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Writer’s Den
Chapter Eight
The evening finally came. Once again, after saying a hasty prayer, I led Bernie out of the
gate without incident. This time I
noticed the destination sign on front of the bus. Appropriately enough, next to the route number, the sign read
‘Honolulu Express.’ It was apparently a regular night service for military
personnel. More importantly,
considering my limited funds, I discovered that it was free. As usual, I chatted with the other sailors
on the bus, while Bernie sat in glum silence, contemplating the adventure
ahead. As I looked out the window, the
sun was setting over palms and countless other species of native trees. The shadowy outlines of settlements leading
up to the city of Honolulu, were reminiscent of Ewa, until city lights broke
through the forest and a grand entrance greeted my eyes. Suddenly, we were traveling down the main
street; a point I hoped would be the highlight of our trip. So far, we had flown in planes, eaten navy
chow, and seen a movie at the base theatre—nothing to boast about yet. Now, I could also tell my friends that I had
visited Honolulu—Hawaii’s exotic capital.
As we exited the bus terminal where the Honolulu
express could pick us up every two hours until 2 am, we found ourselves in a
group of like-minded sailors and a trio of Marines. The Marines appeared to be embarrassed in the presence of rowdy
sailors. Bernie clung to me like a
frightened child, as I gazed in wonder at the restaurants and nightclubs strewn
down the strip. Unlike Hollywood, which
my family visited when I was young, there was little order or symmetry to this
town, and yet it didn’t fit the images I saw in movies. There were, I recall now, no call girls
hanging out of windows or parading up and down the street as in other cities of
the world. Though I had not personally
seen such phenomena yet, Chief Crump had given us lurid accounts of his rowdy
days, and I half-expected to see such sights.
Up and down the strip on both sides of the street there was, I was
certain, a constant stream of navy men from Barber’s Point and soldiers, but,
because most of them wore civilian clothes, it was impossible to tell. Intermingled with military personnel, were
probably civilian tourists—more obvious in their Hawaiian shirts and cameras,
and something else, hidden in the shadows, popping out like jack-o-lanterns to
avoid the new laws…. prostitutes.
In class Chief Crump had mentioned a crack down on
the prostitution in Hawaii. “The good
ol’days are vanishing now that it’s a state,” he had told us wistfully. I wondered those moments, as Bernie and I
followed the other men down the boulevard, why I had expected so much. I had no intention of following the example
of many service men. Out of good
conscious, despite his lurid stories, the chief had warned us about venereal
disease and the dangers of being mugged.
An old trick of hookers, he explained, was to lure sailors or soldiers
to alleys or other shadowy haunts so that their pimps can rob them after
knocking them over the head. We
continued following the group that had exited the Honolulu express. At one point, the leader of our group, a
loud-mouthed named Buck, turned sharply right.
I could scarcely believe where he had led us. “This is the place!” he crowed. “Hold onto your dicks!” As we entered the famous bar called ‘Mama
Sally’s,’ I remembered our limited funds.
“We can’t afford this,” I explained to Bernie.
“Let’s check it out, then leave. I’m
not catching the clap or gonorrhea.”
“Ick!” he made a face. “I’m not going in. It’s a bar.
There’s bad people in there. I
wanna go home!”
“Suit yourself,” I followed the last man in. “This
is the place your Uncle Ralph told us about.
Come on, you pussy, be a man!”
I was only teasing, of course, but the insult
worked. Trailing behind me a moment, he
seemed frightened out of his wits.
Looking around I saw service men, a few in uniform, drinking and
socializing with each other with several flashy brunettes and blonds that I
assumed were Mama Sally’s girls. One of
them, a black haired beauty with stunning green eyes, walked up to me and asked
me to buy her a drink. I told her I was
tapped out. She snarled and strutted
away. I could see nothing in Mama
Sally’s that was spectacular. I had
been in restaurants in my hometown fancier than this. Obviously, the lure of this place were its ladies of the night. A second girl, this one a platinum blond
with jet black eyes, brushed my crotch, as I led Bernie out of the crowded
room, whispering something in my ear.
