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Chapter Three

 

Kissing Cousin

 

 

 

When we arrived at Alameda Naval Air Station, we quickly exited the C-54, following the other passengers down the stairway, across the tarmac, toward the flight office, and then detouring sharply to avoid a challenge.  Bernie, who had suddenly regained his wits, was steering me this way and that way toward the main gate.  I was fearful that we would be caught now.  Stopping at a pay phone near the gate, he reached in his jersey pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, dropped in a quarter, and dialed a number.  While listening to Bernie’s call, I felt trapped in his scheme.  My fate was in his hands. 

“Uncle Dominick,” he began in a trembling voice, “this is Bernie…Yes Bernard—Constance’s kid.  Remember me?… You don’t?  Well, I’m your brother Armand’s son.  You remember him, don’t you?… You do?  Good!  How are you sir?  I’m in the navy now…Yeah, like my dad.  I know, you were on an aircraft carrier like him.  How’s my dad?  Oh, he’s been dead a long time sir.”  “Uncle Dominick,” he said with bated breath, “I thought I might pay you a visit…. Yeah, I’m here at the base… Oh, Is this a bad time?”…. You’re daughters are having a slumber party with their friends? …. That’s all right sir—we’ll stay on the base.  I’m sure they’ll put us up…. Really, your wife says it’s okay.  That’s very kind of her, Uncle Dominick…. Thank you so much… We’ll be outside the main gate of Alameda Naval Air Station.”

After he hung up, I followed him to the guard shack now, my heart hammering, in a cold sweat, my fear offset by what I just heard.  My mind reeled with possibilities I dare not vocalize.  Dominick’s daughters were having a slumber party!  Though inexperienced in such matters, naughty images flashed into my head.

“We meet our contact tomorrow morning,” he said, as we approached the guard.  “Smile.  Raise your ID card.  Keep your duffle bag on your other shoulder.  He’ll see our airman apprentice stripes and let us pass.”   

 “What if he checks our badges,” my voice quivered, “and compares them with our stripes.  We’ll be screwed Bernie.  Tomorrow, we still have to go back in.”

 The same Bernie who had turned green in the plane acted fearless now.  “Going in is a cinch,” he promised. “In the morning when there’s a lot of traffic, they’ll barely notice with all the sailors returning to base.  That Marine guard looks bored.  Act natural, Noel.  You have a guilty look on your face.”

            I whistled and looked straight ahead.  Bernie mumbled, “Have a good evening!” to the guard as we walked passed.  I was certain, he would shout, “Halt!” but he remained silent.  I held my breath until we were at the bus stop in front of the main gate.  Recalling his behavior earlier and then his conduct on the plane, I studied Bernie in the lamplight.  I didn’t know what to make of this guy.  He appeared at first to be an overly sensitive youth.  What happened on the C-54 indicated to me that he had a delicate nature.  And yet just now, as we skirted the prospects of being arrested and court-martialed for impersonating an airman apprentice, he appeared to have ice water in his veins. 

            “All right Bernie,” I admitted, looking back at the gate. “That was impressive.  We were lucky this time.   I hope we don’t have to do that again!”

            Bernie quoted something he must have read (“A hero dies but one death. A coward dies ten thousand times”).  What rubbish!  I thought, shaking my head.  Bursting into laughter, I stifled an urge to argue this point.  Was he brave or just plain nuts?  I wondered as we waited for his uncle.  I must admit that signing us up for an illegal flight and sneaking us out of a naval base took guts, but this sort of courage wouldn’t be admired by military authorities, certainly not that Marine guard. 

