Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe: The Nigel Logan Stories (Vol. 1) (Volume 1)

by Kirk Jockell

  Stiles slammed his fist down onto the table. “Goddamn you!”

  “Sir, I’m sorry. Your duty section is intact. The officer of the deck has been informed. I have the watch. Everything is in good hands. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

  I turned and walked to the door. Stiles was furious, out of control with anger. He pounded his fist on the table again and again. “Chief! You haven’t heard the end of this, you insubordinate son of a bitch!”

  “I figure you’re right, sir.” I thought for a moment and said, “No hard feelings, sir. You have to do, what you have to do, and I have to do what chiefs do. It all works out in the end. Trust me. Good evening, sir.”

  Then, I opened the door and walked out. Halfway down the passageway I realized I had to go back. I couldn’t help myself.

  I stepped back in the wardroom. “Sorry to interrupt again, sir. But I was thinking you may want to go ahead and give the skipper a call. Call him at home, sir. I’m sure he’d want to know about this.”

  “You are excused, Chief. Get the hell out of this wardroom! I will speak to the old man in the morning. I won’t disturb his evening over some rogue, inconsiderate, and disrespectful CPO. I will leave him to his peace.”

  “This? You mean, tonight? Our little disagreement? Well… no, not at all, sir. I wouldn’t bother him with that at all. But you might want to inform him that Chief Barry’s wife is about to have a baby. He will probably want to send flowers too. He may want you to go ahead and arrange to have something sent. You know, from himself and the crew. We both use the same florist. Would you like the number?”

  “Get out of my wardroom! Now! Go! Before I call the Master at Arms.”

  “As you wish, sir. Thank you.” I turned and exited, a smile cracked my face as soon as the door slammed. What an Asshole.

  I went to my office and sat at my desk. It was exhausting dealing with Commander Stiles. “He’s such a dick,” I said aloud. Then I thought of a classic line from a Robin Williams movie, Good Morning Vietnam. The young Adrian Cronauer, played by Williams, was being dressed down by Sergeant Major Dickerson while he was being involuntarily discharged from service. As Cronauer left the office, he stopped at the door to say, “You know? You’re in more dire need of a blow job than any white man in history.” I smiled and laughed.

  The skipper would have mixed emotions about what transpired between Stiles and me. I knew that. If there was one person that dislikes Stiles more than I do, it’s the skipper. He hated the fucker too. As a proper course of good order and discipline, that isn’t something he would share with anyone except maybe his executive officer and even that was unlikely.

  Captain Charles Matthews is the consummate naval professional, an exceptional officer and even better commanding officer. He is fair and very good to his crew. In exchange, he holds those that serve underneath him to the highest standards. He expects nothing short of excellence. Rarely does the crew let him down. I did and felt bad about it. I like him, always have.

  It wasn’t planned, but the captain and I have served together under two other commands. I was reassigned to the USS Davenport, a Perry Class Frigate out of Mayport, FL the year I made chief. He was finishing up his last few months as the ship’s First Lieutenant. He was over the deck department. I didn’t work for him, but we worked together until he departed for his next duty station.

  Several years later our paths crossed again. We found ourselves in Naples, Italy. We had shore duty with the Sixth Fleet Command, on the Naval Support Activity, Capodichino. Over the years we grew to admire and respect each other. We formed a friendship built on trust, a trust that allowed him to use me as a sounding board whenever he needed to vent, always in the strictness of confidence. We became close friends off duty, but always sailors when it counted.

  Over beers or whiskey, we had more than one conversation about Commander Stiles, so I knew how he felt. But that wouldn’t take away from the fact that I had disrespected and embarrassed Stiles, especially in front of other junior officers. As good as the moment felt, I would have to own up and make it right for Charley. That won’t be a problem, anything for the old man. I would call him later to give him a heads-up and to apologize.

  Before I did anything else, I had to call Kim, break the news to her, and ruin what was set to be a perfect evening. I looked at the phone, took a deep breath, and picked it up.

