Something Else (2)

Chapter TWO – Jack Comes Home REVISION 1

American Airlines “Red eye” flight 1953 was set to depart from LAX at 9:55 pm. With my paper ticket in hand, I boarded and got settled in for the last leg of a very long flight originating in Honolulu that morning.

The layover in LA had been almost six hours. I passed the time in an airport pub with a burger, a few beers, and a book I’d had for a long time but never had time to read…Red Planet, by Robert Heinlein. When I was a teenager I loved science fiction.

Lambert Field was now only a little over five hours away. I thought I would have a beer or two, or three, then close my eyes and sleep for a few hours. I hadn’t had much sleep in the last three days.

After a smooth takeoff the stewardess made her rounds, and I ordered my first two beers. I was happy to see the two cans of Budweiser, brewed by Anheuser Busch in my hometown. For the last year and a half most of my beer consumption was Primo, the Hawaiian brand. It was cheap and crappy but was the choice of the locals I hung out with. When in Rome…

The first beer tasted good. I looked down at the book cover but couldn’t get into it. I was at a crossroad. A new chapter in my book of life was beginning but I couldn’t shake free from what I had been through.

My three-year stint in the US Army ended with little fanfare. On day I was an olive drab soldier at the end of the Viet Nam era and the next day I was back in civvies.

I never served in Viet Nam. Thank God for that. I knew lots of guys who went to “the Nam” and came back different. It was like they were shell-shocked some of the time. There was a distant look in their eyes some of the time only to be brought back to awareness of their surroundings by interaction with their Army buddies. To a man, they found refuge in either booze or marijuana. Sometimes even heroin. Sometimes all three.

My active-duty time was spent at Ft. Benning and Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. I was in the Military Police. But I wasn’t much of a cop because I had very little respect for military cops. My favorite joke was that most of the guys I worked with couldn’t even spell MP. Being an MP on a military base was probably worse than being a rent-a-cop. There was very little crime to crunch. We rode around in Jeeps and hassled soldiers for uniform violations. Once in a while on the night shift we would hassle a drunk GI coming from off-post who was unlucky enough to encounter us. Inevitably a belligerent soldier would be put in handcuffs and sometimes someone would trip him, causing damage to his pretty face. I hated that shit.

Over time I found ways to get off the road in both Georgia and in Hawaii.

In Georgia I told the Staff Sergeant that I could type thirty words a minute. Thanks to the high school typing class I took in my junior year I was selected to work in the MP Investigations Section as a clerk-typist. What a gig. I got to live off post and wear civilian clothes. Most of the investigators were southern boys, full of testosterone and themselves, but I got along. This is where I learned that you go along to get along.

It was only luck, and a chance one-night stand with a girl who worked in the overseas levy board that got me orders for the cushy sixteen-month assignment at the base of Kolekole Pass on the island of Oahu. Thanks Roberta, for the intimate liaison, and the transfer. Have a good life.

Once I got to my new duty station in tropical paradise, they put me back on the road for a while. It was the same old stupid stuff and within six months I saw an opening and convinced the company commander to bring me into the office where I could be more useful. I had been the clerk/typist for the MPI Investigation Section back at Benning.

I was assigned as permanent Charge of Quarters. That meant when the day crew went home, I oversaw the barracks. I’d go into the office at 4:00 pm and stay overnight until 8:00 am, a sixteen-hour shift. During my shift I’d make my rounds through the barracks four times and rubber stamp a report and then watch TV or sleep. I was able to make regular trips to my cubicle during the shift to have a beer and take a couple of hits of smoke.

When the MP shifts changed, I’d accompany the troops to the armory and issue them their weapons. Then I’d sleep some more. One sixteen-hour shift on two days off. Such a deal. Sixteen months left to go. Let the games begin.

A haole in Hawaii can only go to the beach and attempt surfing or body surfing so many times before it gets old. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a fucking beautiful place and I enjoyed getting out and about when I wasn’t working. But with all the free time I enjoyed with my new gig I though I should be more productive and could make a few bucks on the side.

