by Kirk Jockell
I got up and went to the draft station and pulled myself a Coors Light. I took a sip and looked at Luke. He seemed calm, not as nervous or anxious as I would have expected. I watched him as he surveyed the room. I did the same.
It was late afternoon. There were several tourists, but most were locals getting warmed up for a routine night on the porch. I looked towards the front window and saw Sammy heading towards the door; Bucky and Blair brought up the rear.
They came in the door and stopped. I saw Bucky take a deep breath and motioned for the others to follow. Since Bucky works at the Raw Bar, he naturally went behind the counter. Did he do so out of habit or to seek some refuge behind the counter, to put some distance between himself and Luke? My guess would be the latter. Sammy and Blair took up positions by the bar and to the right of Luke.
At first there was silence. It was awkward and Luke allowed it to carry on. Then, Luke said, “Well, where is she?”
The three of them exchanged glances. Bucky spoke first. He was looking at his feet when he said, “She’s in the back of the truck, Luke.”
I interjected and said, “Look at me Bucky.” He did. “You will show Mr. McKenzie some respect, boy.”
Bucky said, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I mean, she’s in the truck, Mr. Luke ... Sir.”
It got quiet again and finally it was Sammy that actually grew a set of balls and said, “Mr. McKenzie. I’m real sorry about all this. We all are. We never meant to cause any real harm. We just...”
Bucky couldn’t stand the idea of Sammy speaking for the group. Buck has always been the front man, and now Sammy was upstaging him. There would be none of that, so Bucky forcefully interrupted. He should have kept his mouth shut, because things went downhill from there. Bucky said, “It was a joke, Luke. Sir. That’s all it was, just a little joke. No harm, not really.”
“A joke, huh?” Luke said with aggravation in his voice. “Really? Like a, Ha-Ha kind of joke?”
I could see the worry start to build in Bucky’s eyes. He stumbled with his words, “Well ... Umm...”
Luke didn’t let up. He raised his voice. “You said it was a joke, you little shit. Tell me, who laughed? Tell me. I want to know.”
Bucky said nothing. Luke shared his gaze with all three of them and said, “Come on. I want to know. Funny jokes are meant to be shared. Who heard about this one?”
Again it was Sammy stepping up to the plate. He said, “We didn’t tell anyone, sir. It was only us three that knew.”
Luke asked Sammy, “What about you? Did you laugh? Did you find it funny?”
Sammy dropped his head and starred at his feet. Blair said nothing. He never offered an apology or anything. He remained stoic and silent, like he wasn’t involved. Luke gave him a hard look in the eye. Nothing was there but cold indifference.
Luke had worked himself into a controlled frenzy. I’d seen it a hundred times. He had returned to his old Navy roots. A brother chief was putting his hat on and preparing to deliver one hell of an ass chewing. Luke turned back to Bucky and said, “Maybe I was supposed to find it all funny. Is that it, you little prick?” Luke looked up at the ceiling tiles in thought and said, “I can hear it now, ‘That Old Man McKenzie, he’ll think this is funny as shit.’ Is that how it went?”
Bucky said, “Please Luke, calm down.”
That was the wrong thing to say, because that’s when Luke produced a Colt, nickel plated 38 special from his right coat pocket and pointed it at Bucky. Oh Shit!
The commotion had already drawn the attention of everybody in the place, but when the gun came out, it was a game changer. What tourists were there took to the door. And the locals backed off a bit and gave the situation a wide berth, but they didn’t leave.
Bucky’s hands went up with a gasp, as did the other two. Even Blair joined in with a girlish squeal. If he wasn’t taking the situation seriously before, he was now.
Fear can have a strange effect on people. It also can bring out a person’s true character. While Bucky and Blair whimpered and pleaded, it was Sammy that again collected enough courage to speak.
Sammy said, “Mr. McKenzie. Please. Please put the gun away. I beg of you. We did a very stupid thing, and we are really sorry. We’ll do whatever it takes to make this up to you. Maxine is safe and in the truck. We’ve learned our lesson. Please.”
