by T. L. Gould
CLICK. THUMP. SNAP.
CLICK. THUMP. SNAP.
The plastic knee joint of his left leg locked and unlocked as his feet stamped down hard with every lunge forward.
CLICK. THUMP. SNAP.
CLICK. THUMP. SNAP.
Sheryl held onto Earl’s white tee shirt as if it were a hanky. She guided Earl over to the bed and helped him turn around.
CLICK. THUMP. SNAP.
“Told you, Shoff.”
“I never doubted it, Earl.”
“Just sit on the edge of the bed for now, Earl,” Sheryl said softly.
Sheryl climbed on the bed and wrapped her arms around Earl’s waist. I held his left half arm for balance, and Earl sat down on the edge of Rosie’s bed. He pushed against the hardwood floor with his shiny plastic shoes and scooted backwards.
“There now, that wasn’t so bad,” Sheryl said. “Would you like another beer?”
Rosie had already been to the kitchen and back. She set a cold beer and a glass of wine on the nightstand and took my hand as she closed the bedroom door tight.
I took a sip of beer, and Rosie stretched out on the big white and lavender couch, her head in my lap.
The CLICK, THUMP, SNAP echoed in my thoughts like an endless mechanical throbbing.
I looked down at the woman who had first seen Big Al on a bus bench from her front window. She saw nothing that afternoon but a young man with a big smile. She had seen in Big Al and Earl Ray everything that everyone else couldn’t. She looked past what others had stared at and what others turned away from. And Rosie welcomed them into her home. Rosie was not a whore or a prostitute; she was a friend. “Whore” and “prostitute” are too ugly and too vulgar for this beautiful woman who really gives a shit.
Rosie fingered my hair and looked at me with sad eyes. It was the first time I felt like I was in the arms of a real woman. She felt more like a longtime lover than just a miracle acquaintance, and I felt her sadness. And with it, a sudden and profound sorrow sprung from deep inside me, and I couldn’t hold back the rush of feelings I felt for Earl Ray.
“He’s never asked for a fucking thing, you know. Not one goddamn thing. He’s more of a man than I’ll ever be. And don’t dare pity him. He’ll kill you if you do. Don’t let him see you give a shit, either. No, don’t do that. That means he has to give a shit back. That’s the way he is. There’s only so much loyalty for him to give. But, when he does give it to you, it matters. It means something. Ask Ski and Moose and Big Al. Ask any Marine. Ask Jennifer. I’ll never earn it. I’ve tried. I don’t deserve it. He tried to kill me once. He could have, too, but I believe he really didn’t want to. He’s accepted me, but he’ll never trust me. He pushes back on every fucking thing. He pisses me off, but I think he knows I love him like a brother. He deserves more than any of us can ever give him, but he’ll never take anything from anyone he doesn’t trust. Don’t ever owe anybody anything. That’s Earl…and he’s never once asked for a goddamn thing.”
Rosie reached up, collected my tears on the back of her hand, and stared at me for a brief moment, her gray-green eyes searching. “C’mon, Jeremy, let’s go upstairs.”
Rosie’s room at the top of the stairs felt cramped and empty. Missing was the sweet hint of Tabu in the air, the cool whiteness of her bed sheets, the comfort of her soft, pink bathrobe against my face. Missing from this room was the essence of the woman lying next to me. But missing most was the warm, temporary feeling of home that I felt in Rosie’s bedroom downstairs.
Sheryl’s muffled screams came up the stairs like a distant siren.
“Help me! Someone help!”
“Holy shit!” Al cried out from Tammie’s room. “He’s having a flashback! He might be killing her!”
“Oh my God!” Rosie screamed.
“Someone help!” Sheryl’s screams pierced through the closed door of Rosie’s room like ghostly daggers.
“Hurry! Oh God!” She was so hysterical it almost sounded like laughter.
“My God, Al, what do we do?” Tammie screamed.
Big Al nearly fell from my neck as we slid off the bottom stair and my bare feet slipped on the living room carpet.
“Get me in there, Shoff! Quick!” Big Al yelled. His half body was swinging side to side on my back, his bare ass mooning the room with every leap. “Hurry, Shoff!”
