La Mad: The Good Ones Are Always Crazy

Necessity, it is said, is the mother of invention. Look to mooring a submarine as an example. Mooring lines are big, heavy things that cannot be thrown more than a few feet under the best of conditions. So how does one get said mooring line to the pier from the sub or vice versa? The answer is a heavie. A shot line is a very small rope with a rubber ball on one end. You tie the ball-free end to the mooring line and heave (that’s where the name comes from) the end with the ball over to the target. Works like a charm, and someone occasionally gets hit with the ball, which is nice.

But what if the target is beyond throwing range? One can only heave a heavie so far. Sometimes the sub must moor alongside a larger ship, like the tender in La Maddalena, Italy. The cleats on the tender are a good two or three stories above the water line. Mooring in these situations is the necessity, and the shot line is the invention.

The shot line is a mega-heavie. There is a rubber plug attached to the line in this case. There are only so many things on a sub that can launch said plug, so an M-16 rifle is the delivery system. No way that could ever fail, right?

Artie Spanner was our shot line man. His claim to fame was being the only guy on the boat ever to piss in another man’s bed…while that man was still in it. This was the guy the command chose to pull the trigger.
Word came from below to prepare the shot. Spanner raised the rifle and took aim on the ship. I had a front row seat for this show from my position on mooring line four. I gave Pickens a nudge and pointed to the tender.

“Fifty bucks says he hits someone.”

“No way,” Pickens said.

“I’m serious. Giving that guy a gun is bad policy. The odds are going to kick in sooner or later.”

“I’m not going to gamble on this.” He was trying to get me to give up before he crumbled. Pickens was a standup kind of guy, but he was still eyeing that shot to see if there was anyone in a position that would make me a winner.

“C’mon, man. This is easy money here. The numbers are in your favor.”

“But you just said the odds of him hitting someone had to kick in sooner or later.”

“I say that all the time. In fact, didn’t I say that about that camel in Dubai?”

“Yes.”

“And how much did you make off me on that one?”

“Sixty-two.”

“And what about in Halifax when I was sure one of the bars had to serve Lone Star beer? I said it then, too, and how much did you make?”

“Thirty bucks.”

I could tell I almost had him. As much as he disliked gambling, he loved winning. Especially against me. He would take my money and preach to me the evils of wagering.

“But now you’re going to back down? What gives?”

Pickens sighed and gave the tender one last appraising look. “Fine, but I won’t enjoy taking your money.”

“That’s ok, I won’t enjoy giving it to you.”

Most of the tender’s linehandlers were on the mooring deck, except for four sailors that were lowered over the rail in harnesses to help guide the lines. Three of them were men. None were especially big, but they looked plenty tough. The fourth was a girl. She was pale, skinny and looked like she had no business being in such a position. Spanners shot caught her on the right side of the protective helmet she was wearing.

There was a fair bit of commotion as the linehandlers hoisted the unconscious girl back to the mooring deck. Spanner lowered his rifle and gave the closest thing to an apology he could think of at the moment.

“Oh, shit,” he yelled to the tender crew. “My bad, y’all.”

I put my arm around Pickens’s shoulders and gave him a little squeeze. “That is the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Pickens shrugged my arm away. “I don’t have my wallet on me, Steve. I’ll have to pay you later.

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La Maddelena was our first real port call of the deployment. Sure there were a couple of stops in the Middle East, but they hardly counted. La Mad had two things those ports were lacking: good food and plentiful booze.

The first order of business was a haircut. Not that I wanted one, but Chief Garza ordered everyone in the division get one before he would put down any liberty. That meant we had to get our hair cut on the tender…by tenderfolk.

The guy that cut my hair was in uniform and was actually billeted as a barber. I was unaware to that point that barber was an actual career choice in the military. I felt a twinge of jealousy that someone else was able to pull such slack duty. But that jealousy soon turned to hatred.

“How would you like your haircut, Petty Officer?”

I had been getting the same haircut since I left boot camp, and no one has ever had a hard time with it. No one.

“Let’s do a two comb around the back and sides with the clippers, fade it up and give me a little scissor trim up top.”

“No problem.”

And by no problem, this guy meant big problem. He busted out a dull, snaggle-toothed set of clippers that didn’t so much cut hair as it did rip it out. He took almost a half hour, just with the clippers and never once turned me toward a mirror. All the while he kept trying to engage me in conversations I wanted no part of.

