(Working Title, Unedited)
"Bobby's Place"
Boot camp wasn’t bad. The Sarge, he kinda likes me, but I’m worried it’s in that kinda way. But I’m out walking on a beach in Key West, so…
Housing is good. I got a flat with water pressure that kicks my ass in the shower and water hot enough to melt lead if I want it. My housemate’s a reader, and I rarely hear a peep outta him. Not that he’s an asshole or anything, it’s just I’m a talker but he ain't much of a listener.
The sky here is three hundred and sixty degrees of awesome. I’ve never seen so many different ways clouds can form, roll, and wisp away in the heat of the day. So many birds too; I saw a pelican about an hour ago surrounded by these smaller white birds someone told me were Ibises. Cool beans!
Thinking of going for a dip, but I don’t want to get my skivvies all wet and have’em bleed through my shorts when I go to the tiki bar on Duval Street. I hope to see that girl Mindy again. She was hot and maybe a little dumb, but she was nice. We talked for almost an hour before she had to start her shift.
After that, I went to this bar that supposedly Hemmingway used to hang out in. I’m sure it’s changed quite a bit since then, become commercial and all that. Pours were light. If you wanted an honest single, you had to order a double, but it was a fun joint, hopping like Saturday, but on a Wednesday.
Man! People like to drink around here.
Met an honest to goodness celebrity on Monday night, Jimmy Buffet. I know his music from pop’s playing it at Ricky’s Place on Faulkner whenever he wanted to get ma on the dance floor. Jimmy was more her speed than his, though.
Anyway, he came off his set and said he’d seen me mouthing the lyrics to “Brown-eyed Girl” and crying. Said he wondered why I was doing that. I told him I didn’t realize I was, but that it was one of ma’s favorite songs to dance to and she died last year. He said he was sorry and asked if I wanted a beer. I said, “sure!” And, before I knew it, I was hanging with him and his band, passing on a blunt that was being passed around but taking full advantage of some great top-shelf scotch.
We shot the shit about a lot of crazy stuff, deep-sea fishing, screwing on the beach, and real estate of all things. I had to call a cab to get back to the base before Call to Quarters. I barely made it. Jeremiah hadn’t been on the gate, I mighta not.
Last weekend, me and my Buddy, Scottsdale—I know it's an odd name but its ‘cause he’s from there—we went down to the Sunset Celebration. They have one every night.
It's kinda cool, a big collection of tents where you can buy a lot of touristy shit, hula skirts, coconut beads, etcetera. It has a carnival-like feel to it. They have a guy who trains cats to do all sorts of tricks, like walk a tightrope upside down or jump through burning hoops into some girl's arms. I think she might have been pretty once, but most of her teeth are black from coke now. He shouldn't let her smile so much.
There's this other guy who's painted all chrome silver everywhere, including his hair. It looks like it even goes down inside the guy's swim briefs. That's all he wears. Otherwise, he's practically naked. Might as well be too 'cause you can see his schlong right through the damn bathing suit. He's totally cut, not a visible pad of fat anywhere on him.
He stands totally still, like a statue, holding a silver apple in one hand and a silver bird in the other. He doesn't make eye contact with the crowd either, and even if they taunt him like crazy, he never reacts, never flinches, smiles, or looks anywhere but straight ahead, past them, as if they weren't there.
He stands totally still, like a statue, holding a silver apple in one hand and a silver bird in the other. He doesn't make eye contact with the crowd either, and even if they taunt him like crazy, he never reacts, never flinches, smiles, or looks anywhere but straight ahead, past them, as if they weren't there.
So, Scottsdale makes me a bet he can get the guy to smile or flinch.
"Aw, y'ain't gonna hurt the guy now," I said.
"No! Fuck no. But how much are you willing to part with if I can make him smile?"
"I dunno," I said. I'd never seen anything like this metal-guy and I didn't know how well he could stay in character.
Maybe Scottsdale could get him to lose it; though, I'd seen some people say some pretty awful shit to the guy to get his attention, and not once did he even seem to notice or react at all. So, I agreed to twenty.