She couldn’t be much more than a teenager. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe a girl would say such a
thing, and yet, as we emerged on the street, there was a grin on my face.
“Well, that was fun,” Bernie said shakily. “Now what
do we do?”
Remembering a place Chief
Crump had praised in class, I exclaimed, “Waikiki!”
“Why-what?” Bernie gave me a stupid look.
“Waikiki,” I repeated, ruffling his hair. “Don’t you
remember anything from our class?”
With the remainder of my money, I’ll buy us a couple
of six packs. Maybe we can find a party
at the beach.”
“Well, all right… I guess so.” He gave me a dubious
look. “But I don’t like beer. Can you
buy something that doesn’t taste like piss?”
In a light-hearted manner, as we waited for a bus, I
chided him again. “You said that before Bernie. Where have you ever tasted piss?
I’m beginning to think you tried it out once. Trust me kimo sabe, beer doesn’t taste like piss. It’s a man’s drink. If you want, I’ll buy you a bottle of wine. I hate wine, so you can have it all to
yourself.”
“Well we have enough money?” he gave me a look of
concern.
“Oh.” I snickered. “Got you hooked, did I? You really like the stuff. First we have to find a liquor store near
the beach, like the one in Ewa. If we
don’t have quite enough, I’ll buy a couple of quarts and you can drink cheap
wine.”
“Cheap wine?” He wrinkled his nose.
“Wine is wine,” I shrugged. “In the words of my
Uncle Roy, ‘After a few gulps, it all tastes the same!’”
******
Night collapsed finally on the strip, but this time
we had a full moon to guide our way. I
was pumped up by my own imagination. When
the bus to Waikiki arrived, even Bernie was excited about the prospects
ahead. Unlike the Honolulu Express,
which was filled with noisy sailors, the Waikiki Express was filled with a more
subdued crowd. There were families with children on board. It appeared by their conversations that they
were heading back to the hotels on the beach.
I don’t know why but this struck me as a good sign for both our
sakes. Because it was, because of its
proximity to the hotels, more of a civilian haunt, it might seem safer to
Bernie. I imagined that we might find a
lot of those ‘nice girls’ Bernie said would be on the island. The police would certainly protect tourists
against rowdy sailors and prostitutes, I reassured him. Surely we wouldn’t hassled by native Hawaiians
like we were last night.
When the bus stopped at what I heard the tourists call Hotel Row,
however, we hadn’t arrived yet at Waikiki Beach. Almost all of the hotel guests disembarked with their souvenirs
and cameras, leaving only a few other passengers on the bus. The glittering row of building, which
included restaurants and nightclubs, slipped away, replaced by a panorama of
palm trees and the moonlit beach.
Because it was so reminiscent of Ewa, Bernie was alarmed. I knew what he was thinking. At the point where we were dropped off—the
Waikiki Express’ last stop, we were greeted by a din of noise greater than even
Mama Sally’s. Loud music—the sound of
Little Richard’s Tutti Frutti, raucous laughter, and squeals of pleasure echoed
in the night. A bonfire glittered in
the near distance, the silhouettes of merrymakers cavorting around the flames.
There were, I could discern, dozens young men (most likely servicemen)
everywhere, along with a smaller number of women, at what was obviously, in
fact, a party, as I had hoped.
Unfortunately, it was far too wild for Bernie’s tastes. I knew he would balk at the notion of
joining this bunch. The other
passengers—very likely servicemen—joined the merrymakers, while Bernie and I
stood there at the bus stop with different emotions about what we saw. Bernie wanted to flee. I was tempted to join in. I noticed, after scanning the horizon on
each side of us, that there were no liquor stores in sight. If, judging by our original goal of buying
some booze, we didn’t join the party, coming to Waikiki was a foolish
move. If, on the other hand, we became
party-crashers, we could still get smashed and I wouldn’t have to pay a red
cent.