“Yeah, I volunteered for sub duty. I wanted to be one of those sonar guys, but I failed my psych eval.”
He went on to discuss animal sex, the Satanic Bible and the best chili dog he’s ever had in his life. Just before showing me what he’d done to my hair, he busted out this little gem, “Most people can’t stand the smell of burning hair, but I like it. It reminds me of my grandmother. That’s why I like this job so much.”

He turned me to the mirror to show off his work. He certainly got the first part right, in so much as he took used a two comb on the clippers. That was about all he did right. He’d taken the two comb and run it up to my eye level all the way around my head and did a scissor trim above that line. To his credit, most people would have to place an actual chili bowl on a head to get a line that clean.

“So what to you think?”

“I think you still need to put a little fade it in.”

The guy just looked at me for a few seconds. “I don’t really know what a fade is.”

“Your kidding? A fade is where you use the clippers to make the top and bottom blend.”

My barber smiled. “Oh yeah, I know what you want.”

He then proceeded to put the two comb back on the clippers and ran them right across the top of my head. “I’ll have you all blended up in just a second.”

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The tender was tied up to this little rock of an island. You had to catch a ferry over t the main island and that ferry was only running twice an hour. I just missed one as I got off the boat, largely because I had to wait on Hampton and Easley to get ready. Our disappointment was tempered by the fact there was a little base-run dive bar just off the dock.

I almost ran into Chief Garza as I walked in. He had an armful of drinks he was taking to his chiefly brethren, who had monopolized a corner of the bar.

“Holy shit, Genesari, you look like a convict. I just said get a haircut, you didn’t have to get a shave job.”

“Wasn’t my attention, Hefe. They got some hack working in that barber shop. I’m lucky he didn’t take my head off.”

“The guy that did my hair did a great job, as you can see.” Chief tilted his head back and forth and batted his eyelashes like a model.

“I’d hit it,” Easley said. That changed the chief’s expression quick.

“You best watch yourself, bucko.” And with that he made his way to the rest of the chiefs.

“What?” Easley said. “Was it something I said?”

Easley technically fell under the military’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. No one asked and Easley never told, but everyone in engineering department knew Easley was gay. He was a decent worker and a good enough guy, so we all did our part to keep Easley out of trouble. The last thing we wanted was for the wrong people to get wind of it and start some shit. But being his guardian angel was tough. We had some divisional training right before the deployment started. Easley had been on watch and asked me to get his training notebook, and sure enough he had an issue of “Throb” magazine tucked behind his laundry bag in his rack. I cursed him for being stupid and did what any good friend would do – I snuck into the chief quarters and left the magazine half exposed under the Chief of the Boat’s pillow.

We bellied up to the bar next to the mechanical division’s leading first, Fred Novak, who was watching an out-of-the-way table on the other side of the room.

“What’s the good word, Freddie?” I said, snapping him out of his trance.

“Oh, hey there Genocide,” he said and pointed across the way. “Raimer’s got himself a girl.”

And I’ll be damned if he didn’t. This was a big deal for Raimer because he had a lot working against him when it came to the ladies. He rarely bathed, had no personality and quite possibly had a touch of the retardation on him. The closest thing to a relationship any of us had ever seen him in was back in Groton when a stripper had a restraining order put on him.

Further examination showed this was no ordinary woman enjoying Raimer’s company. Her head was wrapped in bandages and she was wearing an eye patch on her right eye.

“Is that…” I started, but Novak answered before I could finish the question.

“Yep, that’s the girl Spanner hit with the shot line.”

Someone stuck their head in the door and called out that the ferry was here. I turned to Easley and started to speak, but he cut me off.

“Shut it, Genocide,” he said flatly and pounded back the rest of his screwdriver.

We got up and I turned to Novak. “You coming, Freddie?”

“Nah, I’m going to watch this train wreck a little longer.

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The town of La Maddalena was in a mild state of chaos. Jubilant submariners were darting to and fro in drunken rapture. John Westerbury, one of the quartermasters, shot out of an alley all but tackling me in the process.

“You can buy porn in the toy stores, Genocide. I love this place. When I get out, I’m fucking moving here.”

And then he was gone as quick as he came.