Maybe Scottsdale could get him to lose it; though, I'd seen some people say some pretty awful shit to the guy to get his attention, and not once did he even seem to notice or react at all. So, I agreed to twenty.
"Twenty bucks?" said Scottsdale. "Alright, but you need to wait until there aren't that many people gathered around."
"Where'm I goin'?" I told him.
A few minutes later, Scottdale's standing right in front of the guy and, with no onlookers about, he whips out his dick and shakes it at the performer.
Nothing. The guy doesn't even drop his eyes to look at it.
"Aw, c'mon," says Scottsdale, "you know it's bigger than yours. Tell me you don't want to look."
The chrome apple waivered a bit, but I wasn't sure it was in response to Scottsdale or the guy was getting tired of holding the thing out in front of him the way he was; ya know, like when my dad used to test us kids by making us hold books out at our sides till one of us gave in and dropped our arms. The winner got their allowance that week. The loser was always me.
An old couple emerged from the dark between two kiosks as Scottsdale reeled in his sizable schlong. The old woman laughed and said, "You'll need to be more inventive, young man. He's been doing this for years...and he's blind."
I looked behind the guy and, sure enough, a white cane with a red tip leaned against the side of one of the kiosks.
I laughed so hard I almost wet myself, and Scottsdale turned bright red.
I blew the twenty bucks on a couple beers for us at Sloppy Joe's.
Afterward, Scottsdale said we should check out this joint off Duval called Bobby's Place. He said it was a biker bar and that when there weren't many bikers in town, the drinks were stronger because the barmaids were desperate for tips.
I didn't have to be back on base before midnight. It was only eight-thirty, so I agreed to go.
The bar was barely visible, set back in an alcove of smaller daytime businesses that were totally dark. There was no neon open sign or flashy shingle. It was one of those places you either knew or you didn't, otherwise, you probably weren't welcome.
We were in civies, jeans, and Ts under tropical Hawaiian shirts—in other words, we looked nothing like bikers and a lot like tourists.
"How'd ya find out about this place?" I asked Scottsdale.
The bartender was pretty much what I expected, a bearded giant in a t-shirt covered in daggered skulls and wearing a leather biker cap emblazoned with a flaming silver skull above the brim. His arms were bigger than my thighs and every inch of them was covered in tattoos depicting drugs, guns, and naked ladies writhing in ecstasy around each forearm like they were getting off on the guy's rippling muscles beneath them.
There were only two other patrons in the bar sitting off in one dark corner, a man and his wife or girlfriend. She looked as if she'd spent too many years on the back of a bike without a helmet to protect her face from the sun and the wind. She mighta been thirty-something, but she looked ancient.
The guy was your typical weekend biker type, shaved face with only the stubble he'd let grow out over a few days vacation and just as tanned as his lady friend. He turned around, gave me and Scottsdale a nod, then turned back to his drink and the dry, crusty-lipped smile the lady was flashing at him. Her smile looked mischievous as if he had just told her a dirty joke.
Two waitresses puffing away on cigarettes entered from the small kitchen behind the bar and took notice of us immediately. They quickly discussed who'd be serving us and one of them came toward us while the other slipped behind the giant and began arranging bottles on the liquor shelves.
"Hi, guys," she said and invited us to take a seat at the bar. Scottsdale pointed to a table much closer to the door and I felt a little relieved. It wasn't that the bartender was intimidating; he didn't hold a candle to Sarge. It was just that we were in unfamiliar territory and a seat facing the door was always preferable to giving any other patrons likely to enter the place our backs. It was how we were trained.
"That's fine," the girl said. "Sit wherever you like. As you can see, we're not that busy yet." She was pretty, blonde, sweet smile—all her teeth looked intact anyway—and wearing a solid black tee tied above her flat belly and a tight pair short-shorts that looked as if they were held together at the crotch by maybe two or three threads at the most.
"What can I get for you tonight? We got a two for one special on well drinks. I could bring you a couple of beer backers for those."