I decided to get a second job off-post since I had a lot of free time.  I applied for an open part-time position as a display artist at a Liberty House Department Store at the Ala Moana Mall, about twenty minutes south of the base and just west of Honolulu.

I told them I had been an art major at my junior college which was a stretch since I only took one art class during my one semester and that was actually pottery. They bought it and I got the job.

My new boss was a flaming homosexual named Chuck who drove around the island in a white convertible Chevy Corvair. One of his first rules was that he didn’t do the displays of women’s lingerie, though I always thought that he might enjoy wearing a bustier in the right setting.

Women’s intimate wear display would be my job. Chuck was only into the high fashion displays that were featured near the all-glass elevators on level two. I could also do linen and towel displays and housewares. Exciting stuff.

Chuck’s gayness was somewhat overpowering at times. He was a true queen, and others of his ilk recognized it. All of the boys who did display for Liberty House in the three other Oahu stores were gay and they all looked up to Chuck. I convinced him that I was straight, and he fortunately warned off those that might have questioned my sexuality.

Soon after I started work, I noticed a petite local female working in the Women’s Fashion Department. I chatted her up and discovered that she was the manager of the department. After a few sessions of light conversation and flirting she seemed receptive to my limited charms, so I asked her to lunch in the mall one day.

Doty was a little older at twenty-seven. She had an elegant air about her and a smile that lit up the room. I wasn’t sure what she saw in me, a twenty-year-old GI from Missouri but one lunch became two and then two became a regular occurrence on days that I worked.

She was married but was in the process of separating from her husband who was a Japanese flight attendant for United Airlines. She had a six-year-old daughter named Lelani.

After one meal we walked to the garage overlook so she could smoke a cigarette. I kissed her for the first time, and we had a long embrace. I knew we would soon make love. She seemed to want me as much as I wanted her.

We made a plan to go to a hotel in Waikiki for a little tryst the next evening. She told me to meet her in front of the Outrigger Hotel. I knew it well because there was a bar in the hotel called the Sandcastle where many GI’s hung out drinking cheap pitchers of Primo Beer. The military got free parking just down the main drag from Fort DeRussy. I got there early and waited on the sidewalk. A white 1967 Mercedes 280SL pulled up to the curb and honked. The woman driving the car was wearing a floppy hat with oversized dark sunglasses.

I hardly recognized her. She said, “Get in. Let’s go park.”

She pulled into the adjacent garage and found a parking spot on level two near the elevator. We were alone on that level and as the elevator door closed, we embraced and the torrid sexuality overcame us.

The door opened onto an alcove leading to the street and we separated, but still holding onto each other. As we walked up to the front of the building, she said she would check us in and that I should stay in the lobby. Once she had a key I would follow her to the room. That all sounded good to me.

She checked in and moved to the elevator with me following close behind. We hit the button for the third floor, exited the elevator and as we moved left toward the door of the room two men in suits approached us.

They identified themselves as Vice Cops with the Honolulu Police and began questioning us.

“What are your names?”

“What are you doing?”

“Where is your luggage?”

They apparently thought that she was a hooker and that I was her John. Doty took the lead with the answers. We were there because she was married, and we wanted to be together.

I told them I was an MP stationed at Schofield Barracks and they both laughted. With our IDs in hand, they radioed the station and found no wants or warrants for either of us. They snickered, then apologized and told us to have a good night. And we did. We didn’t get much sleep that night.

That was the beginning of a year-long affair. She completed the separation from her husband and moved in with friends. Her daughter went to live with her in-laws. As time went by, I learned more about her interesting past.

Her father was an American businessman from Sacramento, California who married a Samoan woman and owned a small hotel in Pago Pago, American Samoa. She was raised in California, but her parents now lived full-time in Samoa.

She met her husband when she was nineteen. She got pregnant a year after they met and decided to get married. Then they moved to Hawaii. He needed to supplement his airline income, so he started making extra money smuggling drugs from Asia to Hawaii. In those days there were no bag checks made on airline employees, so it was easy to transport drugs without fear of searches.

