Naples Part I: Transvestites and Revenge

Naples Part I: Transvestites and Revenge


The first thing I noticed from my line handler position as the submarine pulls into Naples is Mt. Vesuvius. I’d read about it in school and watched programs about it on television and now there it was before me. Majestic and serene, the only evidence of its former wrath is the fact that it has no top. There is sky where its cone once was.

Being a line handler on deployment is one of the few good deals awarded to the American submariner. You get some fresh air, great views, and aside from tying off your line once the boat gets to the pier, next to no actual work. I managed to get my position early in the deployment and will freely admit that doing so has been the only thing in the Navy that has excited me.

The second thing I noticed about Naples is how nasty the water in the port area was. A short list of the things that floated by would include: latex gloves, dead rats, condoms, tampons (used and unused) and unidentified general debris. The water is black and it stinks. My goal in this docking was to to keep my line out of that muck so I won’t have to get any on me as I haul in the line.

Hampton, who is on my line team, was also enthralled by the filth before us.

“Is that a fucking dog?” he asked, pointing to a large, furry floater. Hampton spit into the water, and so help me, the spit bounced.

A little way over from us, the Chief of the Boat was screaming into the escape hatch for the flagstaff to be sent up. The COB is the supervisor of topside operations during docking. It’s his job to ensure everything goes smoothly up here, but nothing ever does. This means that we are often treated to these episodes of the COB, little man that he is, running around screaming at everyone and no one at the same time.

The latest target of the COB’s rage was a sonar tech named Sanders. It is Sanders’ job to set up the flagstaff and raise the flag once in port. As per usual, Sanders had missed his call and was fumbling his way up the ladder. Once topside, he immediately lost his balance and droppped the flagstaff over the side. There is a chorus of “dumbass” from everyone topside and the COB launched into full panic mode, screaming for the boat hook as the flagstaff sinks into the black water.

“Go get it, stud,” I said, slapping Hampton on the back. “You keep saying you want to be a diver.”

Hampton took a step back from the edge of the boat. “I’ll dive in,” he said, “if you can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it actually is water.”

The COB was in Sanders’ face, more like his chest. The COB is not a tall man.

“God damn it Sanders, your parents must be fucking morons,” The COB was spitting as he yelled and Sanders was near tears, “because your kind of stupid doesn’t just happen. Your kind of stupid has to be bred.”

The COB saw me laughing at Sanders’ misfortune and redirected some of his rage on me.
“What is so funny, Genesari?”

The correct answer is nothing. Nothing is funny. The correct answer is to lie. Hampton farted. A fish just ate a tampon. Mecklenburg almost busted his ass. Any of these would work. The correct thing to do is let the COB win.

Screw correct. I’m going home in 32 days. I’m too short to care and I’m definitely too short to play these little foo-foo games.

“Well,” I said, “dumb-shit just dropped flagstaff over the side, you got all up in his face with an excellent burn, and just look at him—he’s crying.”

I told him the truth. People with power hate the truth. Even when the truth is innocent, it’s still insubordinate. The truth, no matter what form, does not foster a command supportive environment. Speed, morale, efficiency. These are the enemy. If you aren’t playing the game, you’re screwing up.

“Fine then, smart-ass. You and Sanders are going to be my colors detail for the duration of this port visit. I want the both of you, in dress blues, performing both morning and evening colors. How funny is that?”

“How are we going to have colors without a flagstaff?” Sanders’ honesty proved more effective than my wisecracking. I was just about to ask that.

“Do not ask me stupid questions, asshole.” The truth, in the form of a simple and valid question was making him look like an ass. “Maybe I’ll have you stand where you are and hold the flag over your head from sunup to sundown.”

Jason Pickens, the third man on my line team slid next to me after the COB had left.

“Well, Genocide,” he said, “You’ve proved, yet again, that the prize for bravery is a warm spot under the thumb of the Man.”

“Yeah,” added Hampton, lowly nub that he is, “you got smacked down.”