She was standing with her hands on her hips, pushing her crotch forward to the point it almost rested on the small round black table. Scottsdale shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and I had to hold back a smirk, feeling excitement stirring in my own lap.
"That sounds good," said Scottsdale. "We can start there. That cool with you, Chandler?" That's me, by the way, Ivan Chandler, an E1 Private who won the lottery of being shipped to this base fresh outta boot camp.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the girl's upper thighs, but I managed to nod barely enough to agree. As she walked away, the lower third of her ass showed beneath those incredibly short shorts, and I asked myself why such a hot girl would be working in a dive like this. It took a few seconds before my heart rate returned to normal and un-pitch the tent in my lap.
"Fucking parameter alert or what?" said Scottsdale.
"Probably that bartender's girlfriend," I said.
"So what?" Scottsdale said.
"So, I'd keep your eyes and hands to yourself until we know better is all."
"Jesus, Chandler, you a fucking nun or something?" Scottsdale said. He was smiling so I knew he was kidding, which made me worry a little he might not keep his hands to himself.
When the girl came back to the table, both of us made the effort not to notice the beauty mark on her upper thigh. But, since I'm mentioning it, I obviously couldn't help myself and neither could Scottsdale because he brought it up the moment after she left the drinks, collected the money with a wrinkled-nose smile, and walked back into the kitchen.
"Wonder if she has one anywhere else," Scottsdale said. He was smirking in a way that made me wonder if we were going back to the base with black eyes or a great memory. Either way, I knew it was going to be an effort to get us both back before the Call. I'm no mama's boy. I'm always up for an adventure. But with the only thing at stake being Scottsdale's ability to dip his wick or not against a possible AWOL, I became less enthused about tipping back more than a couple beers and another shot or two.
By ten-thirty, we'd blown well past half a dozen brews and more than double the number of shots I'd agreed with my better nature to have. I was feeling no pain and neither was Scottsdale.
The two girls tag-teamed our table, fawning over both of us, not like a couple of back-alley hookers, just friendly enough to keep coaxing fives and tens outta Scottsdale's wallet, which he graciously produced whenever one of them touched his shoulder or bent far enough over the table to give us a glimpse of their tits.
The bartender hadn't seemed to mind the attention Scottsdale gave the girls. In fact, he laughed when the girls flirted with Scottsdale whose arousal was much clearer than my own. Personally, I kept a lid on mine. I knew once eleven-thirty rolled around it was time to call a cab and call it a night even though I was flattered by their compliments.
"Usually, it's one good-looking guy and one ugly guy," the brunette said. "But both you guys are pretty hot. I can't believe you don't have girlfriends."
"Who says I don't?" Scottsdale boasted. "Maybe I have a couple back in L.A."
"I bet you do," said the blonde. "But you're getting pretty worked up for a guy who loves two women."
"Love?" said Scottsdale. "No one said anything about love." Then he admitted he didn't have anyone waiting for him back home in Cali. The girls giggled, this time producing a pair of tens from Scottsdale's wallet.
The couple at the other table were enjoying the show. They sent over a round of drinks and Scottsdale, showing off, sent two more back, thanking them with a sloppy toast to their "eternal health." They laughed really hard at that. Their laughter had a really strange ring to it, I thought. Sort of mocking. But Scottsdale didn't notice anything odd and just shot them two-thumbs-up before throwing back one of the bourbons they bought us. I left mine on the table, knowing one more would affect what little good judgment I had left.
The brunette noticed.
"You're not gonna drink that?" she asked.
I looked at my watch; it was a quarter after eleven.
"Naw," I said. "We gotta get back to base soon."
The girls' eyes brightened and their smiles got even brighter.
"Army men?" the blonde teased. "You look like tourists."
"He's army," said Scottsdale, "I'm airforce."
"You're not fucking airforce, Scottsdale!" I said.
"I outrank you," he said.
"Big whoop! You're an E2," I said.
"I don't care," the blonde replied, ruffling Scottsdale's hair. "I think all soldiers are sexy."