The couple began using some of the drugs he was transporting, and she got addicted to heroin. To make even more money the husband began selling the drugs on the island. This went on for more than four years. Finally, she realized that addiction was a dead end and that she needed to be present for her daughter. She quit using drugs, getting clean going “cold turkey.”

Eventually the husband found out about our ‘affair’ and came looking for me. He was known to carry a handgun. He told Doty he was going to kill me. I asked her if she wanted to break it off and she said no, but we needed to be careful.

Doty learned he was coming to the department store looking for me and I was warned to leave early. Discretion being the better part of valor, I beat feet immediately. He arrived and walked the floors looking for me. Chuck was on a ladder doing a display when he walked up and shook the ladder.

“Are you Kirk?” He asked.

“No, I’m Chuck. Kirk is gone for the day.”

“When you see him tell him Mel is looking for him.”

“Can I tell him what it’s about?”

“Tell him he’s a dead man,” he said angrily as he walked away.

***

Doty introduced me to some of her local friends and we spent a good bit of time socializing in and around Waikiki. Two of her closest friends were a married couple named Dane and Suzi Sasaki. Dane was Japanese and Suzi was Chinese, but both were born on Oahu. Suzi worked as a nurse during the day and Dane sold small quantities of marijuana, speed, and acid to make ends meet.

Ever the entrepreneur, Dane liked to have two or three types of pot at all times for his customers, usually Kona Gold, Maui Wowie and some Thai Stick for the more discriminating smoker who could afford it.

Once in a while he’d get turned onto a shipment of Turkish Hashish. I had never experienced the high from anything that potent before. The stuff never made it all the way to Missouri.

He was really into packaging and would break down a pound into ounces, then break down the ounces into dime bags to satisfy his lesser paid GI customers. He would even provide smaller packages of only five joints for $25.00.

As for speed and acid, well you had to buy a minimum of ten hits at a time and he would meticulously cut pieces of aluminum foil and fold it neatly with the little pills all in perfect rows. Then he would crimp the ends using hemostats which doubled as roach clips when the party started in the evenings.

He didn’t deal in the hard stuff…no coke or heroin. Getting busted selling those drugs would put you away for a long, long time.

The four of us spent some long nights lounging in their shag carpeted living room on beanbag chairs with the stereo blasting Grand Funk Railroad, The Doors and The Grateful Dead.

There wasn’t much serious conversation during those nights of getting stoned and listening to way-too loud music. But at some point, Dane took me aside and warned me about Mel. He said that Doty’s husband had started by running a few small loads of H from Tokyo to Honolulu in his carryon bag. It became a regular thing and when the Yakuza boss got word that one of their new mules was successful, he was recruited for bigger shipments. Soon ounces became pounds, and he went back and forth so often he was moving heavy weight onto the island.

Dane suggested that I be very careful. I needed to watch my back. Mel was not someone to fuck with. He had dangerous friends he could call on for muscle if he needed it.

Again, Doty and I talked about splitting up, but we agreed that the risk was worth it. Without her knowing I bought a .32 revolver from one of Dane’s buddies. I went to a pawn broker in Wahiawa, near the base and bought an ankle holster that would allow me to travel with it sight unseen. I practiced shooting at pineapples in the fields near Makaha. In the barracks I secreted it over my locker above the drop-down ceiling tile. I thought I should be ready for anything.

The stewardess came around again, and I ordered one more beer. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep after this one, I said to myself, but my thoughts were still back on the island.

I remembered the night we left La Hacienda, our favorite Mexican restaurant next to the Ala Moana Mall one clear evening as the sun was setting and thought we’d take a drive. Doty pulled a preloaded hash pipe out of her purse and passed it to me.

“There’s a lighter in the glove box,” she said. “Fire it up Haole.”

