted back like he
hadn't given a shit who he was and had turned back
to his coat of battleship gray.
I looked back to Jimmy. "****** The
******, not Leave It To Beaver, dumbass. Two
different shows and two different people." Jimmy
tore off towards the stern of the ship to spread his
hot new gossip, probably stopping off at a head to
wax his cane as he was a well known and notorious
shipboard masturbator.
***
Jay started up the car and pulled out of the
parking lot like he was late for a date with a five
hundred dollar prostitute with a purse full of
Bolivian blow and I banged the top of my head on
the glove box in the process.
"You're sure getting short, aren't you? Shit, man. That's fucking great."
"Couple more days, man. I'm short. Short as
a motherfucker." Short was short for short-timer.
Military slang that meant my enlistment was soon to
expire. My time ran out the following week and I
had enough leave to burn out the rest of my
enlistment. My shipboard days were done. This
would be the last time Jay and I would be making
the LA run together. I rubbed the bump already
growing on the top of my head.
"Stop at a liquor store before you get on the
highway so we can score some beer for our long
journey. I think we'll need some with all this speed
in the car. We might wind up with a bit of the
proverbial cottonmouth."
Jay pulled over at a package store and I ran
in. Throwing two twelve packs of Holland's finest
and a couple of packs of Swisher Sweet cigars onto
the counter, I perused the stack of skin magazines,
always looking for lesbians pictorials, while I
waited for the clerk to ring out the customer ahead
of me.
"Would you like to share that beer with me?
We could have a party, you and me." I looked up to
see a black wino leering at me. He had a big booger
hanging out of his nose and bleeding chapped lips
that he was smacking at me. Bathing also didn't
appear to be a high priority on his list. "I'll blow
you for a beer," he whispered. The dirty old
degenerate looked eerily familiar.
Just in case in might need it, I reached into
my back pocket and felt for my folding Buck knife
which was standard issue for sailors in those days.
"Get the fuck out of here you old rummy,"
hollered the clerk who was obviously retired Navy
by the faded tattoos on his forearms. "Fucking class
of people we get around here these days," he
muttered as he shoved two jugs of Thunderbird into
a paper bag and handed them to the drunk. "Now
get the hell out of here you smelly old bastard."
The wino followed me out the door staying
about five feet back. I turned around and faced him.
"What in the hell is your problem, asshole?"
He had an evil grin on his face. "I know you.
You was in my last company. Your ass is in hot
water, boy. Hot motherfucking water! I've had
people who came to talk to me about you. Bad
motherfuckers, too. Been looking for your ass.
Gonna put a cap in your ass someday, that's for
motherfucking sure."
"What the hell are you talking about? What
company? What bad motherfuckers?" Who the hell
was this guy? Looked just like another San Diego
alky to me but still eerily familiar.
"Less than a goddamn year and they kick
my ass out. I lose my pension, Everything. Just
cause some boot can't keep his mouth shut. Could
have been you. Maybe you was the one that talked."
I stood there silently looking at the wreck in
front of me. Then it registered! My boot camp
commander. Only four years had passed since I had
seen him. Laying back in his chair with a recruit
named Murphy kneeled in front of him. The passing
of time had not been kind to this wretch. I tossed a
five dollar bill down on the sidewalk and walked
quickly to the car.
"I don't need your charity you prick! Look at
me! This could be you! This may be your future!"
I jumped in the car and threw the beer onto
the floorboard.
Jay looked at me oddly. "What in the hell
was that all about?"
"Did I ever tell you about that time in boot
camp when I saw that recruit blowing the...."
Jay's laugh echoed out the windows as he
headed on to the on ramp.
I turned around in my seat and looked back
at the liquor store. Former Navy Chief Jackson was
standing in the middle of the street. Giving me the
finger. I uneasily settled back into the passenger
seat. What did he mean? Bad motherfuckers? Who
was looking for me? I once more felt the need to
disappear. Disappear into the mist.
I'VE GOT THOSE OLD VOMIT ON THE
SHOES BLUES
nights when I had drank too much and kicked in at
the point when the body's blood sugar is altered and
drops as it is effected by the amount of demon rum
pumping through it's veins, heart, and brain. First
the eyes snap open. Looking at the clock you
realized you've only been asleep a few hours. You
already feel the start of a hangover. Terrible
cottonmouth. The dreaded hot pipes. You need a
drink of water but don't get out of bed. You need to
piss but you don't stir. Your eyes close. You start to
drift off. The snakes and spiders in your brain start
to stir and to move about.
The dream is about Rose. It almost always
is. You now know that Rose is dead. Or worse. A
year or so ago you called a buddy of yours back in
Hawaii. Big time weed dealer on the island. A Navy
guy that got into the business while stationed in
Pearl Harbor and decided to stay after his hitch
ended. He's always full of colorful stories,
information, and gossip. Which is one of the
reasons you call him. That and to check up on the
past.
Janine has found Jesus and changed her
cock chasing ways and is now the secretary to the
Pearl Harbor Chaplain. A huge drunk. The chaplain
not Janine.
Chief Mason dropped dead of a heart attack
at work. "That guy was a prick with ears." Old
news.
Then he tells you that Rose came back to
Hawaii. Somehow she was still in the Navy. Some
big wig admiral on the island liked that pussy so
much that he pulled some strings and got her reassigned
to his staff. Then one day she disappeared.
The kind of disappeared that involves being ground
up and fed to the sharks or buried in a shallow
grave. The rumor going around is the old Admiral
flipped out and beat poor Rose to death over some
weird sex thing gone wrong. Supposedly a couple
of enlisted pukes took care of the dirty work for the
feeble prick.