 

******

            At this point, Bernie broke into nervous babble.  I had noticed this trait in him at Los Alamitos.  I hated small talk.  I was tired, hungry, and out-of-sorts.  Though we wore our woolen dress blues, there was a chill in the air.  Because we were so close to San Francisco, a fog was rolling in.  After waiting over an hour, I might have taken this as an evil omen.  But then suddenly a rundown 1950 Chevrolet pickup pulled up to the curb.  Hearing the blast of its horn, we ran toward the vehicle, tossed our duffle bags in back and climbed in.  When Bernie motioned for me to get in first, I shook my head.  He cursed me under his breath, growled something unintelligible and slid in.  When we were inside the cab I asked him in a whisper why he had made such a fuss.  He whispered back, “I wanted the window seat.”  “A window seat didn’t help you on the plane!” I murmured.  It struck me that moment that he might be susceptible to carsickness too.  I introduced myself to his uncle that moment.  In front of Bernie’s nose, he shook my hand vigorously, introducing himself as Dominick Enriquez and then broke into friendly chatter.  Unlike Bernie and his mother, his accent was quite thick.  I barely understood what he was saying, and yet pretended that I did.  One thing I did understand after we pulled up to his house and Bernie clamored ahead of us, dragging his duffle bag and mumbling incoherently again under his breath, struck me as ominous

“Bernie is loco,” he muttered discreetly. “He get you in big trouble!” 

            “What?” I gasped. “Bernie’s loco?  I know what that means.  Are you serious, Dominick?”

            “Silencio!” He nodded, holding a finger up to his lips.

            “Oh-my-gawd!” I groaned.

            I hoped that Uncle Dominick was trying to be funny.  Otherwise, considering his warning and Bernie’s previous behavior, I was being guided by a lunatic.  As we followed Bernie into the living room, I heard Spanish being spoken somewhere in the house.  Dominick called something out in Spanish in response.  It occurred to me that Mister and Misses Enriquez might not be happy about us barging in.  Abruptly, to confuse matters, the small room was filled with giggling girls in pajamas.  A corpulent, bespeckled Mexican woman appeared that moment, apparently scolding her husband for bringing these strange young men into her house.  Bernie spoke to her in Spanish, she nodded reluctantly, and walked over to whisper into Dominick’s ear.   In broken English again after she stormed away, Dominick explained that he would get the sleeping bags from the garage.  His wife would make them sandwiches if they were hungry and they could sleep on the living room floor.  I was embarrassed for such an imposition, but Bernie was perfectly calm after this cold reception. 

When I asked him to introduce me to his cousins, he merely snarled.  One dark haired girl with a becoming spatter of freckles on her cheeks, reached out her delicate hand and, in perfect English, introduced herself, her two sisters, and her three friends: “I’m Concepcion, this is Maria, Blanca, Rosemary, Monica, and Eileen.” 

            “My name’s Noel Bridger.” I bowed politely. “Pleased to meet you!”

            All five girls were attractive, a mixture of brunettes and blonds, but I was immediately taken with Concepcion.  She seemed to have a mischievous gleam in her brown eyes.  For that matter so did the other girls.  That moment, with grand delusions swimming in my head, I hoped that Bernie was a sound sleeper. 

            I tried to make small talk—something I wasn’t good at.  “So you’re having a pajama party, eh.  My little sister’s a Girl Scout.  She’s having a sort of slumber party, too.  My Mom’s Girl Scout troop is camping in our backyard.”

            “Noel, get in here!” Bernie called from the hall.

            “He’s cute!” Concepcion exclaimed to the others.

            As I followed Bernie into the kitchen, he growled, “You keep your hands off them girls!”

            Looking down at this baby-faced kid, I snickered. “Bernie,” I whispered, “don’t threaten me.  I’m a guest; she was just being friendly.”

            “I don’t care.” He puckered his lips. “I know what’s on your mind.  She’s highly impressionable.  You’re hoping she sneaks into your sack!”

            “Hey, I doan got all night.” His aunt grumbled.

            Quickly, she slapped mayonnaise on four slices of bread, tossed in meat, greens, and yellow peppers, slammed them onto two saucers, hastily poured us two glasses of milk, and stood there a moment, until we sat down.

            “Tienes un montón de nervios!” She wrung her finger at Bernie.

            Bernie sighed but said nothing.  Though she had scolded him, not me, I apologized for both of us. “I’m sorry we’re such a bother.  We should’ve stayed on the base.”