  She took the news worse than I thought. Disappointment was expected. Hell, I was disappointed, but I wasn’t expecting real anger. I thought I could rely on her sense of duty, her understanding of the Navy, and how sometimes things don’t always work out the way you plan.

  I could have applied that logic to Chief Barry. Sorry shipmate. That just sucks. Too bad you’re going to miss it. Your wife will be fine. Welcome to the Navy. Enjoy your duty. I got to go.

  That wouldn’t have been right, though. Missing the birth of his first child would carry far more disappointment than my missing some stupid play. And besides, if they decide to have more children, chances are very high he won’t be around when they are born. The life of a quartermaster is spent at sea.

  “Change of plans? You have got to be kidding me, right?” she said. “I mean, you’re serious? We’re not going?”

  “I’m so sorry, Kim. You can take a girl friend. Go without me. It’s one of those unavoidable things,” I said.

  “It is one of those bullshit things. That’s what it is. And what do you mean by unavoidable? That’s horseshit. He knew we had plans. He could have asked someone else to stand in for him. Hell, you could have pulled someone else, so don’t give me that unavoidable shit.”

  “Kim. Dammit. I said I was sorry. And he didn’t ask me to do anything, and I didn’t have anyone else to impose on, not that I would have anyway.”

  “You mean you, you volunteered?”

  “Yes, I did, but…”

  “You fucking volunteered! Well, isn’t that wonderful?”

  I didn’t say a thing. I got quiet while she carried on, bitching about one thing or another. She was revealing a side that I hadn’t yet seen, a side I didn’t like.

  She wasn’t capable of looking past her own wants and needs. She wasn’t even willing to consider the position I was in. I was disappointed too, but the needs of our people far outweigh either of our wants. Things were going downhill and instead of an argument with her boyfriend, Chief Logan surfaced to deal with a spoiled, out-of-line junior officer.

  “That’s enough. You can stand down, LT, and listen. Obviously, you haven’t learned the value of taking care of your people. You’ve never put anyone above yourself. You wear a Navy uniform, but you have no idea the sacrifices others make when it’s worn. But how would you? You’re a nurse, in a safe, little hospital. You work your nine-to-five each day and go home, like a regular job. You get to play Navy, but are clueless to the real work of the fleet and what the Navy does. That’s the difference between you and me. You’re in the Navy and I’m a sailor. Unlike you, I know the sacrifices my men make. I ask a lot of them, so, when their backs are against the wall, I’m obligated to step in. Do you get that? I’m obligated. And that obligation runs far deeper than any night on the town, regardless of the circumstances. It always will. Are we clear on that?”

  It got quiet on the phone. There was only static from the terrible ship-to-shore phone connection.

  Kim, finally said, “Nigel, I …”

  Frustrated, I interrupted but spoke in a more understanding tone. I only wanted to get off the line before I made matters worse. “Listen. Grab a girlfriend. Go to the play. The tickets are under my name at the theater. I’ll call to let them know you’ll be picking them up. Enjoy yourself. Perhaps one day you’ll understand, but right now I got to go. I need to prepare for the eight o’clock reports. I’ll talk to you later.” Then I hung up the phone. Dammit!

  We wouldn’t talk again for months.

  Before I retired and left town, Kim and I tried to reconcile. She wanted to work out our issues and rega
in what we once had. I was receptive, but skeptical. How could things be the same? We were enjoying modest success when my life was turned upside down, thrown in a spin. I was consumed with legal problems that left no time for a personal life, certainly not a relationship. That was the last thing I needed or wanted. When I retired, I disappeared and left without saying goodbye.

  Looking down at my fish cleaning station I was trying to remember the details. Kim had called a few weeks ago. I was reluctant to answer, but I did. It was the first contact with my prior life since arriving in Port St. Joe. We spoke on the phone for about an hour, and I was thankful she didn’t bring up the past. We talked about this and that, her promotion to lieutenant commander, and everything else that was going on in her life. Then she invited herself for a visit, to spend a few days so we could talk and spend time together. She caught me in a weak moment and I agreed.