“Laugh it up, bitches. This is not over. The COB will pay for this foul deed. Mark my words.”

“Is he always such a drama queen?” Hampton asked Pickens.

Before Pickens could answer I made sure that Hampton’s hat ended up in the black water.

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Colors detail would be a total cakewalk if not for having to get all dolled up in my dress blues. Of course it sucks having to get up in time for morning colors and not being able to get too drunk before the evening round, but it isn’t exactly hard work. Raise the flag, salute and wait for the whistle that tells you its over. They could train apes to do that.

I met up with Teddy Thibodeaux and Jimmy Mitchell after evening colors. They were in a bar a few blocks away from the port drinking with Chief Cash. Most chiefs would not be caught dead with a bunch of blue shirts, but Chief Cash was pretty cool. His exact purpose on the boat is a point of confusion. Technically, he is the boat’s 3M Coordinator. The deal is that no one, including Chief Cash, is entirely sure what a 3M Coordinator is or what he’s supposed to do. Each boat is required to have one and he’s our guy. He stands a little watch, but mostly just sits around playing computer games and watching movies. Some say that he also has a booze stash to help pass the boring days. I tend to believe that rumor, unless Chief Cash just happens to have the only kind of mouthwash that smells like sour mash whiskey.

I made my way to the table in the back corner where they were seated. I sat down and the good-natured ribbing began.

“What, Genocide,” Mitchell laughed, “you’re not going to wear your dress blues tonight?”

“Yeah, Steve,” Teddy added, “anymore upside-down flags today?”

“Listen here you godless, commie bastards,” I stood up for dramatic effect. “Men have fought and died for that flag and it is an honor to raise and lower it every day.”

Chief Cash was taken aback. It was this kind of talk that he stopped hanging out with other chiefs to get away from.

“Shit, Genasari,” he said with a concerned look, “I’ve never heard you talk like that. Are you serious?”

“Shit no, Chief,” I sat back down. “Its just a piece of cloth.”

“A piece of cloth you raised upside-down yesterday,” Mitchell kindly noted.

“Hey, if raising a flag upside-down is the worst thing that happens to me over the course of a day, I’d say it was a pretty damned good day,” I said picking up Mitchell’s glass. “What are we drinking, men?” I asked, looking inside the glass.

Mitchell snatched his glass back from my hand.

“Rum and coke,” he said, “but that was just a warm-up. We are about to do some shots.”

“Well then it looks like I’ll be without a ‘warm-up,’ so hopefully I won’t injure myself. It does, though, look like I have some catching up to do so I will get two shots to your one,” I said slapping down a wad of lire on the table, “and this round is on me.”

“You’re speaking my language now, son,” beamed Chief Cash.

We enjoyed a couple of rounds of shots and then went back to the rum and cokes. It's important to pace yourself.

“Tell me, Genocide, how does it feel to be this short? You’re almost home, man.”

Jimmy Mitchell had asked me this question at least once a day since the beginning of the deployment. Everyone wants to know what it feels like to be on the cusp of freedom. Almost everyone takes their turn living vicariously through the next guy out. This time Mitchell didn’t even give me a chance to answer.

“I still have two years left,” he said in the mournful tone often reserved for drunks. “There isn’t even a light at the end of my tunnel.”

“I know what you mean, J. Mitch,” said Teddy in a consoling voice. “This Navy thing blows.”

Teddy had no room to talk. Not only had Teddy already reenlisted, but he did it between the boat’s propulsion engines with the boat at top speed. It was the most disgusting display of go-Navy foolery I had ever witnessed. If he weren’t so damned amusing and prone to fits of buying everyone drinks, I doubt I would spend much time around him.

“You babies don’t have anything to bitch about,” proclaimed Chief Cash. He may be a lifer, but the man has no love for the Navy. “I’ve had to put up with this shit for nineteen years.”

“No offense, Chief,” said Mitchell with a half-laugh, “but that just makes you an idiot for sticking around.”