We found Cecil Tiner and Barry Murdoch sitting at an outdoor café another block or so up the road. The pair stood out from the crowd in very opposite ways. Tiner in his silk dragon print shirt, bowler hat and saddle shoes and Murdoch with his long-sleeve plaid button-up tucked into high water jeans and ratty sneakers. No one would confuse either of them as native. Between them on the table were two large binders full Sorcerer’s Gambit game cards.

“Gentlemen,” I said as I approached the table. “How are we this fine evening?”

“Not too bad, Genocide,” Tiner answered, offering a wave to Hampton and Easley. “Just kicking back with the best freaking cappuccino ever made. You need to get yourself one.”

“Perhaps later, I’ve been craving something a little stronger than coffee.”

Hampton nodded at the binders on the table. “You guys about to get down to business?”

Murdoch’s eyes brightened behind his giant eyeglasses that were about twenty or so years out of fashion. “Sure are,” he said. “I could probably slap a couple of extra decks together if any of you would like to join in.”

“No thanks,” I said. “The only quest we’re setting out on tonight is for warm food and strong drink.”

Hampton pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’m in.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry Genocide, but bad things always happen when you go out.” He knocked on the binder in front of him. “I just think I’ll be safer here.”

“What bad things?” I asked, more than a little offended. “We’re just going to go eat.”

“Yeah, but bad things always happen.”

“Like what?”

“What about that time in Puerto Rico when that stripper at Pappa Joe’s pulled a knife on you?”

“You weren’t even on the boat then. Besides, that story was severely exaggerated.”

“Ok, what about when you got us thrown out of T.G.I. Friday’s right before the deployment?”

“That waitress called me the n-word!”

Hampton rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, she asked you if you needed any ketchup and your drunk ass threw a handful of mashed potatoes at her. And why would she call you that, Steve? You’re white.”

“You have your story, I have mine. Stay here if you want, but we’ll be at the Garden Bar if you come to your senses.”

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The Garden Bar was the place to eat in La Mad according to everyone at the boat who had been to the port before. Normally I would avoid places crawling with guys from the boat, but I was dying for some real food after nearly three months at sea with the only port calls coming in the Persian Gulf.

We ran into Pickens and Rosehill outside the restaurant. It was the first I’d seen Pickens since our little wager coming in. He sighed as he saw Easley and me striding his way. “Hi Steve. Looks like I’m paying for dinner tonight.”

“Shucks man, you’re too kind. You just saved me a trip to the ATM.”

The place was about half-full of squids. We managed a table in a quieter part of the dining area and quickly became aware of why this place was so popular: smoking hot waitresses and English subtitles on the menu.
I ordered some spaghetti with mussels. Easley went for the lasagna and Pickens opted for some kind of baked penne dish. Rosehill went for something a little more familiar. His love of macaroni and cheese was well known on the boat. He never left port without bringing a few boxes if he could find it. The cooks would let him cook it up on his own so long as he cleaned up after himself. He saw a four cheese macaroni dish on the menu and could not resist its siren song.

We also ordered a pair of one-liter carafes of the house red win to share. The wine was at our table quickly and we settled into easy conversation as we drank. After the stresses of flinging missiles at Iraq and Christmas in Bahrain, a little Italian decompression was just what the doctor ordered. The food showed up and it looked like things were shaping up to be a great night.

Then Walnut showed up.

He grabbed a chair from another table and squeezed in between Pickens and me.

“How the fuck are we doing, people? Is this place the shit or what?”

“It’s pretty nice,” I said, mentally noting that it had just gotten considerably less nice.

“Nice my ass,” Walnut said, slapping that bear paw of a hand of his on the table. “Did you know that you can get porn in the toy stores?”

“That’s the rumor.”

“There’s porn in the toy stores?” Pickens said. “That’s horrible.”

“Oh lighten up, big guy,” Walnut chuckled. “This place is a little slice of heaven.”

He flagged down a waitress as she walked by.

“I need a liter of red and a pair of your panties.”

She stared a Walnut for a second with a polite smile on her face. Walnut smiled back and pointed at one of our carafes and then to himself. She nodded and headed for the bar.

“Don’t forget those panties,” he said, then turned back to the four dumbstruck faces staring at him. “What?
They don’t speak a lick of English here. It doesn’t matter what I say.”