We loved tooling around the island in Doty’s convertible Mercedes, particularly in the higher elevations along the Pali Highway to and from Kailua. From the Pali Lookout you can see the lights of the small town on the windward side of the island at night.

The pipe was passed back and forth twice and that was all we needed. The buzz was immediate and intense. We hadn’t noticed the white Econoline van that followed us from the parking lot of the restaurant.

Traffic was light at this time of early evening and the van followed with two vehicles sandwiched between us. We got to the lookout and turned into the parking lot, finding an open space at the far end facing the view. We decided to stay in the car for the time being and enjoy the dusky view since the lights of the city had not been fully illuminated.

I leaned over and gave Doty a passionate kiss and she put her hand on my crotch, massaging it softly. I cradled her small breast with my right hand and pulled her close with my left arm.

The steamy embrace continued for several minutes until I heard two men approached the vehicle laughing loudly.

“Are you two lovebirds going to fuck right here in the car?” a heavyset Hawaiian man said with a chuckle.

We separated and I looked to where he stood on my right, then to the left where the other man stood with a baseball bat in hand.

“Haole boy gonna get some local flavor, right haole boy?”

“We don’t want any trouble,” I said.

“Trouble? You don’t want no trouble?” the big man said. “If you don’t want no trouble, you shouldn’t be fucking around with another man’s wife.”

Doty sneered at the man and said, “What the fuck business is it of yours?”

“Mel says to make it our business. Mel says that if you two keep this up a ton of hurt is gonna befall both of you.”

“You tell Mel to go fuck himself. We are separated. He don’t own me. You tell him to leave us alone.”

The big man said, “Get out to the car haole boy. We got something to give you from Mel.”

“Don’t get out,” Doty said.

I stayed seated for a long moment. The big man put his left hand on the back of my neck and yanked the car door open with his right hand. Then he began to force me forward and up out of the car. As I moved, I reached down and pulled my piece from the ankle holster. Now standing I turned quickly and pointed the gun directly at the man’s face.

“You don’t want to fuck with me,” I said with all of the bravado I could muster. Then I pointed the gun at the other man and said, “Drop the bat.”

He did.

Both men backed away from the car with hands raised.

“Mel is not going to be happy,” the big man said.

“I’m through trying to make Mel happy,” Doty said. “I tried for years and all he ever did was yell at me and smack me around. I’m done with that. I got a lawyer. You tell him that.”

The men continued to back away then turned and walked quickly to the white van. I sat back down in the passenger seat and holstered the gun as Doty started the car. She spun the tires on the loose gravel as she guided the car back onto the Pali highway toward Honolulu. The van did not follow us.

After a few minutes Doty asked, “Where did you get the gun?”

“A friend of Dane’s. You know him…Squeegee from the north shore.”

“How long have you had it?”

“I got it after Mel came looking for me at the store. When you said Mel had a gun, I thought it might come in handy.”

“How did you know those guys didn’t have their own guns?”

“I didn’t. Just lucky, I guess. But I don’t think they wanted to do more than play a little hard ball.”

“Were you scared?” She asked.

“Shitless. You?”

“Not anymore. You’re a badass. I like tough guys,” she said, smiling broadly and putting her hand on my crotch.

***

I sat there on the plane with my eyes closed for a long time just thinking about my time on Oahu. There had been so much going on that I never made it to any of the outer islands. Who does that? Spend eighteen months in Hawaii and never visit Maui, Kauai, or the Big Island?

I stayed busy for the last nine months. Busy with the damn Army. Busy with the second job at the mall. Busy with Doty and her friends. Busy trying to stay out of a jealous soon-to-be ex-husband’s way and not get killed.

That part came to a head at the Kuilima Hotel on the north shore. The job at the mall didn’t pay much but I had more pocket change than most GIs at the Specialist 4 level and I could afford to splurge now and then.

I made a reservation at the hotel for a long weekend where Doty and I could get away from the bustle of Honolulu, lay by the pool, drink a little, smoke a little and fuck a lot.

We checked in, this time with luggage and without fear of Five-O stepping in to see our ID’s.