“Thanks for reminding me wise-ass. I’ve been telling myself that I’ve been doing it for the pension, but truth be told I’d rather suck buffalo dick at a nickel a herd than spend another day in this canoe club.” Chief Cash had a way of speaking that left no areas gray.

“Well, Chief, you can have your buffalo dick,” Teddy said as he stood up. “I think I can ride my time out just fine. Now if y’all will excuse me for a moment, nature calls.”

While Teddy made his way to the restroom Mitchell started scoping out the women in the bar.

“I’ve got to hand it to the Italians,” he said as he scanned the barroom, “they have some beautiful ladies.”

Chief Cash chuckled and drank down Teddy’s rum and coke.

“Hold your horses, Mitchell. Most of them in this part of town aren’t exactly ladies, if you catch my drift.”

“So they’re kind of slutty, huh?” Mitchell was catching no drifts. “That’s cool. Less work for me.”

Chief Cash rolled his eyes and put Teddy’s glass back just where Teddy had left it.

“No, jackass. I mean that a lot of them around here are dudes.”

Mitchell looked at Chief Cash, looked to the bar, then looked back to the chief and cocked his head to the side like a confused dog.

“No shit?” he said.

“No shit,” replied Chief Cash matter-of-factly.

“What about that one there?” Mitchell was pointing at what appeared to be a very attractive woman in a tight, blue dress.

Chief Cash barely gave a glance to the bar before delivering his judgment.

“It’s a dude.”

“How can you tell?” asked Mitchell. “You didn’t even look.”

“I can tell because I’ve been a sailor for damned near twenty years and I’m one salty, worldly-wise son of a bitch. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything, but most importantly,” Chief Cash lowered his voice and leaned over the table, “she’s got a god dammed Adam’s apple.”

Mitchell and I gave the woman in the blue dress another look and, sure as hell, there was an Adam’s apple. It’s amazing how a set of big, fake tits can keep a guy from noticing something like that.

Teddy came back while Mitchell and I were looking at the she-male in the blue dress. Having missed the previous conversation, Teddy let himself be charmed by the big, fake tits.

“Hot damn,” he said of the vision in blue. “I bet after a night with her you’d never be the same.”

Mitchell nodded in agreement.

“You can say that again.”

Teddy picked up his empty glass.

“So this is how it is,” he said. “We’re just going to down a guy’s drink when he goes to the head.”

“Oh, quit your crying,” groaned Chief Cash as he threw a handful of Lire at Teddy. “Now shut up and go buy us another round, tit-baby.”

The new wisdom imparted upon me by Chief Cash sent the portion of my brain in charge of revenge into a fit of inspiration. Could this potentially be used to get one over on the COB? Oh yes.

“So tell me, Chief, does the COB also share your keen skills of detection?”

“The COB? Shit no; he’s clueless. He’s spent most of his career in the shipyards. I doubt he could spot an Italian drag queen if one had him by the…,” He raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning—wait! I don’t want to know.”

“It’s best that you don’t, chief,” I said. “But would you know where I might be able to find the COB? You know, in case of emergency.”

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The average submariner has a pack mentality to him. When faced with language and cultural barriers he will instinctively stay with large groups of his shipmates. The first sailors off the boat find usually one or two bars and most of the other guys on the boat will adopt this bar as a hangout, often running the locals away from the spot. I avoid these bars whenever possible. I already have to work and live with these morons, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend my recreational time with them when there is a foreign land to explore and experience.

The COB was in one of the Navy infested bars. It looked like a Chiefs’ night out. Almost every chief from the boat was there, initiating the newly selected chiefs. The soon-to-be chiefs were lined up at the end of the bar singing "Anchors away." The other chiefs were throwing pretzels at them and yelling for them to sing in a higher pitch. The four once formidable first class petty officers raised their pitch to a horrible falsetto that had the chiefs rolling. Obviously the locals found all this go-Navy crap as disgusting as I did because there weren’t any there. There wasn’t a single man, woman, or combination of both in the entire bar. My search for Mr.-Ms. Right would have to take place somewhere else.