Bernie was overwhelmed by this event. Awakening out of his trance, he looked at me
with wide unblinking eyes and gaping mouth then asked in a deadpan voice,
“Where are we Noel? Who are these
people? I thought we were going to buy
beer and wine and get drunk, like before.
Some of these people are half naked.
Those must be prostitutes on the beach!”
Using the most logical tact, in fact the only one
Bernie would understand, I explained to him that there might not be any more
buses back to Barber’s Point. In order
to get back to the bus depot in Honolulu by 2 am where the Hawaiian Express
dropped us off, we might need a ride.
Though it was possible that we might get a ride from one of the
merrymakers, it was also possible that if we returned to the bus stop and
waited long enough we might catch another bus.
We would arrive in plenty of time at the Honolulu depot to catch the
last bus to Barber’s Point. I knew very
well that if we joined the party the 2 am deadline might, in fact, be
impossible to meet. The impression I
left in Bernie’s mind, however, was that we might be stranded here unless we
made friends with some of merrymakers.
I had exaggerated the problem for him, and what we were doing was a
calculated risk. If worse came to
worse, I reasoned, we’d have to sleep on the beach again and catch a morning
bus. But tonight we were going to have
fun!
“You don’t have to join in,” I suggested. “Just grab
a beer once in awhile, and watch the show.”
“But I don’t like beer,” he whined. “You said you’d
buy me wine.”
“Listen, Bernie,” I tried reasoning with him.
“Sailors don’t drink wine, they drink beer.
You drank a beer last night, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I was already drunk,” he said, making a
face. “My taste buds were numb.”
“All right,” I was losing patience, “I learned
something in science class. Smell
dictates what you taste, so hold you nose while drinking.”
“Well that really work?” He wrinkled his nose.
“It has to.” I frowned irritably. “We’re stuck here,
Bernie! You wanna walk back to
town?” That was, of course, a great
exaggeration. More thoughtfully, I
added, as he dragged his feet, “I remember something I heard on television:
‘When in Rome do as the Romans do!’”
“What’s Rome got to do with it?” he muttered, as I prodded him on.
“What if they consider us outsiders?”
“Remember what I said,” I gave him a shove, “Talk the
talk and walk the walk… Now move it!”
As we moved through the bodies of sailors and women,
I realized that most of these people were too far-gone to challenge us or even
ask our names. Bernie saw this too,
giggling hysterically when a dark haired woman, probably twice his age, grabbed
his hand and tried forcing him to dance.
“Oh no-o-o-o-o!” he squealed.
“Whatsamattah?” she asked in a slurred voice. “You
queer, boy?”
While he cowered behind me, I was swept with
embarrassment. My only recourse was to
set an example for him and get smashed as soon as possible. Immediately now, as he followed close
behind, whimpering under his breath, I searched for a cooler containing
beer. Several men tried engaging us in
drunken conversation. I translated
their slurred voices as “What ship you on, men?,” “You come from Pearl or
Barber’s Point?,” and to Bernie, “What’s wrong with you boy, you afraid of
girls?” I mumbled incoherently and
nodded my head, but Bernie exclaimed foolishly, “We’re going to meet our
squadron on the Hornet. I like nice
girls!”
I had been worried that Bernie might spout
controversies. At times he had no
control over his vocal chords, blurting exactly what was on his mind. “Are you completely nuts?” I snapped,
fishing into a cooler for a beer. “Here,” I said shoving him a can, “do as I
told you.” “When you’re done with that one, drink this one.” I handed him
another. “You dumb shit. Keep your
mouth shut!”
With one can stuck in my pants and a second can
stuck in Bernie’s, we snuck away with our beers to a spot several yards away
from the group and glow of the fire. At
this point, as Ritchie Valens’ La Bamba, blared from the radio, I saw a dozen
or more couples swaying or staggering to the music. Many of them were so inebriated they could barely stand up. In various spots, lying where they fell, a
few sailors appeared to be unconscious.