"Soldiers in training, ya mean," I said. "We ain't been off the base yet."
My head was swimming but I remember the meaty bartender laughing really hard and sending over another complimentary round of beers I felt obligated to take at least a few swigs from.
When he went back to arranging bottles on a shelf I sat the beer aside and asked Scottsdale if he was ready to go.
"Are ya kidding me, man?" he said, then pounded the fresh beer like it was water. "Don't ya want to live a little?"
Dead soldiers were piling up on the small table and the smell of their rapid staleness was making me nauseous. I asked the brunette if she could take them away.
"Sure!" she said. "I'll bring you a fresh one."
"No!" I must have said too loud because everyone suddenly turned and looked at me as if I'd said something really awful. The moment passed quickly, though. Scottsdale's smile returned as he reached up to stroke the blonde's loose curls.
She pulled away, but stayed playfully close by and said,"
The couple in the corner started laughing too, that odd in-on-the-joke sort of laughter that was making me more uneasy by the minute.
Everyone was laughing but me. Scottsdale was laughing so hard at one point his face turned bright red and he drooled spit all over the back of his beer hand and onto the table where I could see the faces of the two servers laughing along with him.
I couldn't understand what was so funny. My head was swimming and I felt bile rising in the back of my throat. I'd always been able to hold my booze pretty well so I didn't understand why I was feeling as if I was gonna hurl.
"What's wrong, soldier?" the blonde said, giggling. But her giggle sounded off. It rose in pitch, more like a cackle than a laugh. There was no humor in it. It was definitely mocking. She was mocking me, and I didn't know why.
As I looked around the bar I got even sicker to my stomach.
All of them were looking at me. They were all laughing, all mocking me, even Scottsdale.
It took all of my strength to tell them to stop.
I didn't yell. It was more like a whimper, like a dog shaking in the rain, sick with fright, unable to raise its head.
"Stop," I said.
And they did. All at once, like I'd flipped a switch or something. They just stopped and stared at me with no expression at all.
I'd never been so afraid
A few minutes later, Scottdale's standing right in front of the guy and, with no onlookers about, he whips out his dick and shakes it at the performer.
Nothing. The guy doesn't even drop his eyes to look at it.
"Aw, c'mon," says Scottsdale, "you know it's bigger than yours. Tell me you don't want to look."
The chrome apple waivered a bit, but I wasn't sure it was in response to Scottsdale or the guy was getting tired of holding the thing out in front of him the way he was; ya know, like when my dad used to test us kids by making us hold books out at our sides till one of us gave in and dropped our arms. The winner got their allowance that week. The loser was always me.
An old couple emerged from the dark between two kiosks as Scottsdale reeled in his sizable schlong. The old woman laughed and said, "You'll need to be more inventive, young man. He's been doing this for years...and he's blind."
I looked behind the guy and, sure enough, a white cane with a red tip leaned against the side of one of the kiosks.
I laughed so hard I almost wet myself, and Scottsdale turned bright red.
I blew the twenty bucks on a couple beers for us at Sloppy Joe's.
Afterward, Scottsdale said we should check out this joint off Duval called Bobby's Place. He said it was a biker bar and that when there weren't many bikers in town, the drinks were stronger because the barmaids were desperate for tips.
I didn't have to be back on base before midnight. It was only eight-thirty, so I agreed to go.
The bar was barely visible, set back in an alcove of smaller daytime businesses that were totally dark. There was no neon open sign or flashy shingle. It was one of those places you either knew or you didn't, otherwise, you probably weren't welcome.
We were in civies, jeans, and Ts under tropical Hawaiian shirts—in other words, we looked nothing like bikers and a lot like tourists.
"How'd ya find out about this place?" I asked Scottsdale.
The bartender was pretty much what I expected, a bearded giant in a t-shirt covered in daggered skulls and wearing a leather biker cap emblazoned with a flaming silver skull above the brim. His arms were bigger than my thighs and every inch of them was covered in tattoos depicting drugs, guns, and naked ladies writhing in ecstasy around each forearm like they were getting off on the guy's rippling muscles beneath them.