Wandering through a foreign land randomly trying to strike up conversations with transvestites is not as fun as it sounds. It’s hard work. Either they spoke no English or they looked too much like a man if they did speak English. My luck changed when I was ready to give up for the night.

I had taken a break from my search and stopped for a drink. As I was enjoying perfectly made Alabama Slammer, a haggard looking transvestite sat down next to me at the bar. I likely would have mistaken the person for a skanked out older woman if not for Chief Cash’s guidance earlier today. There, above a set of fake breasts, was an Adam’s apple on the throat. It wasn’t a big one, but it was there.

“You are American?” said the transvestite in passable English. The voice had a raspy, yet feminine sound. This one would do.

“Yes, ma’am, I am,” I figured it wouldn’t hurt to act like I believed she (he? Whatever) was a woman. “I’m from the submarine that just got here.”

“Ooh, a sailor,” she said moving closer as I tried not to act repulsed. “I love sailors. I am Chloe. What is your name, sailor?”

“Uhm, Steve,” I said. The whole thing was completely unnatural. Hopefully the COB would like her better.

“Such a sexy, American name. Like Steve McQueen,” she said, licking her lips. “Why don’t we find a place to talk, maybe one of the tables?”

I sent her out to get a table while I got each of us a fresh drink. After she left, the bartender leaned over the bar towards me.

“You know,” he said, “that is a man.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said as I paid for the drinks, “but I have a friend that doesn’t.”

“You are not a very good friend,” he said and turned to help someone else.

I sat down with Chloe and she immediately propositioned me.

“For twenty American dollars I can give you pleasure like you’ve never had.”

Chloe was a transvestite hooker. Jackpot.

I told her that I wanted her company not for me, but for a friend of mine. She told me that she would gladly do both of us for a discount because I was so cute. I told her I would like that, but I had a list of medical conditions that prevented me from enjoying her services including many venereal diseases and a spider bite on my privates. The important thing was my friend. I made it clear to Chloe that he was not to know that she was a prostitute. She understood and found it cute that, by my description, he was not very good with the ladies but too proud to buy affection. Chloe told me that she would treat him very well.

We went back to the bar where the COB was. As we stood outside I told her that my friend was the shortest black man in the bar and sent her in before me. Chloe expressed her excitement over my friend being black.

“I hear that black men have such large penises,” she said as she touched up her lipstick.

Chloe went into the bar and I made a lap around the block for her to do her stuff. The COB and Chloe had become fast friends by the time I made my way into the bar. They were at the bar flirting and laughing and slowly inching closer to each other. It was beautiful and horrible all at the same time.

As I watched, a large hand grabbed my shoulder, fingers right above the collarbone and squeezed hard on the pressure point.

“Whoa-ho, Genocide,” said the booming, slightly redneck voice behind me. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Walnut,” I replied, trying in vain to escape the grasp. “Just seeing if anything is happening.”

“Oh you’ve come to the right place, man,” Walnut said as he let go of my shoulder. “You’ve got to see the shit that’s happening here.”

“And what’s that?” I asked even though I already knew.

“Come sit down with us and check out the barker that the COB picked up.”

Walnut led to me to the table he was sitting at along with Mike Kibby and Lee Burns. Kibby pulled another chair over motioned for me to sit, all the while watching the bar.

“You come for the show, Genocide?” Kibby asked.

“Yeah, it looks like it,” I said.

Chloe was practically in the COB’s lap now. There was touching now. Putting hands on thighs and whatnot. This was going better than planned, and a damned good thing it was. I paid Chloe double for added enthusiasm on her part.

“You know,” Kibby said, “she may be ugly, but she’s got a nice rack.” Breasts, the Great Distracters.

