Welcome to the Dance USN

by GEORGE LICATA

  The party was surreal. I was the only guest that wasn’t a young officer or married too, or dating an officer. Three of the guests were women officers. We were all in civilian clothes, dressed like California’s. Without conversation no one could tell who was what. I was weary at first, so were some of the guest. They were debating how close they want to get to a flunky. After we drank copious amounts of liquor we all loosened up. It turned out to be a fun party.

  Some if not all of the officers here are fairly fresh out of the Academy. They have friends and family that are hippies, most of them are forward thinkers. They see a new navy. A friendlier navy, a more open navy.

  By nine bells most of the party had gone home. Two of the padre’s close friends and me were sitting in front of a fireplace. They were also commanders. We spent the rest of the evening talking politics. Nixon, the Vietnam war, Nixon. The gas and food rationing, communism. Four drunk guys, three commanders and me, are hashing out the problems with this world.

  I was pretty drunk those officers can put it away. I don’t remember the drive back to the base. I do remember the look on Wascowski’s face, priceless. I do remember looking for the newest place they put my bunk. Later.

  March 26, 1073, Monday

  It is my last day of confident. In a strange way if I had not been here I wouldn’t have met the padre. He is having a party this Saturday. His friends want me to attend. One of his female friends is going to be there. I wouldn’t mind seeing her again.

  This week’s project is copper brazing. We spent the entire day being schooled on the process. We go to our booths to do our projects. The gang is already bragging how simple it is. They, too a person tell me they will finish tomorrow. The SOBs.

  I spent the evening at the Apartment, Jerry is a big pig. He pop’s his zits so close to the bathroom mirror that the puss hit’s the mirror. It was the first thing I saw when I went to take my first shower of freedom.

  I took a swim in the ocean. I was disrobing in the bathroom when I saw it, I yelled. “Gross!” I walked into the living room. I didn’t bother to put cloths on. “Jerry! Get your ass in the bathroom and clean the mirror. You gross motherfucker. Who pops his zits on the mirror?” I asked. The room was filled with some neighbors. I didn’t care, Jerry did. He was embarrassed, he tried to save face. “And what if I don’t?” he asked. “Jerry I just got back from base confinement. I have a weekend hang over. I’m hungry and I’m tired. I don’t want to shave and see your fucking zit puss on the mirror in front of my face, I’m not going to touch it, you are. If you don’t get your ass in that bathroom and clean that mirror now! I will drag you in there and use your face to clean it.”

  All eyes were on Jerry. Jerry sat in silence, he wanted to hold his ground, and he realized that he would look even stupider having a naked man dragging him to the bathroom. He went to the bathroom, he cleaned the mirror. “Thank you, Jerry,” I said. “Don’t ever do that again. It’s sick.”

  By the time I came out of the shower the company was gone. “Where did everybody go?” I asked Peter.

  “You scared them off, man,” he said.

  “What did you think they would do? What would you do if you were hanging around having a good rap, when some naked nut storms in and demands to have his mirror cleaned,” Okie chimed in. “Way to make a first impression, Licata. Ya all sure know how to enter a room. Is that how they do it in Colorado?”

  “Fuck off both of you and the horses you rode in on. I’m headed to the Jack-in-the-box for dinner whose coming?” The four of us headed down the board walk to Jack-in-the-box. Later.

  I’m home and in my bed. I don’t want to fall asleep. I want to consciously hear the sounds of the surf for a while longer. Later.

  March 27, 1973, Tuesday

  It took a long bus ride from the beach to the base. I have saved up some money. I had my eye on this ten speed bike down at the bike shop on the boardwalk. It was 300 dollars. I was thinking I could ride to the base every day. Now I don’t think I want to do that. I realize I also have to bike back, after a day of classes that could be a chore. I live on the beach, I can find a fun way to exercise. I saw a car a few blocks down the street from the apartment, after school I will check it out.