There were only two other patrons in the bar sitting off in one dark corner, a man and his wife or girlfriend. She looked as if she'd spent too many years on the back of a bike without a helmet to protect her face from the sun and the wind. She mighta been thirty-something, but she looked ancient.
The guy was your typical weekend biker type, shaved face with only the stubble he'd let grow out over a few days vacation and just as tanned as his lady friend. He turned around, gave me and Scottsdale a nod, then turned back to his drink and the dry, crusty-lipped smile the lady was flashing at him. Her smile looked mischievous as if he had just told her a dirty joke.
Two waitresses puffing away on cigarettes entered from the small kitchen behind the bar and took notice of us immediately. They quickly discussed who'd be serving us and one of them came toward us while the other slipped behind the giant and began arranging bottles on the liquor shelves.
"Hi, guys," she said and invited us to take a seat at the bar. Scottsdale pointed to a table much closer to the door and I felt a little relieved. It wasn't that the bartender was intimidating; he didn't hold a candle to Sarge. It was just that we were in unfamiliar territory and a seat facing the door was always preferable to giving any other patrons likely to enter the place our backs. It was how we were trained.
"That's fine," the girl said. "Sit wherever you like. As you can see, we're not that busy yet." She was pretty, blonde, sweet smile—all her teeth looked intact anyway—and wearing a solid black tee tied above her flat belly and a tight pair short-shorts that looked as if they were held together at the crotch by maybe two or three threads at the most.
"What can I get for you tonight? We got a two for one special on well drinks. I could bring you a couple of beer backers for those."
She was standing with her hands on her hips, pushing her crotch forward to the point it almost rested on the small round black table. Scottsdale shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and I had to hold back a smirk, feeling excitement stirring in my own lap.
"That sounds good," said Scottsdale. "We can start there. That cool with you, Chandler?" That's me, by the way, Ivan Chandler, an E1 Private who won the lottery of being shipped to this base fresh outta boot camp.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the girl's upper thighs, but I managed to nod barely enough to agree. As she walked away, the lower third of her ass showed beneath those incredibly short shorts, and I asked myself why such a hot girl would be working in a dive like this. It took a few seconds before my heart rate returned to normal and un-pitch the tent in my lap.
"Fucking parameter alert or what?" said Scottsdale.
"Probably that bartender's girlfriend," I said.
"So what?" Scottsdale said.
"So, I'd keep your eyes and hands to yourself until we know better is all."
"Jesus, Chandler, you a fucking nun or something?" Scottsdale said. He was smiling so I knew he was kidding, which made me worry a little he might not keep his hands to himself.
When the girl came back to the table, both of us made the effort not to notice the beauty mark on her upper thigh. But, since I'm mentioning it, I obviously couldn't help myself and neither could Scottsdale because he brought it up the moment after she left the drinks, collected the money with a wrinkled-nose smile, and walked back into the kitchen.
"Wonder if she has one anywhere else," Scottsdale said. He was smirking in a way that made me wonder if we were going back to the base with black eyes or a great memory. Either way, I knew it was going to be an effort to get us both back before the Call. I'm no mama's boy. I'm always up for an adventure. But with the only thing at stake being Scottsdale's ability to dip his wick or not against a possible AWOL, I became less enthused about tipping back more than a couple beers and another shot or two.
By ten-thirty, we'd blown well past half a dozen brews and more than double the number of shots I'd agreed with my better nature to have. I was feeling no pain and neither was Scottsdale.
The two girls tag-teamed our table, fawning over both of us, not like a couple of back-alley hookers, just friendly enough to keep coaxing fives and tens outta Scottsdale's wallet, which he graciously produced whenever one of them touched his shoulder or bent far enough over the table to give us a glimpse of their tits.
The bartender hadn't seemed to mind the attention Scottsdale gave the girls. In fact, he laughed when the girls flirted with Scottsdale whose arousal was much clearer than my own. Personally, I kept a lid on mine. I knew once eleven-thirty rolled around it was time to call a cab and call it a night even though I was flattered by their compliments.