We blasted through the door as Sheryl made one last cry for help. It wasn’t the shrill panic scream like the ones before. This time it was a low, sure plea coming from under Earl Ray’s body. It was a voice as calm and comforting as the warm feeling of Rosie’s room.
“Help us,” Sheryl said.
Earl Ray’s naked plastic and flesh body lay on top of Sheryl, pressing her into the mattress like a human waffle maker. Sheryl’s legs were spread eagle around Earl, her knees pressed tight against either side of Earl’s buttocks.
She was holding Earl’s head in both hands, her eyes fixed on Earl’s. “Hold still, Earl. Just hold still.”
Earl Ray’s plastic left leg fitted him high at the top, close to his dick, and Sheryl’s pubic hairs had become pinched between the top edge of the leg and Earl’s thigh. The grip was so tight it was pulling Sheryl’s pubic hairs out by the roots and tearing at her vagina.
“Oh wow. Help us out of this,” Sheryl giggled. “Just hold really still, okay Earl?”
Big Al and I loosened the harness straps from around Earl Ray’s shoulder, gently wiggled the leg loose, and released Sheryl and her pubic hairs from the grip of near-mutilation.
Earl pulled the plastic leg tight over his thigh stump and slid his leg under the sheet. “Get me back to Q,” he said.
“It’s okay, Earl,” Sheryl said as she brushed his hair. “What if we take them off? I’ll be okay, I think.”
“Just get me out of here and get me back to Q.”
“Maybe we can sit in the living room for awhile,” Rosie suggested, looking to me for an answer.
“What do you think, Al?” I asked.
Big Al looked at his friend lying half under the white sheets and looked down at his own naked torso. For the first time since I had seen him swirl his wheelchair through the brown double doors onto 2B, Big Al wasn’t smiling.
“Let’s just get back to Q for now.”
Duty Calls
THE DOCTORS HAD recommended me for “light duty,” and I waited anxiously over the next two weeks to hear from personnel. Of all the temporary duty assignments they could have given me, of all the places they could have sent me, I was appointed Recreational Coordinator for the Special Services department for the rehab wards. That meant I would be staying on Q Ward with my buddies until my final medical review. It also meant I was in charge of the game room: ping-pong, pool table, chess and checkers, the TV, shuffle board, and a whole closet full of other boring crap. But most importantly, and to my thorough enjoyment, it was my “duty” to round up about twenty to twenty-five guys every week for weekend party engagements.
Area VFW, Knights of Columbus, American Legion, and other organizations were anxious to host and give tribute to the combat-wounded Marines and sailors. The calendar was booked solid every Saturday and Sunday for the next two months. These events were “Welcome Home” dinners, clam bakes and picnics at which lots of food and beer was consumed, good and bad music was thoroughly enjoyed, and the incessant monotony of the rehabs was forgotten for a few hours. They were free-flowing, drunken escapes from all things past and future. No attachments, no apologies. The only thing that mattered was here and now. Have fun; you earned it. This is for you.
I couldn’t believe it. The party-at-the-drop-of-a-hat-celebrate-today-to-hell-with-tomorrow-Thai-stick-smoking-pill-popping-on-the-edge-of-give-a-shit-where’s-the-next-beer Jeremy Shoff was appointed the official liaison and chaperone for the rehab wards. It was probably one of the worst personnel decisions the U.S. Navy had ever made, but it was the absolute best decision for the guys on the rehab wards.
How it came about that I was awarded this
most prestigious position I can’t remember, and I never thought about it much. I did, however, do an outstanding job at it.
Every Monday morning, I would contact the hosting organizations, confirm the dates and times for the upcoming weekend, and begin filling in the attendance roster. A core group of about ten were permanently on the list. If I failed to include someone, it would have cost me my life. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, I would make the rounds to the other rehab wards to complete the roster. We were never allowed more than twenty-five, and that included me.
Even as the word got out that these were spectacular events, it wasn’t always easy to enlist another ten or so to join in. The first three or four guys beyond our core group always seemed to come easy. They were ready. They shared a give-a-shit optimism that the main group all seemed to have. Life will go on whether or not I do.