I was standing right there. I could see the back of the cylinder; there were bullets in the chambers. I was getting nervous. I got close and spoke to Luke in a calm and quiet voice. “What are you doing, Luke? This is no way of handling this. You’ve put plenty of scare in them. Now do me a favor and put the gun away. Let’s get Maxine and go home.”
“He told me to calm down,” Luke said. “Like he has the right to tell me to do anything. I’ve been a wreck since this whole thing started and he’s going to tell me to calm down. Fuck him.”
Then everybody’s sphincter puckered up a little tighter when Luke pulled back and locked the hammer.
“Chief.” I said raising my voice, one retired CPO to another. “Come on now. Knock this shit off. You don’t want to do this. Trust me, I know.”
Luke cut his eyes towards me. He heard what I said and was now giving me a surprised and confused look. I could be wrong, but I swear I noticed a slight relaxation and lowering of the gun. But, what I heard next had to be the dumbest thing to ever come out of anyone’s mouth.
I don’t know what it is about being young and dumb. I guess we all were at one time or another, but some folks never fail to amaze me. He hadn’t said a thing the entire afternoon. He had stood there looking inconvenienced until compelled to lift his hands high at the sight of the gun. He had been a mere spectator until now. In his infamous wisdom and overwhelming stupidity, Blair Stanton decided to speak up.
My eyes grew wide when Blair said, “Mr. McKenzie! Really? All this over a fucking goat!”
Any relief Bucky felt when Luke swung the pistol away from him and towards Blair immediately turned to nightmare. Everything that happened next came and went in a flash. I wasn’t fast enough to stop it.
When you’re in close proximity to gunfire, you don’t hear it; you feel it. It has a paralyzing effect. You freeze, especially when the circumstances are so dramatic and violent. I felt helpless.
The first rounds were unloaded into Blair’s chest. Three shots, center mass. Blair screamed and clutched at his chest as he fell backwards bouncing off a table and into the floor.
Luke turned to Bucky. I heard Bucky plead for his life and call out for his Momma, but Luke popped two quick rounds. Bucky gasped and hollered as he spun around, thrown back against the sink.
By the time Luke turned the gun on Sammy, he was already down on his knees, in shock, looking at the floor and waiting his turn. It never came. Expecting at any moment to feel his life slip away, all he heard was click, click, click. Luke had expended his rounds on Blair and Bucky, but that didn’t stop Luke from searching for one more round. Click! Click! Click! He kept pulling the trigger.
The chaos was highlighted by the continued screams for help and the hollering of Bucky and Blair. Everyone was in disbelief of what they had just witnessed. Once I finally came out of my own state of paralysis, I walked up to Luke and reached out and carefully took the gun from his hand asking, “Oh my God, Luke. What have you done?”
“Nothing,” he said with a stone-cold grin. “Ain’t no big deal.”
Luke started yelling at the kids. “Get up you bunch of pussies. Stop your bellyaching. You ain’t shot.” Luke looked back at me with a big smile and said, “Blanks.”
Luke walked over to Blair and gave him a swift kick. “Get up jackass. Your dumbass days ain’t over yet.”
He walked over towards Bucky, “Same for you, dipshit. All three of you, get up and come here.”
In a confused panic, riddled with relief and astonishment, they stood shaking from the excitement. You could tell they wanted out of there. They didn’t want to spend one more minute in Luke’s presence. Blair
was still feeling his chest to make sure he hadn’t really been shot. Sammy stood there, turned to the side, looking at the floor. He had pissed his pants and was doing his best to hide himself.
Bucky yelled, his voice shaking, “That was crazy. No. No. You, you’re crazy. You’re a crazy old coot.”
“Shut your hole, boy.”
Luke stood there looking at all three of them. They were shaking like leaves trying to free themselves from a branch on a cold, windy day. Then Luke spoke, “What’s the matter? Didn’t you find that funny? It was a little joke. I thought you boys liked a good joke.”
At that moment, all the built up tension in the folks that had witnessed the events turned to belly-busting laughter. I had never seen such a shift in emotions. Everyone had been taken from incredible tragedy to joyous cacophony. I guess you could add extreme embarrassment, if you add in how the boys were feeling.