  Peter and the gang finished their projects to day and are in the bragging mode. I waited in till they asked, I told them that I also finished. I get it, I get the heat ratio to melting metal to a binder. Manipulate it just right and it all comes together.

  Peter and Garza went with me to meet the padre. He took us over to the base bar and bought us beers. They see how I can like this priest. Peter is going to the party with me on Saturday, Garza has watch duty.

  Padre got the Mustang he gave us a ride home. We were too smashed to check out the car for sale. We swam in the ocean for a while and watched Okie attempt to surf. He said he was determined to be the first famous surfer from Oklahoma. We’re with you Okie. Hope you don’t drown because we’re too drunk to save you. Later.

  March 28, 1973, Wednesday

  The chiefs and the petty officers are starting to treat us like human beings. Or we are getting over the shell shock known as boot camp and we are starting to trust people more. I don’t know which.

  We have been hanging out with these two guys from class. They have an apartment on the next beach down from us. It’s called Ocean beach. It is the low rent equivalent of Mission beach. Mission beach is more for tourist. Ocean beach is more for dopeheads and junkies. We can see it beyond the jetty, south of us.

  Jeff and Jasper were friends from high school. They joined on the buddy system. The navy allows recruits to join together up to three buddies. You do boot together, you go to school together, and you get stationed together. It’s not a bad idea. However it is the navy, the buddy program is only good as long as they want it to last. They can discontinue it at any time, and you’re stuck here, while they transfer your buddy someplace else. What are you going to do sue the navy? Good luck with that.

  They get to stay together for now. They joined as accomplished welders and scuba divers. They were planning to score the highest in the class. That would get them the two openings to underwater welding school. They were going to learn the trade. After the navy they would get jobs that pay 30 to 50 dollars an hour.

  This trade is in high demand; they can travel all over the world. This is something they planned before enlisting. I told them it sounded like to much work to get here, and more work to get there. I said you never can know what the future has for your careful plan. What if only one of you gets the high score? We all agreed that they didn’t have to worry about me messing up their plans.

  Jasper said they were getting a ride home from their neighbor, he’s a pimp. He wouldn’t mind if we came along. We waited for our ride outside the base. The pimp picked us up in his Cadillac. It was large enough for us all. The pimp was a cool guy. He was drafted himself at the beginning of the war. He is a Vietnam vet he knew where we were coming from. He dropped us off first and invited us to come by some time and try some of his heroin. Later.

  I bought the 1959 metallic blue Volvo. It is four on the floor. It leaks some oil, but it runs good. I paid $325. The entire household is very happy. We can sleep in an extra hour. We can go grocery shopping without lugging home bulky paper bags. I can come and go as I please. Later.

  March 29, 1973 Thursday

  I spent the afternoon after class registering my Volvo, for the base and then for the state. Tonight I have the apartment to myself. Everybody else has drawn a late night watch. I found a lady barber on base. She has a civilian shop on the base. She is a professional stylist. She is part of the navy’s program to become more in touch with the civilian population. Some small businesses are allowed to set up shop on the base; a bank, a dry cleaner, drug store and a few others. It’s hard enough to get a good stylist at home I never thought I would find one on a military base. That’s Progressive California for ya. It’s nice to get a haircut that’s not on this side of butchered. She
cuts to the strictest navy guide lines. The difference between her cut and the butchers is; she layers the hair to fit the contours of my head. If I asked a base barber to do that I would get off the chair looking like Moe of the Three Stooges.

  Why is this so important? Let me tell you why, Mr. Journal. My Italian hair has five cowlicks. Cut it short or long it doesn’t matter. The cut needs to follow the direction of the lick. If not I look like I just got out of bed. It stays that way all day. The other reason is I feel that they can’t take away my identity and make us all look alike. In some way this is my way of distinguishing myself from the crowd. It’s very much worth the seven bucks plus tip. Later.

  It’s night time, and for the first time in a long time I am alone, in a home. Night watches don’t count. I got to know some of the neighbors better. My first introduction to some of them was reveling.