I brought a bottle of Cold Duck with me. I removed the plastic cork, and we sat on the balcony sipping the sweet wine from plastic cups. The view from the room was spectacular.

Doty retreated to the bathroom and within minutes returned, telling me to turn around. There she was, completely naked and beckoning for me to join her in the bed.

Yes, Ma’am! You do what you are told when a beautiful older naked woman invites you into her bed.

As the sun set, we found ourselves physically spent and hungry but neither of us wanted to put on clothes and go down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. I found the Room Service menu on the credenza and suggested we dine in.

I was a little worried about the menu prices and she could tell by the expression on my face, but she said dinner was on her. I pointed to the cheeseburger, and she said, “absolutely not!” Then she suggested the Crab Rangoon as an appetizer and the Imperial Beef and the Volcano Chicken, all Hawaiian specialties.

I put my pants on with a T-shirt. The order taker said the wait would be about forty minutes. With the order in the kitchen, we decided to sit on the balcony and break out the hash pipe.

Ten minutes later there was a knock at our door.

“That was quick,” Doty said standing quickly.

She reached the door and stood on her tip toes to look through the peep hole. She turned and stood silently with a worried look on her face.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s Mel.”

It was quiet for a long moment then Mel said loudly, “Bitch. I know you are in there with your limp dick haole.”

I was pretty high and all I could think was, “Limp Dick?”

I started to move quickly toward the door and Doty stopped me.

“What if he’s got the gun?” She asked.

I reached into my duffle that was on the side table next to the bed and found my .32, then moved back toward the door. A quick glance through the peephole showed him standing firm staring angrily at the door.

With the gun in my right hand behind my back, I pulled the door open slowly and stood facing him. I said, “I thought you’d be taller.”

That made him even more angry, and he came at me, pushing me back into the room. Doty screamed. I almost lost my balance but sidestepped him and he fell to one knee. I swung the gun in my right hand at his head and connected with a glancing blow stunning him. He was dazed but started to rise, reaching into his pocket for what I thought might be his gun.

He was facing the sliding glass door leading to the balcony and I was behind him. With my right foot I pushed him by his butt, and he went sprawling onto the carpet. Then I moved to his right side and put my foot on the wrist that held the gun. I remembered something I saw in a movie on TV.

“Give me a pillow,” I yelled at Doty who was cowering on the bed.

She tossed me one and I nestled my gun into its middle and pointed it at Mel’s head. If I had to pull the trigger the sound would be muffled. At least that’s the way it worked on TV.

“You move and you die.”

Mel let go of his gun and I kicked it away. Then I dropped down and planted my knee in his back and said, “So you’re a tough little man, are you?”

He didn’t respond.

“What did you expect to accomplish by busting in on us?”

“You are fucking my wife. And you are fucking up my life and my family.”

“I think you fucked that up yourself.”

“What do you know? What did she tell you? Did she tell you that she was fucking around with other guys for over a year before she met you? No. I’ll bet you didn’t know that. Did she tell you that she’s been in therapy for two years because of her sex addiction? New news, huh. How about that she has all but abandoned our daughter?”

I was more that a bit shocked by all that and remained silent but kept the gun pointed at his head while he lay on the floor.

“You’re a fucking liar!” Doty yelled.

“What am I lying about? Specifically. Her sex therapist is Dr. Conrad at the medical building next to the mall. I’ll give you his phone number. Isn’t that true Dorothy?” Mel said. “And when is the last time you visited your daughter?”

“I saw her last week.”

“You saw her last week. You stopped by my mother’s place and tried to buy her off with a stupid stuffed rabbit. You gave her a hug, a peck on the cheek and you gave my mother a hundred bucks before you skipped out. Some fucking mother you are.”

“Well, you aren’t exactly father of the year either. A fucking drug dealer.”

“I told you I was getting out of it. I need to find the right time. We were gonna take Lelani and fly to Samoa where they wouldn’t find us. Remember. I’ve been telling you that for six months since I scared away your last boy toy. What was his name? Bruce? At least this one has some balls.”