  She was to fly in late afternoon on a Monday, which was today, and leave the following Thursday. Crap! Why didn’t I put it on the calendar?

  I worked fast to finish up the last trout, butchering up the filet. I left more meat on the bone than I put in the freezer bag. That pissed me off. Stupid me. I ran inside the house and washed my hands, then called her. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Kim. I’m sorry. I had something come up. I’m nowhere near the airport. Still at the house and about to leave.”

  “Did you forget I was coming?”

  “No, not at all,” I lied. “It’s crazy around here. Sit tight. It will take a while to get there, but I’m on my way.”

  After a three-minute Navy shower, I threw on some clothes. Five minutes later, a little past 1830, I was on the road, racing down Highway 98 towards Panama City. The tourist traffic in Mexico Beach slowed me down. With no place to pass, all I could do was grin and bear it. Why didn’t I put it on the calendar, dammit?

  When I crossed the bridge on the other side of Mexico Beach things opened up, I pressed hard. Her words came back to me. Did you forget I was coming? More than that, it was the lie I told that kept ringing in my ear, haunting me. No, not at all. No, not at all. That bothered me more. Then my phone bonged again. What now?

  This time it was an email, a Google calendar alert. I read the screen: Remember! Poker tonight with Joe Crow and the boys, 1930.

  I drove on for a few minutes, listening to the words that were ping ponging in my head. Did you forget I was coming? No, not at all. No, not at all. Did you forget I was coming? “Dammit,” I said. Then I looked again at the new email reminder on the phone.

  Joe Crow and his wife Ruby have a place out on the Cape. One of the best lots, ever. It is situated on the bay side, on the cut behind Pig Island. It’s the best of two worlds, beautiful and well protected from both the weather of the gulf and the bay. It’s peaceful, quiet, and hosts a million dollar view.

  Joe is a retired tugboat captain from Mobile, Alabama. He’s a spirited, colorful sort, as most people are that have made their living at sea. He wasn’t your typical tug operator that serviced cargo ships entering port and making berth at a terminal. He was a seagoing tug captain. He used to pull loaded barges all over the Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean.

  We met one evening while I was warming stool seventeen at the Reid Avenue Bar and Package, The City Bar as Joe likes to call it. Candice, the full time bartender, introduced us and kept our glasses full. We were two sailors in a bar. It didn’t take long before we hit it off. For hours we swapped lies and yarns. A few stories may have contained a thread or two of truth, but sailors know the difference. Either way, Joe was a new friend.

  Joe likes to play cards. He and several other locals get together about once a week for poker night. He’s been after me to join them for months: guy time, poker, food, and beer. It sounded like fun. I wanted to go, but it seemed I always had something going on. But, one night last week, while picking crabs at their place, he brought it up again. His wife Ruby put her hands down on the table and said, “Nigel! Please! Would you please go? If you do, then maybe he’ll shut up about it.”

  I laughed and pulled out my phone to look at my schedule. It was an open date, or at least I thought it was, so I committed. “Absolutely!” I said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” It was the truth.

  Eyes focused straight ahead, I was running wide open to Panama City. I was frustrated. Now I had another voice in my head. Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I found myself caught between a truth and a lie. I slammed my fist on the steering wheel. Son of a bitch!

  The car started to slow. I wasn’t thinking and had taken my foot off the gas pedal. I damn near stopped in the middle of the road. A car passed me fast. Its horn blaring the whole time brought me around. Damn, Logan. Get off of the highway before you kill somebody. I pulled over to the side of the road.

  What a day. It had been a long one, and I was tired. I picked up the phone and made a call.

  She answered on the first ring. “Kim,” I said. “I’m sorry. I have to be truthful. I’m not coming to get you.”

  She didn’t like what I had to say and who could blame her. The truth was that I had forgotten she was coming. I had no excuse. I guess I didn’t want to see her. I wasn’t ready to dig up the past and no short visit was going to change that, not now, net ever. I apologized and told her it would be best if she went back home. I told her to stay a few days in Panama City if she liked, but we wouldn’t be seeing each other. I apologized one last time.