The waitress brought Walnut his wine. He poured a glass and held it up to the light.

“Fine color,” he said and swirled the glass, watching how it clung to the sides of the glass. “Looks like a good alcohol content.”

He placed the rim of the glass close to his nose and inhaled deeply. To the casual eye it might even look like he knew what he was doing.

“A full bouquet indeed,” he said, then promptly pounded back the drink in two large gulps. He put down the glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Now that’s some good Kool-aid.”

From that point on, Walnut bypassed the wine glass and drank straight from his carafe. Silence settled over the table as Walnut enjoyed his wine and the rest of us ate. I was expecting Walnut to shatter the peace at any moment, but was surprised when Pickens was the first to speak.

“This daygo food is pretty good.”

Three forks hit plates at the same time and Walnut nearly spit wine out of his nose. Pickens found himself the target of the same stares we gave Walnut moments earlier.

“What?”

“That’s the most racist goddam thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Walnut blurted.

Pickens went as red as our wine. “Racist? What did I say that was racist? Daygo isn’t racist.”

“Uh…yes it is.” Easley replied.

“But there was an Italian guy in town when I was growing up. Everyone called him Johnny Daygo and he never said anything.”

“Oh gee, I wonder why,” I said. “Could it be that he was the only Italian guy in Chickentown, Pennsylvania and he didn’t want to get strung up from the courthouse apple tree?”

“That’s just dumb,” Pickens said. “We didn’t have an apple tree at the courthouse. It was an oak.”

“Pickens is right about one thing,” Rosehill said. “This is some good food.”

Pickens didn’t say much after that. He pushed penne around his plate as Walnut and Easley started going through a comprehensive list of ethnic slurs for any other port we could possibly visit on our deployment. Even though it was entertaining, I figured I should change the subject before they got too far out of hand.

“I saw Raimer making out with a chick in an eye patch.”

This time Walnut did shoot wine out of his nose – right into Rosehill’s mac and cheese.

“What the hell,” Rosehill yelled, mourning the ruination of a good meal.

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There was a tattoo parlor down the street from the Garden Bar. I hadn’t noticed it going in, but it caught my eye coming out. Walnut noticed me looking at the sign.

“Hepatitis, my good man,” he said. “That’s all there is to say about that. Wait until you get home.”

On Walnut’s suggestion, we headed over to a place called Crystal Bar. The layout of the place made it seems like two bars in one. The part of the bar near the entrance was quiet and subdued with a few small tables lining the walls. This part of the bar was pretty much empty.

The back end of the bar was a different story. Black lights and neon provided the only illumination back there. A large video jukebox dominated the room from the opposite corner. Some creepy Euro-pop video was playing on the screen and the place was packed with squids. If that wasn’t enough reason to leave, the boat’s weapons officer was dancing with some chunky local on what passed for a dancefloor in the place. I was drifting back to the front when Rosehill grabbed my arm.

“You know the rules, Genocide. We came in so we have to have a round.”

“That’s a stupid rule,” I replied.

“It’s your rule,” Easley said.

“Fine, you bastards. But we’re doing shots, then we’re out.”

I suggested we stand to expedite our departure, but the others wanted to get a table. Outnumbers, I sulked along behind them and waited for the shots.

Rosehill brought the shots over just as the euro-pop crap ended. As we raised our drinks, a skinny local stepped up to the jukebox and grabbed a microphone. The bar was filled galloping thunder. Our glasses stopped in the air as the local launched into a mangled version of Iron Maiden’s “Run for the Hills.”

“Boys, they’ve got karaoke,” Walnut shouted and slammed down his shot. The others cheered and put down their shots in turn. I downed my shot sans gusto and slumped in my chair. If I was leaving here, it would be alone.

The crew of the USS Las Vegas was chock full of karaoke nuts. I was not one such nut. Not a one of the bastards could sing, nor did they need musical accompaniment to make ass of themselves. All the same, a karaoke machine was nothing short of catnip to them.

After “Run to the Hills,” a steady stream of squids took turns destroying various songs. Walnut sped up his drinking, a sure sign he was getting the itch to sing.

“You think they’ve got any Garth Brooks on that thing?”