Others feared leaving the shelter of the hospital for the first time, especially when it meant “going public.” No amount of coaxing could convince them it was okay. The hospital could wrap you comfortably in its cocoon of septic smells, constant warmth of drugs, and a feeling that home could never be anywhere else but here. For some, leaving this harbor of comfort and security would prove to be harder than combat.
There were those who had already experienced the pain and hurt from the staring and pointing. Usually it was on the visit going home for the first time since leaving for Vietnam. It was a pain far greater than the wounds from the land mine or the shrapnel. This pain pierced the heart and would last the rest of his life. You couldn’t skin graft this and wrap it in gauze and put it through enough physical therapy to toughen it up. Life would do that. But the memory of the first stabbing stare at his half legs dangling over the wheelchair or the plastic arm and hook under his shirtsleeve would never go away or ease with time. These were the guys who would eventually give a shrug of “so what” and sign on.
After a few weekends of non-stop partying, we had a permanent roster. It would change a little each week depending on surgeries, attitudes, home leaves, and discharges. For our ever-ready gang of seven, an established group of regulars, and the weekly new acquaintances, the next few months would be extraordinary.
The Clam Bake
THE SPECIAL SERVICES department was housed in a makeshift concrete block room about the size of a four-car garage. The two-desk office shared the space with a ping-pong table, a small billiards table, a “lounge” area with a color TV, a Coke machine, and a table with chairs for board games—which we properly referred to as the “bored” games.
The office and game room areas were squeezed between L Ward and M Ward, and my desk was jammed into the corner where I sat facing the wall. The assortment of business supplies—clipboards, three-ring binders, Rolodex, pens and pencils, stapler, phone book, and file folders—was everything I needed to keep the fun and entertainment flowing. We reverently referred to it as the Party Desk.
As the newest member to the very small staff of three, it was my great fortune to be reporting to one of the most respected enlisted men in the Navy: eleven-year Navy veteran, Chief Petty Officer Douglas P. Randall.
He stood six feet four inches tall and weighed around 260 pounds. He answered only to the name Tiny. His thick, prematurely silver hair fell forward, partially covering a long, bulging scar across the left side of his forehead. A few tiny bits of shrapnel dotted the left cheek and temple of his otherwise jolly, Captain Kangaroo-like face. He was constantly squeezing his thick mustache between his thumb and forefinger. It, too, was silver.
Tiny was one of the very-early-wounded Navy corpsmen in Vietnam. He had been wearing that scar and shrapnel for more than four years now. Severe headaches, paired with an occasional black-out, could have gotten him a medical discharge. He didn’t want it. He had convinced the medical review board at three separate hearings that he was fit to do the job. He was more than fit. He understood the physical and psychological needs of the wounded better than anyone. He was the only combat-wounded Navy corpsman that any of us had ever heard of who was still on active duty. The Bronze and Silver Star he was awarded for saving five wounded Marines on that day more than four years ago weighed high on the board’s decision.
His blue eyes, riding above high, rosy cheeks, were a softening contrast to the permanent lacerated frown on his forehead. His eyes reflected a deep compassion for those suffering, the many he had nursed back, and those he felt he had personally failed who had died under his care. Tiny had a comforting, everything-is-okay look—the look you see in Santa Claus in the storybooks.
Tiny was not one to hover over those who were working for him. He gave me lots of room to do my job.
I went at my inaugural assignment with the gusto and blindness of a sixteen-year-old on the day he passes his driving test. After all, a local brewery was the main sponsor, the clam bake was being held on the hospital grounds, and it was being sanctioned by the brass themselves. It would be a great way to encourage guys to get out of the building for longer than it takes to smoke a cigarette. It was also an opportunity for the higher-ups to show they really gave a shit.
My groundbreaking venture into the party and entertainment business was the First Annual Philadelphia Naval Hospital Clam Bake and Concert. It was indeed the first-ever, and as it turned out, probably the last.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number at the top of the sponsor page.
“Hello,” the young female voice said.
“Yes. Hello? This is Seaman Shoff with Special Services, Philly Naval hospital. Can I speak with Diane DeMarco please?”
“Oh, we’ve been expecting your call, Mr. Shoff.”