“I don’t believe you. The mob has got their hooks into you so deep you’ll never get away from them. You think they are just going to let you walk away? You think they won’t find us?” she said.

I removed the gun from the pillow but kept it pointed in his direction. Then I tossed the pillow onto the bed and said, “I’m gonna take your gun and then I’m going to leave. The two of you still got lots of shit to work out and I’m not going to play any part in the outcome. Get up slowly. Sit in that chair and don’t move.”

He rose slowly and took a seat. I slipped into my sandals and tossed the guns into my duffle. On the way out the door I grabbed the half-empty bottle of Cold Duck and took a big swig. Then I made my exit, bottle in hand, without another word.

I took a cab back to base and sat in my cubicle for a long while. I had believed Doty. I bought into the whole ‘poor me’ story she told, blaming her breakup on a drug dealing husband. I thought the great sex was just because she really liked me. Little did I know that great sex was her thing; that she probably had great sex with just about anybody she bedded.

We hadn’t really made any long-term plans to be together after I got out of the army. I have three months left to go. In my own mind I had just thought I’d stay in Hawaii, get a job and move on with my life. If that included her that was all the better. I thought we were in a relationship. I really liked her. Maybe I loved her. Now I thought it was all a sham. But damn, the sex was good.

Things just floated along for the next two months. We would see each other from across the store as I did my display work, thought Chuck continued to handle the women’s fashions in Doty’s department. I would look over and see her staring at me. I’d smile and wave and she would look down. I did miss being with her. What a dumbshit I had been. Messing around with a married woman. It was depressing. Beer and marijuana eased the pain somewhat.

As the time for my separation got closer, I resigned from Liberty House and prepared for the next chapter in my life. I hadn’t saved much money so my choices were limited. I could probably get to Australia or New Zealand if I got a passport. Hell, I was halfway there already. But what then?  If I went back to the mainland, where would I go? I had relatives in New Orleans. Maybe eventually but for now…I should get back to Missouri.

***

I am home now. Back to the womb. Back to a little suburb just north of the city of St. Louis where I grew up. Where my parents live with my brothers and sisters. Where I kissed my first girl and drank my first six-pack and where I had held five jobs in restaurants as a broiler cook.

The Army was supposed to provide me with new opportunities. I thought, at the time, that I wanted to be a cop. But then the Army made me a cop and I realized that I didn’t have the stomach for it. Cops are generally tough guys with hard and fast rules about right and wrong based on the law. At least most of them are that way. I guess I was tough enough, but I didn’t have the black and white, legal and illegal mentality that was required. I didn’t mind bending the law a little bit now and again myself, so I certainly wasn’t the best candidate to enforce it.

Upon my return to the ‘real’ world I swore that that I was done with restaurants. I could broil a mean steak to the perfect temperature, bake a Russet potato, grill up some Texas Toast and sauté a batch of mushrooms and onions, but those skills would not propel me to the fabulous career that I knew I was destined for.

I hadn’t stayed in touch with my buddies from high school and had only seen them on two leaves that I’d taken over the three years in the service. My first night back I called Mort, a guy who always had something going on. He said “Come by the house. We are having a party tonight. Everybody would love to see you.”

It was like I’d never left. I could pick right up where I left off. Sure, a lot had happened to me outside of the bubble but not much had changed on the home front. Mort had gotten married to a nice girl and still worked at the dry cleaner’s; the same job he had right out of high school. His older brother Mick worked at a hospital as an attendant. He got to wear a white uniform and push patients from room to room for tests and surgical procedures. Georgie found his calling as a union electrician’s apprentice, making really good money and another buddy, Jerry was a member of the Teamsters Union driving a truck.

My Dad let me stay at the family home but told me I’d need to find a place of my own in a couple of weeks. The house was still full of six kids and two adults, so I didn’t mind the nudge. I had a thousand bucks to my name; not much savings after three years serving my country. I found a 1963 Ford Galaxy in fair condition for half of my money, so I needed to find a job soon.