I very quickly found out that even though it is the geographical center of Catholicism, God does not exist in Italy. I can say this with all certainty because the Crystal Bar’s karaoke machine did in fact have Garth Brooks as evident when Chief Cash – as if on cue – started up with “Friends in Low Places.” That just about brought down the house as every squid started singing as loudly and off-key as humanly possible. The untrained ear would only hear the dull roar of country lyrics, but I heard loud and clear what was really being said.

“Hooray for something familiar.”

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I took all of that sad spectacle that I could, which wasn’t very much, and went outside. I hung around outside in case any of my war party decided to follow suit. Even if they didn’t I could still try to track down Hampton or hit up a toy store for some porn. That plan was derailed by a female voice.

“You got a light?”

No matter how salty a submariner may get, the sound of a woman’s voice during deployment will knock him off his guard. When that voice has one of those sexy little rasps to it like this on did, it puts a squid on the edge of a socially awkward physical response.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

“Then what the fuck good are you?”

I would have found her attractive even if I hadn’t been locked up with a bunch of guys for the last couple of months. She had on a tight grey sweater and even tighter blue jeans. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was smiling at me.

“I usually fall somewhere between not good for much and completely god damned useless.”
She pulled a lighter out of her pocket. “You’re from the sub aren’t you? I saw you outside the barber shop on the ship.”

“Yeah,” I said, absently rubbing my hand through what was left of my hair at the mention of the barber. “My name’s Steve.”

She lit her cigarette and took a long drag. “I’m Heather. I guess that wasn’t the look you were going for?”

“Not exactly.”

“Must have been Spencer.”

“Is he the psycho? If so, then I got Spencer.”

“Just imagine how bad it is for us girls. Three barbers and they’re all guys.”

“That’s got to suck.” I casually looked around to make sure she wasn’t with anyone. “Would you like to go back inside so I can buy you a drink?”

She took another drag of her cigarette and gave me an appraising look. You can buy me a drink, just not here. Follow me.”

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Heather took me to a little bar I had walked by at least four times earlier in the day without realizing what it was. It was mostly locals in the place with a handful of people from the tender sitting near the door. We made our way to a table in the back of the room and got to drinking and talking.

She was from New Mexico and joined the Navy for college money same as I had. We found out we had similar taste in movies and music, helping the conversation to flow easily for nearly an hour. We would have talked a lot longer if a winded Rosehill hadn’t burst in through the front door. He scanned the bar as he doubtlessly had done in a handful of bars and shops before showing up there. He saw me and dashed for the table.

“Genocide, dude. I thought I wasn’t going to find you,” he said, oblivious to Heather. “You’ve got to come with me.”

“No.”

Rosehill shook his head in confusion. “But you have to. Tiner needs your help.”

“No, I don’t have to go anywhere,” I said and nodded toward Heather. Rosehill looked over to Heather as if she had just materialized out of the ether. He gave her a sheepish grin and turned back to me.

“Uh, this is kind of important. Tiner said Hampton got smashed on Irish coffee and is trying to eat a tree. He says you’re the only person that can talk him down.”

I slammed my hand down on the table. “What is it with that boy and trees?” I looked to Heather and weighed my options. “Screw Hampton. Tie him up and drag his ass back to the boat.”

“Go ahead,” Heather said. “Are you on duty tomorrow?”

“No, but I can stay. It’s really no big deal. This guy tries to eat trees when he gets hammered. It’s kind of his thing.”

“Don’t worry about it. Go help your friend. I’ll find you tomorrow.”

I shot Rosehill a particularly venomous look, then shifted a much more personable gaze to Heather. “If you say so. Where do you want to meet?”

“I said I’ll find you.”

“Fine, but I’m paying for the drinks.”

“I certainly hope so.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek. “I didn’t bring any money.”

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No one knows why Hampton feels the urge to gnaw on foliage when he gets drunk. He certainly never could come up with a good excuse for it, yet there he was – for the fifth time since I’d known him – chewing the leaves and bark off a tree branch. Only this time he was halfway up the tree.

“Who helped him up there?”

A handful of my so-called shipmates shrank away from my stare.

“Answer me you ass-tards. If he’s drunk enough to eat a tree, he’s too drunk to climb one.”

Murdoch stepped up inasmuch as one can do while staring at his feet. “I did.”

“And why would you do that?”

He look to his comrades for help, but the offered no assistance.