“Uh, it’s not Mister. Just call me Jeremy.”
“Okay, Jeremy. Please hold, I’ll get Diane for you.”
“Hello, this is Diane.”
“Yes ma’am, this is Seaman Shoff at the Philly Naval hospital. I was calling about the clam bake for next Sunday.”
“Hello, Mr. Shoff,” the more mature-sounding voice said. “I’m so glad you called. We’re getting close, and we have a hundred details on this end to work out. We have about forty volunteers ready. How are things there?”
“I think we have close to a hundred and fifty guys on the sheet, maybe another twenty more to add,” I said with a whole lot of pride. I had limped around the hospital for the past two weeks getting the word out and filling the pages on my clipboard.
“Wow, that’s great. Just so you know, we’re placing the order today for the chicken, corn, clams, and, of course, the beer.”
“Our guys can’t wait. Oh, I forgot to mention how much we appreciate what the Schmitt Brewery is doing. And we can’t believe the Bobby Vinton impersonator is actually going to perform here.”
“We’re excited, too, and just thrilled that we’re able to do this. Let’s touch base again on Wednesday or Thursday.”
I spent the rest of the week confirming delivery schedules and drawing up a layout for the band’s flatbed, the beer truck, and the food stations. Tiny helped me work out the details with the table and chair company. “I think we’ll need at least thirty six-foot-long tables and four chairs for each table,” Tiny told me as he penciled out the rectangles on the layout sheet. “That will leave lots of legroom for those guys wearing their plastic limbs and plenty of elbow room for the guys in wheelchairs.”
Paper plates and plastic spoons and forks were ordered, in addition to a mix of sodas and tubs of ice. Saturday afternoon meant a final round through the wards to sign on any latecomers and post reminder bulletins on all the elevator and ward doors.
My guardian angel was surely watching over me, as the weather that Sunday was even better than perfect. A late morning sun sprayed down on the tables wrapped with white plastic. Not a cloud in the sky, the summer-like temperatures were coupled with near-zero humidity.
A long, flatbed trailer was parked about twenty yards from the first row of tables; amplifiers, drums, and microphones were set between monster-size speaker bookends. A refrigerated tr
uck with those magical words, Schmitt Brewery, sat purring and waiting to release its nectar. Ears of corn crackled in butter, half-chickens baked over fiery charcoal, and giant clams steamed in boilers. The aromas pulled everyone to the outdoor festival.
The party-starved streamed out of the doorways in wheelchairs, on crutches, or leaning on canes. Those with both legs or with one good leg and one artificial leg hobbled to their paper plate settings. Wheelchairs were forced across the grassy landscape and nudged up tight against a table edge. A few guys were rolled out to the rim of the asphalt and grass, lying flat on their backs on gurneys. The First Annual Philadelphia Naval Hospital Clam Bake and Concert was underway.
A warm-up band blasted “Born to be Wild” into the calm afternoon air. Shovelfuls of hot clams, mounds of half-chickens, and baskets of buttery corn cobs, still wrapped in leafy fire-dried sheaths, laden the tables. And the never-ending flow of pitchers of Schmitt’s Golden Lager filled the bellies and the brains of the nearly two hundred pleasure-starved partygoers. It was great to be alive.
Animated chatter and unbridled laughter flowed from every table as the all-female volunteer brigade delivered pitchers of beer like buckets down a fire line.
The band and the Bobby Vinton impersonator received a standing ovation (of sorts) with the opening song, “Roses Are Red.” They followed with “Blue Velvet” and a little later, “Blue on Blue” and “Sealed with a Kiss.” The band was great, and if you closed your eyes, you couldn’t tell the guy wasn’t Bobby Vinton himself.
I can’t be sure of the exact moment when things went to Hell in a hand basket, but it happened almost instantly. The songs of lovers past, reminders of love forsaken, and heartaches now burning fresh began to simmer the deep and profound loneliness no one ever talked about.
The band finished with “Mr. Lonely” and a dedication to their special audience with “Coming Home Soldier.” Somewhere in the middle of the second chorus, a swirl of emotions swept through the festivities like a funeral pyre. My guardian angel had taken a sudden exit.