by E. Clay
“Clay, can you kill the lights, please.”
I killed all the lights all right, including the flicker in my heart.
5:30am
My alarm was just about to go off, but I hit the button just seconds before. I was already up. All night I replayed memories of Monet and me from the past. Despite our lack of intimacy, I was falling deeper for her. I spent all night analyzing things in my head. I think I figured it out. Monet fell for me at a time when I was almost penniless and unsure of my path in life. She never had a hidden agenda; all I could offer her was love. That was enough for her.
Over the years as my situation improved I met a few women who shared a very different perspective and boldly stated:
“So, how do I get my name on the mortgage?”
“We love Marines everyday; we love our husbands on payday.”
“I really don’t care about a man’s wallet; I just care about what’s in it.”
I think what bonded Monet and me together more than anything was absolute trust. I never looked at another woman when I was with her, I didn’t need to. Monet ticked all my boxes and gave me new ones.
While I showered I decided to ask Monet if she could extend her stay a few more days so we could spend time together. She was in town to see our son Robert off, but then she was headed back to Indiana.
As I stepped out the shower I saw Monet in my bed under the covers and I could smell the aroma of hazelnut coffee.
“Good morning, Gunny,” Monet said as she sat up.
“Gunny? Okay, then I order you to be here at 17:30 when I return. Is that clear?” I commanded in jest.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Monet replied, with a firm salute.
“Monet, could you stay a few days with me? The room is all paid for and feel free to order anything you want. Just put it on the room.”
Monet motioned for me to join her on the bed. Now it was my turn to cover up with a towel after showering.
“Drink your coffee, it’s getting cold. While you were in the shower, I rescheduled my flight back home. I leave when you leave.”
As I got dressed for work, I kept thinking about how I could make this better than before. I needed to take some of the emphasis off sex and focus more on her. I wanted to date her properly.
“Clay, I’ve seen you get dressed so many times for work. But it’s strange to see you put on a suit and tie, and not your Marine uniform.”
“Don’t let my appearance fool you. I haven’t changed, I’m still me.”
Monet followed me to the door still wrapped in her towel. But when she kissed me, it fell to the floor. It was hard not to look.
TWO
* * *
Mind Games
Russell Knox Building, Conference Day One
Quantico, Marine Corps Base
While checking into visitor control, I saw several retired Marines behind the counter checking in newly-arrived personnel. When I was on active duty I remember the old retirees that hung around base. I never understood why they felt it was so important to make a beeline to active duty Marines. It was always the same routine.
“Hey devil dog. Whatcha know good? What are they paying sergeants these days?”
No matter what you said, they had the same response.
“I’ll be damned. Back in the old Corps we only got…”
I made a promise that I would never be like that. One of them.
It wasn’t until I retired that I truly appreciated retirees and understood their desire to connect with the younger generation.
While waiting in line I overheard a woman Marine (also referred to as WMs back in the day) talk about her next assignment in the counter-intelligence field. I was pleasantly surprised because when I retired from Marine Corps counter-intelligence, women were not permitted to sign up.
“Excuse me, Sergeant.”
“Sir?” replied the tall and slender female Marine.
“Are you an 0211, counter-intelligence specialist?”
“Yes, I am,” replied the sergeant.
“That’s great. Glad to see they finally opened up the field to WMs. Back when I was in it was male only.”
She seemed to take offense to my comment. It wasn’t until lunchtime did I find out that the term WM was no longer PC or acceptable as it was considered offensive to women. The new Marine Corps no longer distinguished between males and females. We were all Marines, period. I suddenly realized I had become one of those old fogies that I resented during my time in.
The food court at the Russell Knox Center was upscale compared to any other Marine base I had been stationed. There were so many choices, Italian, Southern, Chinese and subs. I ordered the baby back ribs with mac and cheese as a side. Although I had acquired an English palate from being in the UK for so long, I never forgot my first love, American-style cuisine.
As I took my last bite, I was kindly interrupted by a pat on the back.
“Gunny T?”
“Ramirez? Is that you?”
Ramirez and I served together in Mogadishu, Somalia during Operation Restore Hope in 1993. Ramirez was a distinguished marksman and was one of the best shooters in the Armed Forces. During an assault on a warlord’s stronghold in Mogadishu, Ramirez took out a sniper from about 600 yards with one shot. It was rainy and cloudy that morning and we were getting sprayed with rapid machine-gun fire from an unknown location. Ramirez took the shot standing from behind the corner of a building. The sniper never saw it coming. I believe he saved a lot of lives that day. I put him in for a medal but it was denied for political reasons.
“Congratulations on your many promotions. Master Gunnery Sergeant,” I said.
“Thanks, Gunny. Lots of changes since you retired. It’s always something new. But, I’ve got two more years to go then I’m putting my papers in for retirement. So what brings you here?”
“I work for INTERPOL in the UK now. I’m here for a seminar on African organized crime. It’s really interesting so far. Our last guest speaker just came out of the Moroccan witness protection program six months ago. So what are you doing here at Quantico?”
“I’m on the Marine Corps Shooting Team and we have a lot of new blood. We did well at the Inter-service competition last year and I think we may have a couple of Marine Olympians on the 2012 Olympic squad.”