“He said he needed to gain elevation so he could get his bearings. It kind of made sense at the time.”

There was growling from the tree as Hampton started in on a fresh branch.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard in the last…” I had to pause to go over the last few weeks in my head, “at least the last three days.” I shifted my attention to Tiner. “Is this what happened?”

Tiner seemed to choose his words very carefully. “Sure is. Murdoch helped him up there. I was not involved at all.”

“But you saw it?”

“Uh, yes. Why?”

“That makes you an accessory to stupidity. Get over her, both of you.”

“What are you planning?” Murdoch asked.

“I’m going to throw rocks at Hampton and you two are going to catch him when he falls out of the tree.” I picked up a rock and got a good line on Hampton. “And you said bad things happen when I go out.”

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Novak was sitting in a folding chair in one of the machine bays on the tender. He was staring at a closed door. I caught him out of the corner of my eye as we guided Hampton through the maze of compartments that led to the gangway to the sub. I sent Tiner and Murdoch ahead with Hampton so I could see what he was doing.

“What’s up, Freddie?”

“They’re in there,” Novak said, never taking his eyes from the door.

“You mean…”

“Yup.”

“In there?”

“Yup.”

“Do you think they’re…”

“Yup.”

I looked at the door with the same morbid fascination Novak was. “Damn.”

“Yup.”

A crowd formed around us as we waited. It must have been a thick door because no one heard any sound come out of there until it opened and the tender chick stepped out. It wasn’t hard to see the blood curdling fear in her unpatched eye when she saw fifteen submariners smiling back at her. She took off running for the nearest exit and smacked into the doorframe. A collective “oooh” of sympathy came from those fifteen submariners.

Then Raimer came out of the small supply room. He was greeted with a standing ovation. Novak silenced the crowd with a wave of his hand and placed a hand on the man of the hour’s shoulder. “Spill it, Raimer.”

A faint smile settled on Raimer’s face. If you didn’t know the guy, the look probably wouldn’t register as a smile, but it was the biggest grin any of us had ever seen on him.

“Well, I think the eyepatch messed up her depth perception.” Raimer’s voice was low and slow like it was being played back on a tape player running low on batteries.

“What?” Kibby asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“She must have misjudged the distance and she threw up on me down there.”

“Down where?” Weatherford chimed in.

“You mean she was…” Kibby froze as the mental image came together. “Wait. Was this before or after?”

Raimer took his time answering, as if trying to decide if there was a correct answer. “Before.”

A chorus of groans went up as we all tried to unheard what we had just heard.

“What?” Raimer pleaded. “There was some Windex in there, so I cleaned it off before we did it.”

That was all I needed to hear of that.

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I started getting some strange looks from the tenderfolk that next day. Raimer was getting stranger and altogether more horrified looks, but at least I knew why they were looking at him that way. The looks I got were a mystery to me.

I found out that evening on the ferry ride to La Mad what those looks were all about. A couple of guys from the tender were sitting across from me on the ferry. They kept looking at me and whispering to each other. A day’s worth of paranoia finally percolated to the surface.

“What?” I barked at the two of them. “I’ve been getting looks from you tender yahoos all damned day and I want to know why.”

“You’re the one that was out with Swanson last night, right?” said the shorter of the two. His blond hair had obviously see the wrath of that Spencer guy in the barber shop because it sat in uneven lengths on top of his head like a haystack. The other one, a tall redhead just sat there nodding.

“Who? Heather?”

The two started in laughing. “That’s the one,” the readhead said.

“What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing, really,” Haystack said. “She’s just a little…uh.”

“A little what?” I said, already getting fed up with these guys. They answered with alternating adjectives.

“Clingy.”

“Needy.”

“Emotional.”

“Nuts.”

“Scary.”

“Real nuts.”

“Slightly stalkerish.”

“Real fucking nuts.”

“Alright, dammit. Enough.”

The two leaned back in their seats again and went back to their quiet joking. Tiner was sitting next to me through the entire exchange.

“Wait, you were out with a girl last night?”

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Heather found me just like she said she would. She was waiting for me outside the bathroom at one of the bars. She wasn’t there when I went in, but there she was when I stepped out.

“Hey stud, whatcha doing?”

I looked back at the men’s room door then back to her.

“Just kind of going to the bathroom.”

“Awesome, let’s go get some food.”