  I listened as she lambasted me with colorful metaphors, calling me every name in the book. I let her have her say as she went on and on. There was no argument from me. I didn’t have one, and long before she hung up the phone I was already headed back to Port St. Joe. I had a poker game to go to.

  It was midmorning when I pulled into the filling station to top off my pickup truck. The automatic nozzle clicked off at $46.37, but I squeezed in some more, rounding it off to $48.00. I like stopping at a full dollar amount. At the counter I reached into my pocket. Oh Crap! I pulled the pockets of my shorts inside out; piles of lint fell to the floor. Damn! Then I remembered.

  My night of poker with Joe Crow and company went pretty well as I expected: A wash. They cleaned me out. My fifty dollar buy-in began to dwindle after the very first hand. I never recovered. I won a few hands, but I couldn’t build a single dollar of surplus. However, what I lost financially was more than made up for by good times, good laughs, and good food with new friends. I’ll do it again, if invited back. And I’m guessing, as long as I’m willing to show up and leave my fifty bucks somewhere around the room, I’ll always have a seat at the table.

  I’m not much of a player, never have been. On my last ship, my fellow chiefs played all the time. I never paid them much mind, never really had much of an interest. It wasn’t my thing. So on this first night at the table, neither lady nor beginner’s luck decided to shine on me. I heard the words of Kim Tillman echo in my head. You’re a loser, Nigel Logan. Nothing but a loser. I laughed to myself.

  I looked up and smiled at the clerk. He asked, “A little short?”

  “Yeah. Looks that way at the moment.”

  “That’s okay. Come back and pay me later.”

  “That would be great, Timmy,” I said reading the name off his name tag. “I appreciate it. I’ll be back a little later after I make a run to the bank.”

  As I left, I got to thinking. What just happened was one of the great things about this town and area. There is a level of trust and honesty about those that live here. Strangers get caught off guard by the unexpected kindness.

  There are few places left in the world where you’d be able to drive away owing any merchant any sum of money at all. Timmy isn’t even the owner of the store. He’s a clerk, and a damn good one too. Not worried a lick, he knows I’ll be back.

  My bank isn’t a financial institution, but a lockbox where I keep a large stash of money, enough to sustain me. I withdrew all but a couple hundred dollars out of my Navy Federal Cr
edit Union accounts before I left Tidewater. My naval pension goes into one of those accounts, but I haven’t withdrawn the first dollar since leaving. I could have used my debit or credit card, but I didn’t want to. Others back in Norfolk might be keeping an eye on those accounts, so I pay cash for everything. I don’t want to leave an electronic footprint of my whereabouts. If they want to find me that bad, they could do it the hard way.

  Back at the house, I walked in and closed all the blinds for privacy. The old house I rent was originally built with a small fireplace. For some reason, it had been closed off with tongue-and-groove wood paneling to match the rest of the room, but it is anything but seamless. With the television moved away from the wall, there’s no hiding the patchwork. The chimney on the roof is another hint that the place had once been heated by fire.

  I worked the makeshift panel from the wall and took out my lockbox. I punched in my secure code and opened it. I looked inside and grinned. Seeing those wrapped bundles of $100.00 bills would make anybody smile, each weighing in at ten thousand dollars. There are sixteen full bundles and a partial, almost one hundred seventy thousand dollars. They represent the fruits of a frugal life in the navy. I slipped a couple bills out of the partial bundle and put everything back as I found it. Perfect.

  I strolled back into the filling station. Timmy was behind the counter reading an old Spiderman comic book, or graphic novel as they are known these days. He was wearing white gloves and handling the thing as if it were one of the original copies of the Declaration of Independence. Turns out, to him, it practically is. He’s a collector.

  “What you got there, Timmy?”

  He looked up, carefully closed it and gently put it down on a piece of black felt. “It’s a classic. A 1963 Spiderman comic. It’s from the first series, Death Without Warning. I got it yesterday. I won it off an online auction. I was looking over its condition before putting it back into its case.”

  “How much did that set you back?” I asked.