  Down to ground level and to the other side of the complex lives a second class petty officer, Brian and his roommate a third class petty officer, they are submariners. They go out for six months, they stay in for six months. When they go out they go down under the water for most of those six months. The sub has a bowling alley and a theater. It takes a special breed of men to be incased in a vessel deep in the oceans depth. It’s a big trust in engineering.

  Brian was an ex biker before they drafted him. He is about my size, both of his arms are covered in tattoos, he has reddish brown wiry hair. He is building a hog in his living room. He is building it from the ground up. I partied with him last night. Another navy man that can drink the beers.

  Troy the resident surfer boy was with us. He had some killer weed. They gave me the low down on the apartment complex. The owners are old hippies, before there were hippies. These apartments rent from week to week. In the off season they can rent for month to month. Out of the eleven apartments available three are rented monthly. Those are the people here on this floor. Three other apartments are rented weekly. They are the tourist they come they go. Behind us on the other side of the alley are the lower rate rentals. Groups of young hippie’s live back there, from month to month.

  Troy is the hot suffer guy. Tall tanned, long blonde hair, great build always shirtless, always barefooted. He’s a great guy very down to earth. Women fall over him like dogs in heat. Funny thing he really doesn’t care. He likes the attention and all that comes with it. What he really likes is surfing. It’s in his family, it’s in his blood. His father was a champion surfer, as was his brother. He’s could care less about competition. He says he’s in it for the fun. “Competition is a downer, man.” His words.

  His brother has a custom surf board shop in Costa Rica. He hollows out the middle of the boards and packs them with cocaine. He sends the boards to Troy. Troy said he is expecting a shipment any time now. I am invited to party with him and some of his friends when it happens.

  Tonight I am sleeping on the couch in my living room. The sounds of the surf is intense with the windows open. Later.

  March 30, 1973, Friday

  I got up early, Mr. Journal. Because I live on the beach, I should do beach things. I threw on my cut offs. I ran down to the boardwalk, I jumped over the wall with ease and down to the warm sand. I raced to the waves, when I was waist deep I dove in. It was fucking wonderful, so damn refreshing and healthy. I’m going to do this every morning.

  After a shower I dressed in my blue work dungarees. To top it off I drove to the base in my own Volvo. I should pick up a hitchhiker. God knows I have gotten my share of rides by sticking out my thumb and waiting for my turn.

  In California, hitchhiking has unwritten rules. Traffic, even on the byway is fast. Finding places to stick out ones thumb is limited. A typical spot has a line. The first person in the line gets the next ride offered. It’s enforced by mob rule. Try and pick up a cute chick in line and you will get attacked by the other people waiting in line. Most of the time a fox would decline the offer anyway, it would be uncool. There is only one exception, that’s us. A military guy can pick up another military guy, no matter where his placement is in line. However, they both need to be in uniform. The catch 22 is military personnel are forbidden to hitchhike while in uniform.

  I stopped at the first intersection that had a line. I told them where I was headed, I’ll take three. I got on the highway, I am feeling pretty good. Maybe this isn’t so bad. The two in the back seat I dropped off after got off my exit on the highway.

  The guy in the passenger seat is going past the base. He is in the same type welding and plumbing school I am in, except he is at a city trade college. I told him all the things that we are required to learn, he said his courses are about the same. His course is twelve months long. Mine is eight weeks. His is free, California residents get free college. Mine is also paid for by taxes. Of course if he flunks out he can go home, not me.

  The guys just finished with breakfast as I was parking. We hurried to class so we can get in line for the test. I’m writing this as I stand in line. Later.

  We all passed. The chief asked me how long have I been welding. I told him last week and he called me a liar. We had half the day off. We took the Volvo off the base and smoked some pot. We went back to the base to go bowling, then to a late afternoon movie. Everything is cheap on the base. Bowling is twenty cents a game, shoes are a dime. The base movie theater is fifty cents. Popcorn and pops are free. After that we bought a case of beer on base and headed home. Later.