I had spotted three attractive females near the cooler, as I grabbed our
beer—a blond, redhead, and brunette, all drunk, but I was fearful of the kinds
of women they might be. Flashing into
my mind were two sources of information: my eighth grade sex education class,
which showed the dangers of venereal disease, and Chief Crump, who echoed the
same warning in his discussion of unprotected sex. Plopping down awkwardly, with this thought in mind, I motioned
for Bernie to do the same. Reluctantly
he sat down Indian fashion, with a beer in each hand. All my visions of meeting girls in Hawaii were based upon a
storybook understanding of dating. Here
I was surrounded by girls—put to the test, and I was no braver than
Bernie. The difference was that I
wanted to plunge ahead, and Bernie didn’t.
As I guzzled down my beer, I glanced at Bernie to check his
progress. For a moment, he looked at
the frosty can as if it was medicine, then, holding his nose, and tilting his
head back, he upended his first can in an effort to take his first
swallow. When it spilled down his chin
and dribbled down his neck, I broke into laughter.
“Oh, that’s the funniest thing I ever saw,” I
giggled, slapping my knee. “You dumb shit.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t
serious. That only works for
food—broccoli and spinach, not drinks.” “Come on Bernie,” I egged him on, “show
some balls. Up and in—you’re a sailor
now!”
Bravely, Bernie up ended the can again, took a long
swig, made a face, and then, after more coaxing and second gulp, as it took
effect, I witnessed a boyish grin spreading across his face. Once again, I had won! Chattering about different topics—the
bonfire, the lovely beach, and the music blaring at the party, Bernie managed
to finish his first can and almost finish his second, before two hour-glass
figure sashayed our way. Between the
moonlight and firelight, I could discern the faces and adolescent figures of
two native Hawaiian girls. They looked
so much alike they could have been twins.
Suddenly, the V.D. film and instructor’s warnings were mentally
discarded, as they approached. Even
Bernie seemed taken at first, as they sat down—one on each side of us and,
after quick introductions, the girl next to me came right to the point.
“My name
Sophie, she be Lucy,” she chimed softly. “You boys want good time?”
“Sure,” I
said, jumping up, “I’ll get us some more beers.”
Leaving Bernie alone with the two girls was a
mistake. Hurriedly, I fished out
several cans. Using my shirt as an
apron, I carried my stash to our ‘nest,’ giggling madly. As I handed a can to each member of the
group, I noticed a sheepish look on Bernie’s face. Both girls were staring at him as if he was a vile thing.
“What’s wrong?” I looked down at the girls. When they pointed silently at Bernie, I
asked him bluntly, “What did you say to them?
Did you insult our friends?”
“I told them that we only had nine dollars.” He
shrugged indifferently. “Surely they’ll want to be paid?”
I was momentarily speechless. Sophie jumped up and cried, “You think all
Hawaiian girls whores? You dumb haoles
all the same!”
“Yes.” Lucy was suddenly on her feet. “Sailors
pigs. You think you get us drunk and
get into our pants!”
Several merrymakers looked over at us. I was furious at Bernie’s rudeness. Looking around self-consciously, I was also
worried about the reaction I saw in many of the men and their dates. Whether or not they were prostitutes or not,
Sophie and Lucy displayed indignation, storming back toward the bonfire to
tattle on us and, I was afraid, get us ejected from the group. What actually happened, however, was muted
by a commotion on the road.
“Shore patrol!
Shore patrol!” a sailor bellowed.
“Get up Bernie!” I screamed. “We got more to lose
than them. We’ll go to jail if we’re
caught!”