            Flashing Bernie a disgusted look, she exited the kitchen.  Turning to Bernie as he began wolfing down his sandwich, I found his indifferent attitude unsettling. 

            “I’m curious,” I said, as he made short order of his meal. “What did she say to you?  Your aunt was pretty steamed.”

            “She said I had a lot of nerve.” Bernie grinned, a milk moustache on his upper lip.

            “That ain’t no lie,” I drawled. “You’ve got ice water in your veins!”

As if he took that as a compliment, Bernie nodded thoughtfully.  After chugalugging the remainder of his milk, he waited impatiently for me to finish my sandwich and milk.  Because I was a bit upset with him myself, I took my time.  During our meal, Uncle Dominick had brought two sleeping bags into the living room, and promptly gone to bed.  When we left the kitchen, he, his wife, and the girls were nowhere in sight.  Despite my misgivings about our adventure and the cold reception we got from his aunt and uncle, I was warmed by thoughts of Concepcion, a freckle-faced Latin beauty, who titillated my adolescent mind.

Climbing into the sleeping bag in my skivvies (navy jargon for underwear), I tried my best to ignore Bernie.  A night-light burned on the adjacent wall.  I prayed that the day’s ordeal had worn him out and he would soon be asleep.  Listening to the giggling of the girls in a distant room, I imagined I heard the patter of bare feet in the hall.  At first Bernie had moved his sleeping bag to the sofa, leaving me alone on the hardwood floor.  Because this was typical of his mannerisms, I wasn’t surprised or dismayed.  I didn’t want to lie next to him.  I just wanted him to fall asleep.  A snore from his corner of the room would have been a pleasing sound.  Bernie then left the room momentarily; I assumed it was to use the restroom.  Strangely enough, however, when he reentered the room, he had splashed an overpowering scent on himself, probably his uncle’s cologne.  Suddenly, the living room smelled like Old Spice, obliterating entirely the faint perfume I detected on Concepcion.  Gone also was my hope for a late night encounter with her.  My first thought when Bernie snapped on a lamp, was that he was afraid of the dark, an action that further damaged the ambience of the room.  Did he suspect my motives? I wondered, as he prepared his nest.  Before I realized what he was doing, he removed the cushions, yanked on the mattress below, and out sprang a fold-a-way bed.  Placing the sleeping bag on the mattress, he giggled with satisfaction, and then reached over to snap off the lamp.  A faint, eerie light played on his features.  Two points of light glowed in his shadowy face.    

            “That floor is hard, Noel,” he beckoned. “Come on, I won’t bite!”

I was wrong; Bernie wasn’t afraid of the dark.  A terrible dread gripped me.  Though I didn’t know the correct terminology for my feelings back then and I relate this in retrospect now, I wanted to jump up, pull on my clothes, and flee the house.  In the darkness, as he lie there staring down at me, he reminded me of a predator.  Though I was quite capable of defending myself against this puny fellow, I felt like his prey.  Several moments passed, as I planned my next moves: getting dressed and, with my duffle bag slung over my shoulder, hitching a ride on the highway heading south.  What stopped me cold, as I began fumbling around for my trousers, was a sound breaking the silence.

As I had prayed for, Bernie had fallen asleep and was snoring peacefully on his side of the room.  I could still hear the girls giggling in the house, but I was happy just to get a good night’s sleep.  Perhaps, I was wrong about Bernie.  Nevertheless his actions, as innocent as they might have been, gave me the creeps.  Like Bernie, I was worn out after today.  The smell of his Old Spice and snoring and the hardwood floor couldn’t keep me awake that night as I tumbled into slumber.  Later, however, as Bernie slept in comfort, I dreamed we were caught sneaking back onto the base, roughed up by a pair of burly Marines, and thrown into the brig.  In our cell, Bernie blamed me for us getting caught.  In fact, he blamed me for everything.  I had a guilty look on my face, he claimed.  From the beginning, I continued to question his judgment.  Because of me, we would be drummed out of the service—all because of my lack of faith.  Naturally, I flew into the rage in my nightmare, calling him all sorts of names—curse words I learned from my dad.