She led me to a little bistro a few blocks off the main drag. We ordered a big plate of calamari and a bottle of wine.

“You have to tell me how people started calling you Genocide. That’s a cool nickname.”

“It’s not as cool of a story as you’d think.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Fine,” I said. “But it’s kind of technical.”

“Jesus, will you just spit it out.”

I never really went around telling people how I earned my moniker, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to tell it this time. “When I was in nuke school, we had to run through simulation drills. I broke the simulator.”

Heather raised an eyebrow, “You broke it?”

“And it caught on fire.”

“Shut up. It did not.”

“Sure did. It was completely unrelated to what I did, but it’s still the kind of thing people take note of. The instructor said allowing me to operate any part of a nuclear plant would result in mass genocide. After that, any mistake I made was called a ‘Genesari Genocide.’ The name just stuck.”

Heather hurriedly chewed down a piece of calamari to ask a question. “So all the guys on your boat are bagging on you?”

“Shit no. They don’t know what the name means. They think it sounds cool. That’s how you take lemons and make lemonade.”

We continued flirty chit-chat through the rest of the meal. Heather flagged down the waiter for dessert and another bottle of wine. It was probably that second bottle that made me go along with Heather’s next suggestion.

“Hey,” she said over her last bite of tiramisu, “let’s go get tattoos.”

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“She got your name inked on her back?” Walnut was laughing big belly laughs and slapping the crew’s mess table.

“She’s insane,” I said, ignoring the guffawing. Walnut wouldn’t normally be my first choice for such a conversation, but he was the only one around. It was late and he’d just got back to the boat. I’d been on duty all day, safely within the black steel womb of the Vegas. “She talked me into going to that place by the Garden Bar. I was wanting to get a new tat anyway, so it seemed like a good enough idea.”

Walnut raised a hand to stop me. “What did you get?”

“Huh?”

“Let me see the ink.”

I pulled up the left sleeve of my shirt and peeled back the gauze pad on shoulder.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?”

“It’s a knotwork design with my zodiac sign in the middle.”

“Dumbest fucking tattoo I’ve ever seen.”

“Whatever. I know that it’s lame. Never pick a tat when you’re drunk. Quit derailing my story.”

“Ok, ok. Proceed.”

“Right,” I said, gathering my memories from the night before. “So while I’m getting this thing, Heather sets up on the other side of the shop and won’t let me see what she’s getting.”

Hampton came onto the mess deck and took a seat at another table.

“Hang on a second,” I said to Walnut and got up. I walked over to Hampton and pulled out a small branch I’d snagged off a bush earlier.

“Here,” I said, tossing the foliage in front of Hampton. “I saw this and thought you might, you know, want to eat it or something.”

Hampton threw the branch back at me. “Dick.”

With that I went back and sat down at the table with Walnut and got back to my story.

“Anyway, she gets done and comes over to show me and BAM, ‘Genocide’ big as shit tramp-stamped on her back.”

Walnut whistled through his teeth in amazement. “I might need to brush up on the laws of the land, but I think you own that woman now.”

“Not helping, Walnut.”

“Not trying to.” He paused as a thought bubbled up in that cro-magnon head of his. “So is that shop pretty clean?”

“Yeah, cleaner than that place we went in Rhode Island.”

“Hell yeah. That seals it. I’m going to have to get me some ink before we leave.”

“Wanna go tomorrow?”

Walnut’s enthusiasm dimmed slightly. “Can’t. I’ve got duty.”

“I’ll take it for you. I’m not leaving this boat again until we hit another port.”

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The midnight to six watch is a lonely shift when you’re in port, especially in the shutdown reactor operator chair. Nothing ever happens and most difficult task is staying awake.

Such is how I ended up talking about women with Raimer.

“Yeah, Gurty thinks she might get a medical discharge because of her eye. Doctor says she’s got a detached retina or something.”

“And what do you think of that?” I asked. I was truly interested in Raimer’s take on the situation. Sure, he was slow and dirty, but he was pure gold in times like these.

“I’m pretty happy about it. She said she’d move to Groton if they cut her loose.”

“What about the eye?”

“There’s a chance they have to take it out if it doesn’t heal. She’d have to get a glass eye or wear the patch permanently. I’d prefer she stay with the patch. Makes it easier for me to keep her.”