As everyone ran in different directions—some up the
beach, some down the beach, and several men running drunkenly into to arms of
the SP’s, I led Bernie in the direction of those running south toward Diamond
Head. I saw one frightened youth point
to this distant landmark, which I had heard about in class. I was surprised that the shore patrol didn’t
follow us. As one seasoned sailor
explained, though, the SP paddy wagons had only so much room. Introducing himself simply as Harry, as we
paused momentarily for a breather, he told us that it was against the law for
servicemen to drink alcohol on Waikiki beach, and yet the rule was enforced
only when complaints were made. There
was no active patrol this far south.
Except for Hotel Row further up the road, there were few houses on the
peninsula, so it must have been hotel guests making the complaints. I was surprised that the music had been
heard that far away, but Harry explained that there were no natural barriers to
block sound, so the music was carried in the wind. “The party was certainly loud enough for that!” He laughed,
slapping his knee. After drinking his
share of beer, I was impressed with his wit.
After a short while, when everyone was certain we weren’t being
followed, our group had slowed to a walk.
I noticed at that point that there were no women in our group. Though prostitution was illegal in Hawaii as
in any other state, Harry explained, the shore patrol didn’t arrest
civilians. While Bernie dropped his can
on the spot, I managed, even in my haste to hold onto two of the beers, one of
which I handed to him as we strolled down the beach.
“What’s that?” He pointed at the great looming rock.
“Diamond Head,” I announced, raising my can in
salute.
With moonlight shining on its ragged surface, it
reminded me of Point Dume at Zuma Beach, with the exception that it was much
bigger. Quite by accident we had
stumbled upon one of Hawaii’s most iconic landmarks. In my current state of mind, this realization faded in
importance, as I contemplated getting Bernie and I back to the base. Now that it appeared that we were safe to
return, Harry, the most sober of the group, called out in military style,
“About face!” and, pivoting 180 degrees, the group began trotting back to the
bonfire. Soon we could see its distant
flames. The shore patrol had left the
fire burning. As we came closer and
closer, it was obvious that the females had vanished. The question on the sailors’ lips was, ‘had the beer vanished
too?’
“I wonder when the next bus comes?” I muttered
aloud.
“Ain’t no more this late.” Harry responded. “Most of
us got wheels. The Waikiki bus had its
last run. You can walk up to Hotel
Row. That bus runs all night.”
I was glad this sailor was sober. I made a mental note for Bernie and I to
hitch a ride with him, if we didn’t hike down to the hotel bus. I would soon discover that my observation
was premature. When we reached the
bonfire, we could see the coolers, one on each side of the ring, open, a
disappointing sign as we approached.
“Those sons of bitches,” Harry swore, “I bet them
SP’s took’em. Damn hypocrites!” “Hold
on,” he added looking down into one of the coolers, “there’s plenty left.”
“Looky here,” a drunken sailor exclaimed. “Thish one
full too!”
“They must’ve grabbed only a few,” I observed,
grabbing my share. “How much beer did you guys buy?”
“We didn’t buy any.” Bernie muttered stupidly.
“Hey, I got an idea,” Harry cried, “let’s go to my
place. You men gotta keep it down,
though. We’ll play poker and get
shit-faced.”
Shit-faced, I realized, was the navy word for
getting drunk. In a free-for-all
motion, everyone took as many cans as they could carry. Each cooler was carried between a pair of
sailors to automobiles parked by the road.
Caught up in the excitement, I greedily carried my four cans away from
the site, following Harry and his friends.
With a can of beer in each hand Bernie trailed behind me, with wide
unblinking eyes.
“Where we going?” he asked in a breathless
voice.
“You heard the man,” I looked back happily. “We’re
going to Harry’s place.” “Harry,” I called through cupped hands, “can we ride
with you?”
“Sure,” he called back, “climb in back.”
“Oh no,” Bernie groaned, “it’s a pickup truck.”
After climbing into the bed, I reached down to
him. “Here, gimme your hand, Bernie.
You wanna to walk back to base?”
Several other sailors climbed in, until the bed was
packed with bodies. In the front,
beside Harry, three more men were crammed in.