Addressing the boys over the laughter, Luke said, “So, I’m guessing we won’t have any more trouble out of you three for a while. I think we can consider this matter closed. What do you think?”
All three nodded in agreement.
“Very good then! We have an accord.”
Luke shook each of their hands to seal the deal. When he got to Sammy, he held his hand a bit longer. He maintained his grip until their eyes met. Luke told him, “You did fine today, son.” Sammy nodded back. Then Luke concluded, noticing Sammy had wet his pants, “But you’ll want to do something with those britches. You don’t want to get caught with a rusty zipper.”
He released Sammy’s hand and said, “Now y’all get!”
They didn’t waste a second. They scattered like spooked quail. As we watched them hightail it to the door, our attention was diverted. Standing inside the door was Red, smiling big. He had Maxine on a leash. In great celebration, Red said, “Look what I found!”
Luke took off towards the door and Red turned Maxine loose. They met each other in the middle of the room. It was peculiar to see how excited they were to see each other, especially Maxine. She was like a faithful, loving dog meeting its master after an extended period of separation.
Red walked over to me. We watched their little reunion until it started to get a little uncomfortable. Still watching, Red leaned his head towards me and with a slight grimace said, “Kind of strange, huh?”
“Yeah, a little weird, borderline perverted. Maybe they need to get a room.”
Red chuckled. Then, loud enough for the room to hear, said, “Hey! Somebody buy that old girl a beer, she has to be one thirsty goat.”
Brown
If you hang around on the Forgotten Coast long enough there is no telling what will cross your path, even a memory, one long since gone and dismissed as unimportant. All it takes is the proper stimuli to pull those lost experiences to the forefront of your mind, as if it all happened yesterday. Recently it happened to me. Someone from my past walked through the front door of the Forgotten Coast Shrimp and Raw Bar and back into my brain.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, after washing a salty Apalachicola oyster down with my cold beer.
“What?” Red asked.
My buddy Red and I were sitting at the bar. Bucky, our favorite shucker was bobbing his head to the music pumping through his earbuds and cracking shells to keep our tray full. Locals don’t order by the dozen. We sit down and start eating. When you finish, you get a shell count and pay the resident price at the register. It doesn’t get much easier than that.
I looked at Red and thumbed towards the visitor at the door and said, “That poor bastard. His name is Melvin.”
Red gave him a full inspection. Melvin came in with a woman, presumably his wife, and two kids. They looked quite touristy. It was obvious they hadn’t been in town long. If I had to guess, I would have said they were coming off a first beach day. Small portions of their skin were still pasty white, while others were burnt to a blood-red hue. All of them, kids included, moved with great, deliberate care.
Red looked back my way and said, “Okay ... What’s the story? How do you know him?”
“Navy boot camp,” I said. “I wonder if he’ll recognize me. Damn, that was what, over twenty-five years ago?”
“And if he did recognize you?” Red asked.
“It’s hard to say,” I replied.
Like most, I started my naval service in Great Lakes, Illinois. Unlike most others, I entered service a little older in age. I was well into my twentieth year when I raised my hand to swear in. On my twenty-first birthday I stood the mid-watch in the barracks, midnight to four hundred hours. I relieved the watch fifteen minutes early, a traditional courtesy for all watch standers. And, as the clock struck twelve, I entered the occasion of my birthday in the log book in huge block lettering know as Ricky Writing.
It was a huge no-no to include non-significant details in a Navy logbook. I knew I would suffer some consequences, but I didn’t care. What would a few extra push-ups mean to me? I stood at six foot three inches and carried a solid 200 lb frame, a body prepared for punishment. I wasn’t intimidated. I knew boot camp was mostly a mind game anyway. It is designed as an emotional roller coaster with valuable lessons inserted along the way. A truly masterful program honed to perfection over years of experience.
The next morning the entire company was standing at attention waiting for the morning inspection. We were crisp and clean, the tips of our polished boondockers shined behind a straight seam of blue tiling. Our Company Commander, a Chief, exited his office and slammed his door. From the corner of my eye, I could see the log book in his hand. Here we go.