It was all I could do not to crack up. “Couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

“I’ll probably try to fatten her up some, too. Not many guys are going to make a run at a fat girl with one eye.”

“Except for you, of course.”

That stopped him in his tracks. At least I think it did. His thought process is generally pretty slow in the best of times. Regardless, he stared at me for almost fifteen seconds before saying anything.

“I think you’re missing the point.”

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I became pretty popular over the following four days as I continued picking up other people’s duty days. I couldn’t even go topside because Heather seemed to be keeping vigil for me. I ventured a peek through the periscope on the third day to see if the path was clear for me to make a dash for the ship’s store on the tender. Heather was on the main deck of the tender, watching the boat. She looked right at the periscope and freaking waved. I spent the rest of the day in my rack.

The avoidance plan was working great until Chief Garza decided to send me up to restock his snack locker.

“Why can’t you send Potter?” I asked, not going topside without a fight.

“Potter has quals to work on,” he said. “Besides, you’ve been holed up down here too long without fresh air. It’s making you weird…or weirder. The moral of the story is that you’re going up there to get me some Nutty Buddies.”

I tried to pay a nub to do the chore for me, but the chief had gotten to them first. My plan to borrow one of the A-ganger’s overalls and go out in a ski mask never got off the ground either.

The trip to the ship’s store was tense. I felt like I was dodging snipers as I crossed the gangway. The sight females had me ducking into hatches and diving for cover behind equipment. There have been three times in my stint in the Navy where I was sure I was going to die: on the boat off the coast of Nova Scotia, in a bar in Puerto Rico and at a Toys R’ Us in Orlando, Florida. I was more scared in the passageways of that tender than I was in any of those situations.

There was little relief in making it to the ship’s store. I was darting between aisles and staying low behind shelves. The E-nothing shopkeeper did not seem amused.

“You’re not going to steal anything, are you petty officer?”

“No. And keep it down. I’m trying to avoid drawing attention to myself.”

“You’re not doing a very good job, petty officer.”

“Just tell me where the Nutty Buddies are and shut up.”

I got the snacks and made my way to the register. I was no longer alone in the store. Two guys had walked into the store. One was Haystack from the ferry. I didn’t recognize the other one.

“Hey, look who it is,” haystack said. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, slinking the rest of the way to the cash register.

“Swanson’s been looking for you,” he said.

The other one looked at me and smiled. “Is this the guy?”

“Sure is,” Haystack said. “They got tattoos together.”

“Holy shit.”

“Listen guys, I appreciate the concern, but I need to get out of here with minimal fanfare.”

Haystack’s grin got a little wider. “I told you, man. You should have listened. I can’t believe you’re showing your face around here given the situation. You must really like Nutty Buddies.”

“They’re not for me and I don’t have time to explain.”

I paid for the chief’s snacks and darted into the passageway.

“There you are, Mr. Sneaky.”

I screamed. I also wanted to run, but fought that urge.

“Where have you been, baby. Your friends said you’ve been staying on the sub.”

Again I fought the urge to run. What little dignity I had needed preserving. “I’ve had duty.”

“For four straight days?”

“There have been, uh, things that I’ve had to do. Important things with, uh, fixing stuff.”

“Fascinating. Let’s go over to the bar and you can tell me all about it.”

I held up the bag. “I need to get this back to the boat.”

“Oh no you don’t. You’ll go down there and they’ll put you to work. I need some time with my man. Besides, I know the guy that’s bartending today.” She moved closer and started playing with my collar. “He’ll let us use the back room.”

There didn’t seem to be any reasonable way out. I would have to have freaky bar room sex with this crazy woman. Normally this wouldn’t seem like a problem, but at that moment nothing was more terrifying.

“Genocide, man, everyone’s looking for you.” It was Jimmy Mitchell, panting slightly from his run through the tender. “We’re scrambling. You’ve got to get down and help with startup prep.”

I buried my joy and put on a sad face for Heather. “I’ve got to go, babe.”

She was tearing up. “Write me.”

“You know I will.” And I was off with Mitchell.

“Thanks for the save,” I said to Mitchell as we crossed the gangway. “I owe you one.”

“That wasn’t a save,” he replied. “I heard Mr. Brunson say we’re going to fling some missiles at Kosovo. We’re splitting tonight.

END