Now, in the twenty-first century, that would be considered a
misdemeanor, but it was probably a common scene in 1960 Hawaii. A civilian patrol car passed us on our way
back to Honolulu. Harry was driving
quite fast too. Behind us was a caravan
of automobiles carrying more drunken sailors. The back window of the pickup was
evidently slid open, for I heard the men inside the cab planning the night
ahead.
“We’ll call Lola and Esther—them two whores we
picked up this evening,” he explained to his friends. “Maybe they can invite
their friends. We don’t want no SP or
police raids, so we’ll keep it business-like.”
“What about your old lady?” asked his friend. “What
if she shows up?”
“Don’t worry,” Harry scoffed. “She ran off last
week. Took the kid too. We got the house to ourselves.”
As I listened, I noted even in the dim light,
Bernie’s reaction. Once again he was
terrified. I was frightened myself,
after hearing what Harry said. I had
heard enough scuttlebutt (a navy word the instructor taught us meaning rumor or
gossip) to know what they were talking about.
Yet, despite my own fears, I couldn’t help being excited. The sound of
cans popping open around us and excited murmurs heightened my excitement. Bernie was whispering something in my ear as
I popped one open and drank heartily from the can.
Bursts of air tickled my ears. “You-you heard him,”
he sputtered, “he’s taking us to another party. I bet those are prostitutes coming. What if the police arrive this time? That’s illegal, Noel.
We’ll go to jail.”
Bernie had sobered up quickly. He was dead right, of course, but I wouldn’t
tell him that. In stead, to dull his
wits, I plied him with beer. I’m not
proud of it, but it worked. In fact, as
he guzzled down another can, he seemed to relax. It seemed that he was acquiring a taste for beer. I had gotten him to like it. Now if I could only get him to like
girls. Not for one minute did I
seriously entertain the notion of paying for sex. I had only nine dollars and I didn’t want V.D.. Bernie, I realized, had deeper reasons for
shying away from girls. Even if the
opportunity availed itself, I knew he would freeze up. As I continued guzzling down suds, these
thoughts and all other intellectual insights became a blur of laughter and
motion. At one point, while Harry was
still speeding down the road, I heard more cans snap open in the cabin, and
Harry demanding in a slurred voice, “Hey, gimme nuther. Thash good shit!” Normally, if I hadn’t been so inebriated,
that would have been alarming. As we
disembarked at Harry’s place, however, Bernie and I were already smashed. I almost broke my neck climbing out of the
bed. The gate of the pickup had to be
opened to fish him and the other men out.
From this point, my memory is filled with noise,
movement, and bright lights. The few
reflections I reconstruct now are possible because of the adrenaline pumping in
my veins. Crowding into Harry’s house
in Honolulu, the sailors waited for the girls to arrive. A few, sober enough to think straight,
played poker at the kitchen table. I
realized, in spite of my condition, that Bernie was right. This could lead to big trouble for two
counterfeit sailors. We were, thanks to
me, trapped. Even this shaky frame of
mind waned, as someone handed me another beer.
My resistance was weak. Bernie
sat on a dirty sofa, staring dully into space.
Someone had handed him a can too.
I don’t remember when he got sick, but there were vomit stains on his
pea coat and shirt. What pushed me over
the edge was the sudden arrival of the girls Harry promised. I forgot what their names were, but I
recognized the green-eyed brunette and platinum blond with jet black eyes from
Mama Sally’s. An illogical temptation
drove me those moments. I didn’t have
enough money, and yet I followed the other sailors down a dingy hall to two
rooms, where the two girls led a line of men through each door. The nasty words the blond had whispered in
my ear at Sally’s flashed into my mind.
I had been scandalized then, but now I pictured her lovely face and
savored her words, as if they came from a long lost love.
Ironically, what snapped me out of my drunken trance
was a natural reaction. Luckily, there
was an unoccupied restroom on my right.