“So are you shooting or coaching?”
“Both. But now it’s my time to give back to the Corps what the Corps gave to me,” Ramirez stated proudly.
It was nice to see Ramirez was still such a humble and great guy after almost 20 years.
“Hey, Ramirez, I gotta run soon, but I’ve got a date tonight. Any recommendations?”
“Gunny, if you really want to impress a girl, take her to Maxine’s. She will love you for it,” Ramirez replied as he walked with me to the main conference room.
“Maxine’s? Is that a club, restaurant?”
“No, it’s a spa and massage. They even cater to men. But all the women around here rave about it. At least that’s what I hear.”
I patted Ramirez on the back and wished him the best of luck at Inter-services. I was really proud of him and thankful for the recommendation. After a little enquiring around, I was able to acquire two free guest passes at the services deck. I had my date night planned. A dozen roses, a personalized romantic card, dinner for two at the Olive Garden and two guest passes to Maxine’s. I was excited; I couldn’t wait to see the smile on Monet’s face. She loved pampering and a good meal.
Monet always had a knack for sneaking up on me, so this time it was payback. On my cellphone I called the hotel room disguising my voice from around the corner in the corridor.
“Room 132, you need to register your guest with the front desk.”
I saw Monet leave the room and walk toward the lobby. As soon as she was out of sight, I swiped my key and closed the door behind me. I set up the beautiful yellow roses in a nice display on the coffee table with the card at the base of the vase. I sat on the couch and unloosened my tie. I held an envelo
pe with the spa massage guest passes inside. I heard the electronic key swipe.
I frightened her momentarily.
“Clay! You scared me. Where did you come from?” Monet said.
She was wearing a black spandex body suit with satin black workout trunks. She was slightly sweaty from working out at the fitness center on the premises.
“You see, that’s how it feels. Gotcha,” I said as I stood and walked towards her to get my kiss.
“Clay, I’m all sweaty, you’re gonna ruin your nice suit,” Monet said as she tried to pull away.
“Come here, girl,” I said as I grabbed her from behind and pivoted her in line of sight of the roses.
“Clay, they’re beautiful. I love roses. Ooh.”
“Monet, there’s more,” I said waving the envelope in my hand.
“I love surprises. Speaking of surprises, I have one for you Mister.”
Monet went into the bedroom and returned with an envelope of her own. After a long and very passionate kiss, we exchanged envelopes.
Monet opened her envelope first.
“Maxine’s Spa and Massage. Honey, you know me so well. This is exactly what I need right now. Feel my shoulders.”
I obliged.
“Wow, babe. So tense. Must be all the stress you’ve been under.”
I put the envelope to my nose. Monet sprayed the envelope with light perfume. My eyes rolled to the ceiling as I opened the envelope.
It was the best surprise I had had in years.
“Whoa. These are tickets to Hypno Expo 2011. These must have cost a fortune! I always wanted to attend but the tour was always on the east coast. Thank you, sweetheart.”
Monet was excited that I was excited. We both sat down on the couch and just held hands smiling at one another. I knew she felt the same as me. I wanted to tell her my feelings, but it felt too premature. Something was lurking in the back of her mind and I was still clueless as to what it was.
Monet placed her leg on top of mine and we discussed what we would do first. We decided to go to the spa and massage that night and go to the Expo the following night. I was particularly excited because Mason Tylor was on the program that night. Mason Tylor was an icon in hypnosis who started out as a magician. We watched his tapes in the hypnosis academy. He was billed as the Fastest Stage Hypnotist in the World and toured all over. He was the master of the Rapid Induction and could induce trance in two seconds. He came to San Diego once to conduct a mass tobacco cessation hypnosis session. There were over a thousand patrons in the auditorium paying fifty dollars to attend. He hypnotized the entire crowd to quit smoking. TV crews waited outside to interview the crowd. Over seventy-five percent of those interviewed swore they had quit for good. Tylor made over seventy-five thousand dollars that night, including sales from his Mind Control CDs. Not bad for two hours work. Mason Tylor always wore all black and sported his signature dark glasses and never took them off unless he was inducing trance. He claimed his eyes were too powerful for direct eye contact. The only flaw Mason had in my opinion was he was so much show and flair; there didn’t appear to be much room for real empathy. I looked forward to meeting him.
I quickly showered and started to change into a black sweatsuit and my Nikes. Once again I could hear Monet in the shower and I really had to suppress my urge to join her like I always had in the past. The thought of the water splashing across her soft, sensuous, nude body created waves of nervous energy inside of me. As soon as she stepped out the shower I turned my back out of respect and my inability to control myself. I was mind-jacked.
To keep my mind from succumbing to my instincts I began to surf the Net on my laptop. I googled Hypno Expo 2011 and found their website. My excitement faded quickly.
“Why do they do this? These should be separate events,” I said with dismay.
“Do what baby?” Monet asked as she lotioned her legs.
“Hypno Expo has three themes this year. Be Fearless, Past Life Regression, and Developing Your Psychic Ability.”
“Sounds really interesting, I’m excited,” Monet commented.