The Chief went into a rant as he marched up and down the isle. He was furious, telling us about the seriousness of keeping appropriate and accurate logs, that it was a historical document often used in courts to recollect specific details about a ship’s activities. All true. Then he stopped in front of me placing his nose two inches away from my own and said with great excitement, “Not to record your own cheery, fucking birthday wishes, Logan.” He was loud, very loud. His spit hit me in the face. I stood and took it. It was punishment time.
No big deal. A few extra push-ups didn’t mean anything. They would be worth it. When he said, “Hit the deck!” I was down in position with one sweeping motion: head looking forward, hands shoulder width apart, feet together, back straight. Then Chief got on his hands and knees to look me square in the eye and said, “Not you, Logan.”
Pointing and waving his index finger up and down the barracks aisle, he said, “Them.”
I turned my head and looked down the line at my shipmates, their faces full of sudden worry and anxiety. It was brilliant. He wasn’t interested in hurting me physically; he wanted to hit me mentally. He wanted me to watch as my shipmates were forced to endure an unwarranted punishment, to instill overwhelming guilt in my mind. I thought, You asshole.
I stayed in the push-up position and protested. “Sir! No, sir! This has nothing to do with them, sir! It wouldn’t be right, sir!”
Chief said, “It wasn’t right for you to molest and diminish the integrity of the logbook, Logan. And you’re a team, right? What’s good for one is good for...” He let the rest fade away.
“Sir. Permission to speak freely, sir,” I said.
“On your feet, sailor.”
In almost the same smooth motion, in reverse, I was back at attention. Chief got back in my face and glared at me with his usual snarl, bottom lip poked out for effect. I spoke. “Chief, sir. I take full responsibility for my actions, sir. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? My shipmates played no part in my logbook entry. I acted by myself. What do they call it ... unilaterally? They are all innocent and shouldn’t be punished, sir.”
I saw the Chief’s mood swing a bit. His bottom lip pulled back into place. “They’re all innocent?” he asked. “Every single one of them? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Well ... yes, sir. I acted alone.”
The Chief shook his head from side to side. “Aside fr
om all that,” he said. “Forget the logbook. Are they all innocent?”
I couldn’t understand the context of his question. There had to be one, so I answered best I could. “Well, sir. I guess not. We are all guilty of something, of one thing or another. My father always said we’re an imperfect species, sir.”
The Chief thought that over as he walked up and down the line looking at my shipmates. He stopped back in front of me and asked, “So, you would feel bad, if I made everybody do push-ups?”
“Yes, sir. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Well, somebody’s got to do some push-ups, dammit.”
“They’re my push-ups, sir. I’m ready.”
“No.” The Company Commander said, “I like the idea of making you watch.”
Crap.
“Pick one. Pick one of your shipmates, Logan. You get to decide who does your push-ups. That’s the way this is going to go down.”
Son of a bitch. He wanted me to turn on one of my own shipmates, another clever tactic. He turned away and got in the face of Jerry Wilson. We call him Hulaco, after the small community he’s from in north Alabama. “What about Wilson, here?” Then he spoke to Wilson saying, “You wouldn’t mind doing a few push-ups for Logan, would you?”
I turned and looked at a very nervous Hulaco. His face twitched with anxiety, not knowing whether he should speak or not. I spoke and got him off the hook.
“No, sir,” I said. “Wilson is a good shipmate, sir. He helps Taylor with his studies. Not that Taylor is dumb or anything. It’s just that...”
The Chief cut me off, and said, “Well, if not Wilson,” he stepped away and turned and crossed the aisle. “What about Michaels here? He’s nothing but a SLUFF anyway.”
SLUFF, an acronym for Short Little Ugly Fat Fucker. I smiled and with a slight chuckle said, “No, sir. He’s working hard to loose that extra fat. He still has a few pounds to go, but he’s going to make weight by graduation. Just you wait and see, sir.”
Then the Chief stepped away and came back to me. We were face to face. He said nothing, looked into my eyes and conveyed a silent message with a small smile. Pick one.