"Usually, it's one good-looking guy and one ugly guy," the brunette said. "But both you guys are pretty hot. I can't believe you don't have girlfriends."
"Who says I don't?" Scottsdale boasted. "Maybe I have a couple back in L.A."
"I bet you do," said the blonde. "But you're getting pretty worked up for a guy who loves two women."
"Love?" said Scottsdale. "No one said anything about love." Then he admitted he didn't have anyone waiting for him back home in Cali. The girls giggled, this time producing a pair of tens from Scottsdale's wallet.
The couple at the other table were enjoying the show. They sent over a round of drinks and Scottsdale, showing off, sent two more back, thanking them with a sloppy toast to their "eternal health." They laughed really hard at that. Their laughter had a really strange ring to it, I thought. Sort of mocking. But Scottsdale didn't notice anything odd and just shot them two-thumbs-up before throwing back one of the bourbons they bought us. I left mine on the table, knowing one more would affect what little good judgment I had left.
The brunette noticed.
"You're not gonna drink that?" she asked.
I looked at my watch; it was a quarter after eleven.
"Naw," I said. "We gotta get back to base soon."
The girls' eyes brightened and their smiles got even brighter.
"Army men?" the blonde teased. "You look like tourists."
"He's army," said Scottsdale, "I'm airforce."
"You're not fucking airforce, Scottsdale!" I said.
"I outrank you," he said.
"Big whoop! You're an E2," I said.
"I don't care," the blonde replied, ruffling Scottsdale's hair. "I think all soldiers are sexy."
"Soldiers in training, ya mean," I said. "We ain't been off the base yet."
My head was swimming but I remember the meaty bartender laughing really hard and sending over another complimentary round of beers I felt obligated to take at least a few swigs from.
When he went back to arranging bottles on a shelf I sat the beer aside and asked Scottsdale if he was ready to go.
"Are ya kidding me, man?" he said, then pounded the fresh beer like it was water. "Don't ya want to live a little?"
Dead soldiers were piling up on the small table and the smell of their rapid staleness was making me nauseous. I asked the brunette if she could take them away.
"Sure!" she said. "I'll bring you a fresh one."
"No!" I must have said too loud because everyone suddenly turned and looked at me as if I'd said something really awful. The moment passed quickly, though. Scottsdale's smile returned as he reached up to stroke the blonde's loose curls.
She pulled away, but stayed playfully close by and said,"
The couple in the corner started laughing too, that odd in-on-the-joke sort of laughter that was making me more uneasy by the minute.
Everyone was laughing but me. Scottsdale was laughing so hard at one point his face turned bright red and he drooled spit all over the back of his beer hand and onto the table where I could see the faces of the two servers laughing along with him.
I couldn't understand what was so funny. My head was swimming and I felt bile rising in the back of my throat. I'd always been able to hold my booze pretty well so I didn't understand why I was feeling as if I was gonna hurl.
"What's wrong, soldier?" the blonde said, giggling. But her giggle sounded off. It rose in pitch, more like a cackle than a laugh. There was no humor in it. It was definitely mocking. She was mocking me, and I didn't know why.
As I looked around the bar I got even sicker to my stomach.
All of them were looking at me. They were all laughing, all mocking me, even Scottsdale.
It took all of my strength to tell them to stop.
I didn't yell. It was more like a whimper, like a dog shaking in the rain, sick with fright, unable to raise its head.
"Stop," I said.
And they did. All at once, like I'd flipped a switch or something. They just stopped and stared at me with no expression at all.
I'd never been so afraid
At this point you can take the story anywhere. Ivan can have that sexy beach scene with the bartender after she gets off work, and then she can be found dead on the beach the next day. This can be a splendid murder mystery. Perhaps old Scottsdale is a bit jealous of Ivan's beach bliss.
ReplyDeleteLove that I idea. It would create an interesting psychology for the protagonist/narrator as if he were in denial of what has already happened, which at this point is not much. I'll get on it! Thanks for contributing.
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