  March 31, 1973, Saturday

  It’s late I finally got home. The party at the padres was a gas. So many people. Peter and I were the only people there whom weren’t officers. I acted like I didn’t care and so did they. They were all young. The hot fox that I was hoping to meet was there, so was her boyfriend, besides Padre said it’s against regulations for an officer and noncommissioned to fraternize.

  I was talking to this guy, he was with Legal. They are the navy lawyers. He was interested in Colorado. He asked me a ton of questions. I didn’t mind answering them he was an interesting guy. Padre said he is the biggest practical joker he’s ever met. This guy likes to stir up trouble. He thought Clay and I would get along, we did.

  I don’t know how I navigated the Volvo home but me writing this is proof that I did, Mr. Journal, good night. Later.

  April 1, 1973, Sunday

  This morning is an April Fool’s joke on my head. What a hangover I have, fuck! I’m not doing anything this morning, this afternoon or tonight. Later.

  Troy introduced me to Sherry. She lives in a studio apartment across the alley. We drank beers and smoked pot most of the afternoon and evening. We took a couple of swims throughout the day. Sherry was drawn to California like most everybody else. She is doing odd jobs to pay rent and is just part of the California happening. Sherry is a blonde sweet free spirit 18 year old. She is intelligent and happy. She made it a point; telling me right up front that she doesn’t want to ball me. She just wanted to be friends. It was nice to spend some time with a woman for a change. Her studio looks like a large closet, with a bathroom and the smallest kitchen I ever saw. Hey we live on the beach, we didn’t come here to stay inside. A home is for cleaning, eating and sleeping. I got school tomorrow. Later.

  April 2, 1973, Monday

  It wasn’t so bad driving to school this morning. Things are settling in nicely. Maybe I can do this. I am surrounded mostly by idiots, myself included. The saving grace is I can now escape the madness, to recharge before I have another go at this navy thing.

  This week we finished up the last piece of our vessel projects. I have a watch to night. The guys will take the Volvo home. I’ll spend the night on the base. Later.

  I ate dinner chow with Garza and Moe. All the black guys sit together. They have this special hand shake when they meet up. They bump their hands together in three different ways. They twiddle their fingers hit their hands up high and down low. They call it the black power greeting. They do this every time a new brother sits down. Each brother at the table needs to greet the new brother
. I first saw this on Treasure Island, a typical greeting lasted thirty seconds tops. A new maneuver is added weekly. It now takes a brother 2 minutes before they can sit and eat. That’s per person. Come to a table with 5 black guys and its ten minutes before you can eat.

  Moe my black friend is our personal interpreter when it comes to black guys. Every day that I have eaten with Moe he gets approached by the other black sailors. They can’t understand why he would rather eat with us white guys than with them. “Hey brother go join us. You don’t have to eat with these honkies. “Ya all come join your black brothers, man.” Sometimes I say, “Holy fuck, Moe! I didn’t know you were black. When did you do that?” Or Moe’s answer is, “No, thanks, these guys are all the nigger I can take.” Or my favorite is when he shockingly looks at us and says. “You mother fuckers lied to me! You told me you were black.” Sometimes he will look at them and state bluntly. “Thanks brother I’m color blind. Fuck I must have sat at the wrong table. Thanks for pointing it out for me. How stupid am I?”

  Got to go, Mr. Journal. It’s time for my 2400-hour watch. Later.

  April 3, 1973, Tuesday

  It is early morning I think I avoided a bull shit write up. The watch I just finished last night was in the War Time Communications building. It has a skeleton crew. A petty officer, an ensign and a commander. The ensign was sleeping in his quarters. The petty officer named Kob was manning the communication counsel. It looked like something from Star Trek. I relived the watch, he warned me that Commander Farris was not yet present and I should be on the lookout for him, he left.

  Petty Officer Kob offered me some coffee. The radio was on, Bobby Vinton was singing “I’m Mister Lonely.” I love that song. How about you Mr. Journal. I can’t get it out of my head now.