“She may be no beauty queen,” Burns added, “but I’d still do her. Shit, I’ve had worse before.”

Burns is convinced he is God’s gift to women despite being a pudgy, pie faced married man in his mid-thirties. He talks a big game about his married life and how his wife is there for the sole purposes of sex and house cleaning. I’m pretty sure that life at Casa de Burns is very different. People like Burns talk the smack that they do because they are so whipped and dominated at home.

We had a few jokes at Burns’ expense and ordered a round of drinks.

“You ready for the trip home?” Walnut asked. We’re both going to be flying home from our next stop in Greece.

“You know it,” I replied. “I’m almost all packed now.”

“I already am,” Walnut said. “I’ve been wearing the same uniform and street clothes since we got here.”

We got a laugh out of it, but the laughter quickly stopped. The COB and Chloe were kissing at the bar. The whole bar seemed to go quiet as the COB locked lips with his homely barfly. Burns broke the silence.

“Get some, COB!” he shouted across the room.

It was sickening. I was the only person, aside form Chloe, that was aware that two guys were making out in the bar.

There was a round of cheers for the COB as he left with Chloe. I wasn’t sure where they might be going, but I knew I wanted to follow. I told the guys that I had seen enough and was going to call it a night. It was a believable lie since I had to be up for colors in the morning.

I saw them going around a corner as I left the bar and I started to follow them. A couple of blocks later, they ducked into an alley. The alley was too dark to see them, but I could hear them. They were still kissing and giggling, but the kissing sounded heavier. The taste of bile in my mouth told me the plan was working out to perfection.

I will be completely honest right now when I say that I am not sure what happened in that alley. I only know what I heard.

What I heard was more kissing, but something wasn’t quite right. It sounded like the COB was sighing and quietly moaning. How can he do that while kissing? My sick mind told me that he couldn’t and my sick mind theorized what was happening in that alley. My sick mind made me sick to my stomach. The alcohol and bad mental images made my guts heave. I ran to a trashcan at the corner and threw up into it.

While I was still hanging myself over the can I heard the COB scream. The yelling was incoherent, but I made out the words “freak” and “kill you.”

He burst out of the alley and saw me.

He froze with a look of fear. We stood there staring at each other. I could see the fear. He was afraid that I might know what just happened. I started smiling because I knew a lot more than he did.

Chloe walked out of the alley between us, giving the COB a wide berth, and walked towards me.

“Your friend isn’t very nice,” Chloe told me as she walked past.

The COB’s look turned to one of angry confusion.

“What does that freak mean, Genasari?”
Chloe answered for me.

“Your friend hired me for you because you are not good with women,” she said. “I think your problem is that you don’t know how to treat a lady.” Brilliant.

The COB stormed over to me and shoved me.

“You motherfucker,” he screamed, “I’ll have you ass for this. You and me are going to talk to the Captain tomorrow.”

I stood up straight and laughed.

“So you are going to tell the Captain about your back alley antics with a cross dressing prostitute. As it stands, I’m the only one that knows about it and I think you want to keep it that way.”

The COB was trembling with rage.

“Are you blackmailing me Genasari?”

“No, COB, I’m not. This was just a joke. You embarrassed me topside when we were pulling in and I just wanted to get you back. You’re the one that ran with it so far. I don’t want shit from you. This scene is the best prize I could wish for. I’m not telling anyone about this, but if you want to take me to the Captain you’ll have to admit what really happened or you’ve got nothing. I say the whole thing ends right here because there isn’t anything you can do to me without admitting what you did. Now get out of my face. I’m going to the boat.”

The COB knew I was right. Stories like this follow a guy wherever they go. He could go to another command, but someone would always ask, “Aren’t you that guy that made it with a dude in Italy?”

“We’ll see, Genasari. You better get out of here before I kick your ass anyway.” The sad little man wanted the last word to salvage some dignity.

“Whatever, COB, why don’t you go wash the man-spit off your goober?” I never give anyone the last word.