In the dream, which is always the same, you
walk into Rose's apartment. You call out her name.
Your looking for Reggie but will fuck Rose if she's
willing. The place is dark, disheveled, and smells of
death. When you call out her name, she answers
from the bedroom. The bedroom is even darker than
the living room, lit only by a candle. A black
candle. Rose is sitting on the bed. Naked. Her body
is emaciated. Her face is battered and covered in
dried blood. Her eyeballs have eight ball
hemorrhages. She looks at you as she plays with
herself and beckons you to come to her with her
free hand. When she smiles at you, you can see that
her teeth are rotted and stained like she's been
chewing betel nut. Like an old Viet Namese whore.
Sometimes you wake up screaming.
Not this time. A loud clicking noise wakes
me. It's my answering machine shutting down after
taking a message. I had turned down both machine's
volume and the telephone's ringer. Even though I
had been a full time, dues paying member of the
longshoreman's union for almost three years I was
still considered a rookie. So if a ship came in
unexpectedly on a weekend - this was a Saturday
morning - I was often called in for the unloading,
hence the answering machine which I fucking
hated.
The sun was coming through the only
window of my shitty studio apartment - one room
that holds a bed, ratty couch from the Salvation
Army, small stove and refrigerator, television, and a
tiny bathroom off to the side. My hangover appears
to be bad but not crippling and I painfully roll over
and discover that I still have company from last
night. A cute, chubby Mexican gal named Felicia, a
waitress from the bar that is just across the street
from my apartment. One of those bars that is so
ancient and so nasty that it doesn't even have a
name any longer.
For some reason it used to be called "The Gong" but now is just referred to as "The Place." She's laying on her back and has her
mouth wide open as she snores softly. The sheet is
pulled down just below her belly button, exposing a
beautiful pair of jugs. This is her third or fourth
time at my place. She's in the country illegally,
speaks very little English, and sends home money
faithfully every month to her husband and two
children who live back somewhere deep in the
interior of old Mexico. I recall drinking shots of
tequila chased by iced down bottles of Pabst Blue
Ribbon - a nasty combination - with Felicia and the
bar's cadaverous-looking owner, Rocky. Rocky had
been an old time pornographer back in the fifties
and had actually served time in San Quentin for
producing and distributing a film of two women
getting it on with a large pig.
I gently run my hands across Felicia's breast
and then down to her bush. She is truly a beauty and
I sincerely wish that she wasn't married. She sighs,
mumbles something in Spanish that sounds like
"knock it off, fuckstick" and rolls over on to her
side and resumes her snoring. I roll over back to my
side of the bed and sit up with my feet on the floor.
The alarm clock tells me that it's ten o'clock. By
union rules I have two hours to respond to their call.
I grab my pack of Camels and light one up with my
battered Zippo. I sit and stare at the lighter for
several seconds. It has my old Navy ship, the USS
Dixie, inscribed on it, the only keepsake I have
from my days in the military except for my
honorable discharge certificate. Standing up I
shuffle over to the small refrigerator and get out a
can of beer. Testing the waters I gently sip it. Tasty.
The old hair of the dog. It seems like everything is
going to be all right.
I think I'll call the dock office and take a sick day. They won't be able to say much since this will be my first and then I'll take Felicia out for brunch and then maybe we'll got to the
beach later. She loves the beach. I take my cigarette
and beer and sit down on the couch and pull out the
answering machine from under the couch. One call
is waiting to be listened to. I turn the volume up
slightly and hit play:
There's a pause then a coughing jag. I about
shit the couch when I hear the voice.
"Hey, asshole. Long time no see. I just wanted to let you know that
I got some bad news yesterday. My old man got
shanked up at Stillwater. The poor old fucker died
in the prison infirmary before they could an
ambulance out to the prison. Bad fucking way to go.
Seventy some years old and a nigger runs a
sharpened up piece of plastic through you. Shit!
Anyway, that means all bets are off. I know that my
old man and yours used to be tight but as you can
see, those days are fucking over. So I hired a private
detective to look you up. Didn't take too fucking
long since you left quite a trail. Plus, we have a
mutual acquaintance. A little birdy in Leavenworth
prison. He got hold of me and said you he had some
information about you. That made things a lot easier
for the dick I hired. So anyway. Here's the deal you
miserable little prick. You got two weeks to come
see me. If you're one goddamn second late I'm
going out to your dad's house and break both his
fucking legs and burn his house down with him in
it." There was some wheezing laughter. "Just like
what happened to your buddy. Mike was his name
wasn't it? And I've got another nice little tidbit for
you. I just discovered that you have an older brother
who's married and has two beautiful children. I
never knew that before. They live down in Florida.
Pensacola I believe. Very successful couple. Pity
for anything to happen to them because you're such
a fuckup. You can leave a message for me at the
Aragon Bar. Have a nice day."
I almost jumped out of my skin when the
hands touched my back. I whirled around to find
Felicia standing, still naked behind me. She looked
at me quizzically.
"Problem?"
"Yes, baby. Big fucking problem."
I leaned over and put my head in my hands.
It was time to pay up. I looked back up a Felicia
who was looking at me with genuine concern in her
eyes. I wished to God I could just crawl into bed
with her and never have to go anywhere again.
"I have to go home for a while. But on
Monday I need you to go to the bank with me. I
have a safety deposit box there. I'm going to put
your name on the access list so that you can get a
key to it."
To be continued....