 

*****

I remember awakening from my nightmare, sweating and staring wildly around the room.  For a terrifying moment, I didn’t know where I was.  Everything came back slowly.  My first impressions were the hardwood floor, pungent odor Old Spice, and pig-like snort of Bernie across the room.  Before this interlude, I recalled the hectic day at Los Alamitos, ordeal on the plane, and my fear when we left the base.  As I lay there in my sleeping bag trying to fall back asleep, a face loomed overhead: Concepcion.  Bending down quickly, she kissed me on the mouth, and then scurried back into the hall.  I heard giggling from her sisters and friends, who had probably dared her to kiss the young man on the floor.  A faint smell of musk perfume lingered in the living room.  In my immature, adolescent mind I felt great excitement.  Under the circumstances, I couldn’t follow this up.  What delighted me the most about her daring-do was that it happened under Bernie’s nose.  Had he been awake he would have had a fit.  I wouldn’t tell him about the encounter, but I planned on telling my friends back home.  Of course, I would embellish it somewhat; that seemed understandable.  I wondered, as I drifted back into slumber, what would have happened if Bernie hadn’t been in the room.

When I awakened a second time, I was staring this time up at Bernie’s face.  “Oh my gawd!” I groaned.  He was fully dressed, his hand resting on his duffle bag.  I could hear giggling again somewhere in the house.

“Up and Adam!” He chimed. “Uncle Dominick’s driving us to the base.  He’s in a bad mood.  So hurry it up.  There’s no time to waste!”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I grumbled. “I need coffee.  I gotta pee!”

Fearful that the girls might see me in my skivvies, I pulled my trousers on quickly, pulled on my jersey, and sat down at my leisure to put on my socks and shoes.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” I grumbled.

“Here,” he snickered, “you forgot your hat.”

Patting my sailor’s hat onto my head, he hefted his duffle bag as if we might go straight out the door. 

Remembering more of my dad’s swear words, I growled, “You asswipe!  You self-centered bastard!  You’ll wait till I take a leak.  So help me, Bernie, I’ll walk out the door, hitch hike home, and report you to naval command!”

Bernie was taken back a moment.  I didn’t know anything about naval command, but it sounded good.  While he stood there with his duffle bag on his shoulder, I hurried down the hall, looking for a bathroom.  Luckily no one occupied it at the moment.  I did my business and stared in the mirror on the medicine chest.  I needed a shower.  There were rings under my eyes and bristles on my cheeks and chin.  As I exited the bathroom, I met Concepcion still in her pajamas, grabbed her in my arms, and kissed her passionately on her lips.  It was the boldest thing I had ever done.  Her small, firm little breasts pressed against my chest.  She was panting.  Her eyes were wide with surprise.  Shocked at what I had done, I immediately apologized.  Just that moment, Bernie looked in on us, an accusing look on his face, but Concepcion smiled sweetly, gave me another kiss before prancing back down the hall.

“You-you, kissed my cousin,” he sputtered. “I caught you red-handed!”

 “No, Bernie.” I thought quickly. “You saw her kiss me, and that’s not my fault.  Get over it!”  

“Bernie,” Uncle Dominick called from the kitchen, “let’s go!”

As we entered the kitchen, Dominick held open the door leading into the garage.  His wife was fixing breakfast for her family and her daughters’ friends. A large table was set with many plates and glasses and, torturing my senses, the smell of bacon, eggs, and toast wafted in the air.  Thanks to Bernie we weren’t going to be fed.  After tossing our duffle bags into the back of the pickup, Bernie stood there waiting for me to climb in.  I didn’t have the energy this time to argue with him, so I scooted in.  As I sat next to his uncle, I watched Dominick wolf down a bacon and egg sandwich, as a steaming cup of coffee sat in the cup holder.  Mentally, I compared Bernie’s sweet mother and friendly cousins to the rest of his family.  They were best of the lot.  I couldn’t imagine Misses Suarez being so rude.  In spite of the rumbling of my stomach and ringing head, I had one thing now that Bernie didn’t have: a kiss from Concepcion’s lips.

 

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