Charging into the room, I bent over and purged. As I clasped the filthy
bowel with unflushed urine in it, I felt a strange peace. In my sodden mind, I knew I had been given a
reprieve. Though I had but nine dollars
for those lowlife women, it might have been enough…. “Thang you gawd!” I drawled.
After staggering back down the hall, bumping into
clients on the way, my instincts gripped me now. I remember a woman entering the house, swearing aloud, and
yelling, “Harry, you bastard. This time
I’m calling the cops!” This caused my
adrenaline to pump even faster. When I found Bernie slumped over on the sofa
sound asleep, I shook him violently, until he was awake, dragged him to his
feet, and pulled him like a zombie out of the door. That hour fortune smiled on us again. As I led Bernie toward a dark side facing the house, I had no
idea where we were going. A voice rang
out that moment, “Are one of you two men, Bernie Suarez?” Bernie was too far gone to respond, but I
turned to the voice, recognizing the angry woman in the house. In the light, she was a slightly overweight
woman, with a mixture of Asian and Hawaiian features, and yet, as I recall, she
spoke in a crinkly, articulate voice, without the hint of an accent.
“He must’ve dropped this.” She held out his wallet.
“Oh thang you ma’am,” I bowed. “Pleeze led us
eshcape before you call poleeze?”
“Don’t worry.” She laughed sourly. “Some of those
men are our neighbors. I don’t want to
get them busted. My daughter and
I have moved on. He pays the rent
now. It’s his house.”
I gave her a quizzical look, tilting my head in the
manner of drunks. Bernie was almost
asleep on his feet. Studying us
intently, as I took the wallet and then tucked it into Bernie’s back pocket,
her face broke into a smile.
“According to this license, he’s eighteen years
old,” she observed dryly. “What’re you two kids doing with that bunch?”
“Uh, we made a mishtake.” I tried explaining, “We
thod id wuz just a pardy. We didn’t
know they’re wuz proshtitutes there.
Bernie doeshn’t know any bedder.
Ids my fauld.”
I was referring to the event at the beach and at
Ewa. She waved her hand impatiently,
though, saying, “I don’t care what Harry does anymore. He’s a degenerate, haole pig” “The question is.” She looked at us with concern.
“How’re you boys getting back to the base?
You’ll get picked up by the shore patrol or police in that condition.”
I looked over at Bernie in his soiled pea coat,
scratched my head, and nodded. “We’re in a piggle.”
“Ho ho,” she shook her head, “I should say so. They’ve been cracking down at Barber’s Point
and Pearl lately. You can’t even take
the bus. You try to get into the gate that
way, and you’ll be on report!”
“We’ll be more than thad,” I muttered to myself.
Moved by our miserable plight, the woman, as the
Marine Lieutenant last night, took pity on us.
Motioning to the automobile parked in the driveway, she said wearily,
“Come on, you two. I’m gotta bail you
out of this. I work in the commissary,
and I have a base sticker. You guys lie
low in back, and I’ll sneak you in.”
I mumbled my thanks over and over again, “Oh thang
you, thang you!” Bernie had to be
guided into the back seat. I pulled his
smelly pea coat off, rolling it up inside out, so he could lie on it instead of
my lap. Had I not been so drunk I might
have been worried about his zombie-like state.
As it turned out, I fell asleep myself, as she drove us back to the
base. When we arrived at the turn-around
loop provided for drop offs, she stopped her car, reached back and shook me
awake, and then, after I drug the drowsy Bernie from the car, disappeared from
my life. I didn’t even ask her name,
but like the Marine, whose name I also failed to ask, she stands out as an
important person in my life. There were
many such persons I can recall…but the Marine lieutenant and Harry’s wife,
brief as the encounters were, were the first, holding special place in my
mind. Had they not arrived, I can’t
imagine what might have happened to us during this freewheeling madcap
time. At least so far in our caper,
Bernie and I had escaped detection, arrest, and incarceration in jail or a
Marine brig. We had no idea just how
much trouble awaited us ahead.