The source for all gainful employment at the time was the St. Louis Post Dispatch want-ads. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be a cook or a cop, so what else was there?

How about “Flight Attendant?” Why not. It was sexy and in my own mind, so was I. I still had short hair and a very light beard that I shaved almost every day. I was amiable, friendly, but not chatty. I was perfect, I thought.

They were holding a hiring fair at the Ramada Inn on the Rock Road, and I put on my best print shirt and tie with my wide-wail corduroy pants and a light blue jacket with stitched wide lapels. I followed the signs from the lobby and sat in a room with about fifty other airline wannabees for several hours. Finally, I made it to the interview which lasted about five minutes. They would call me.

That same week I applied for three other positions. Porter. I didn’t really know what a porter did, but I needed a job. Grocery bagger at Mr. J’s IGA down the street from my dad’s house. The manager said I was older than most of their baggers who were still in high school. How about salesman at Crossroads furniture store? My buddy Mort had a job there and got me an interview. Once I got there, I knew a career in sales wasn’t for me. The phone didn’t ring.

My Dad had always had this thing about people who were “on the dole.” He was quite vocal about it throughout my wonder years stating many times that people must work for what they get in life. Nothing is free. Maybe that was why he found me a job as a broiler cook at Buckaroo Steak House at age fifteen.

Now at almost twenty-two years old, recently separated from Uncle Sam’s fighting force, I was unemployed with no skills to speak of and needed to find the nearest unemployment office so I could cash in on all that free money the ‘Guv Ment’ was passin’ out. But Dad didn’t have to know.

Well, it wasn’t like a windfall or nothin’. One hundred and ten dollars a week was barely beer money, but I got my first check and continued the job search. Security guard looked promising with my Military Police experience, but it only paid $3.50 an hour and you had to work over-nights and weekends. They loved ex-military, and the blue and gray uniforms were slick, but it was a bit too close to what I’d just escaped from in the Army.

The Wednesday edition of the Post-Dispatch had an ad for a new restaurant that was opening on Graham Road. It was a new concept shaking up the not-so-fine dining experience called Steak & Ale. I hated the idea of going back into restaurants, but I applied. They wanted me to be a broiler cook but I said I was tired of getting off work late at night and smelling like a steak and having “hat-head.”

The interviewer asked me about “hat head” and I told her it was the way your hair was pressed against your head after a long shift sweating it out in a hot kitchen. I said I wanted to work in the front and asked if they would train me to be a bartender. Instead, I was offered a position as a waiter, and I took it. Only one more unemployment check was cashed, and I was back in the restaurant business.

I could delve deeply into my experiences at Steak & Ale, but it wasn’t really that interesting. I did, eventually, get trained as a bartender which I found to be so much better than waiting tables. After about a year I left their employ involuntarily because a friend of the manager overheard me saying something critical about management. Life lesson learned. Keep your big mouth shut.

Then it was on to Stag & Hound, another similar establishment where they took advantage of my ‘extensive’ restaurant experience as a cook, bartender, and a waiter. But I knew that wouldn’t last.

I saw an ad in my favorite local newspaper announcing that ‘Disco’ was coming to North County.

In the last two months before I left Hawaii, I spent several nights hanging out at bars in Honolulu. Disco, with its high energy dance vibe, bright flashing lights and scantily clad members of the opposite sex was new, hot, and alluring. It was also considerably more expensive for GIs to drink at a Disco, especially after having to pay a cover charge. But we would get our buzz on earlier at the Sandcastle Bar where the Primo Beer was only $6.00 a pitcher, then slide on down to the Waikiki Majestic to scope the beautiful babes and dance, if we could actually get anyone to give us a second look. So, I knew about Disco.

Truth be told though; I was more of a Rock n ’Roller. My bands were Black Sabbath and R.E.O. Speedwagon.  But what the hell…

I thought that the name ‘Something Else’ was strange. But what did I know?