“I just don’t like it when they mix hypnosis and psychic stuff. That really bothers me. Hypnosis is real, we both know that. But when hypnosis is presented in the same conversation as mediums it confuses people and lessens its credibility. Hypnotists are practitioners, mediums and psychics are charlatans.”
“I dunno honey, maybe some are fake. But what about the ones that are real?”
I was starting to get just a tiny bit annoyed because this was such a passionate issue for me. I felt a need to discredit the psychic phenomenon every time it was raised. I felt psychics and mediums exploited innocent people for greed.
I turned around and faced Monet as she was lacing her up sneakers. I had something important to say.
“I know mediums are fake because once you die you are dead. Spirits don’t come back. I’m sure about that,” I said emotionally.
Monet quickly ascertained that this issue had a strong undercurrent and she motioned for me to sit next to her on the bed.
“Clay, how do you know for sure the dead don’t come back?”
It took all I had to keep it together, but a few tears slipped before I could wipe them away. I answered her.
“Because, my dad would have come back for me. At least once. But he can’t because he’s dead. I would give anything just to see him one last time to let him know I followed his plan and it worked. I owe him so much. At age 67 he was gone from a heart condition.”
My dad and I did everything together. We loved competitive sports. He taught me to throw darts and how to bowl. He also taught me how to talk trash. I reminisced. Shortly after his death I had the same reoccurring dream. It started out pretty much the same every time but got weird towards the end. In one dream, after bowling, my dad insisted on paying with his credit card and it was declined. He couldn’t figure out why his bank rejected the transaction. It was rejected because he was dead and all his accounts were closed. He was frustrated with the attendant behind the counter so I paid. On the way home dad wanted to show me newly installed pews in the sanctuary of his church, Alpha Baptist. His key wouldn’t open the door. His frustration escalated and got the best of him. I had to calm him down. I could never bring myself to break the news, that he was dead. In my dreams dad didn’t know he had died and it broke my heart to see him so confused.
Reminiscing was painful. I missed my dad.
Monet looked at me and embraced me with a supportive and loving hug. Then she kissed my face and told me she loved me.
I soon snapped out of my self-induced fog and wiped my eyes. I was back to normal.
“I stopped performing mentalism in my magic shows after dad died.”
“Mentalism? What’s that?”
“It’s a psychic routine. Instead of me telling you, how about if I show you? Hand me your purse, please.”
Monet reached behind her and grabbed her purse watching my every move. She handed it to me, very slowly.
“What are you looking for?”
“I know you’re an avid reader. I’m looking for a book. Found one. Hmm, Ann Rice, Sleeping Beauty. Interesting.”
I leaned over beside the bed and unzipped my garment bag. I retrieved my latest novel The Mogadishu Diaries . I held up both books and asked Monet to pick one.
“I don’t trust you with your own book, so I pick Ann Rice.”
I handed Monet her own book. I began fanning the pages of my book and told her to tell me when to stop.
“Stop.”
I immediately stopped and looked at the page number in the book I was holding.
“Okay. So page 74 it is. Go to page 74.”
Monet stood clutching her book and walked into the living area to prevent any sleight of hand.
“Okay. I’m on page 74. Now what?”
I went straight into character.
“Monet, concentrate on the first word of the first sentence on page 74. Now close your eyes and see the
word in your mind’s eye.”
“Okay. I see it,” Monet replied.
“The word I am getting is a command. Am I right?” “Keep going,” Monet replied.
“It’s a command to end or to halt. The word I see is the word… stop. Is that your word?”
Monet poked her head in the doorway.
“How did you do that?” Monet asked cagily.
“I’m not done yet, babe. Go back into the room and focus on the last word of text on the page.”
“Okay, got it.”
“Hmm, I see emotion, expression. Close the book, babe.”
I walked into the living room where she was sitting on the sofa with the book in her lap. I sat beside her and kissed her face.
“Is it the word... face?”
Monet was spooked.
“Honey, that’s not possible. There’s no way. That’s really creepy. I don’t know how you did that but it was powerful and kinda scary.”
“Sweetheart, that was kid’s play. There is one mind-reading act that I have to be careful with.”
“Why?” Monet asked with intrigue.
“Because it freaks people out. They think it’s some kind of witchcraft or sorcery. But if they only knew, it’s all smoke and mirrors. I’m a professional fake.”
THREE
* * *
Maxine’s
Good evening. Do you have a membership or is this your first visit?” asked the receptionist behind the counter.
“We have guest passes,” I replied as I slid them across the desk.
Maxine’s was a contemporary and upscale spa. It was a white complex that had large one-way mirrors facing the street. The parking lot had a uniformed valet to park your car. There was a large canopy outside that led you to the main entrance. You almost forgot you were visiting a spa. Inside the facility, the décor was an elegant ivory and there was a large smoothie bar off to the left with members on bar stools listening to piped in music. There was a steady stream of patrons coming and going. Behind the counter was a LED sign of services provided. It was as if the staff were the most beautiful of the races they represented, Hispanic, Asian, White and Black. Everyone had noble facial features and sculpted bodies that were suitable for magazine spreads.
