I know a man who says the phrase,
"Just one more,"
every time he orders another drink.
And he always gives me a smoke, if I think to ask.
I have a friend who I once called a coward.
I can't remember the context,
but it seemed warranted at the time,
and it must have stung him deep.
Because now every chance he gets, he throws the insult back at me.
Maybe I should've apologized.
(I've recently admitted to him that I can be a difficult person to be friends with at times.)
I know a woman
who seems to think I'm the greatest thing on two legs,
and I keep finding excuses to keep her away.
I don't really know what I'm trying to say,
but lately I've been feeling crushed beneath some immense, vague weight.
So here I am.
Reminiscing again.
Drink in hand.
Writing.
Attempting to understand.
I had this dream the other night:
We were in Guam again, but it wasn't the Guam I'd known. This was a futuristic, skyscraper-clad Guam. All my shipmates were there, even the ones who've left since, and we were having a great time. (Most of that island thrives on catering to showing Sailors a good time.)
But I soon discovered that it wasn't just my shipmates there with me. My old friends from Florida were there too. Immersed in the locals. They kept popping up everywhere we'd go, and I'd introduce my ship fam to them, and they were getting along famously.
But then, I bumped into an old girlfriend, on the sidewalk as I was making my way to a liquor store.
"Nicole?" I said,
but she just shook her head.
"It's Rebecca now."
She'd changed her hair, and her style, and she had a new man, and it seems she'd made a new life out there, down in future Guam.
I walked on.
On the way back, I bumped into my friend (the one I'd once called a coward,) and he was hanging out with two of my old Florida buddies. They were all wearing matching outfits they'd picked up at a shop. Soccer kits consisting of black shorts and yellow-and-black vertically striped jersey tops. I was glad, and a bit surprised, to see they were getting along. They were quite drunk.
Then the ships came in. The liberty call was over. It was time to go back out to sea.
Only, these weren't Navy surface ships. These were futuristic air carriers, vaguely reminiscent of Lego sets I used to build when I was a kid.
They were utterly massive, and they didn't come sailing in, but floating down from the sky. It was a spectacle. The streets were lined with cheering crowds as six giant air carriers emerged from the clouds.
I pointed out one that looked like some kind of paleontological whale ancestor. My friend whispered to me that that one belonged to the PACOM commander.
Meanwhile, the nearest one, whose bow resembled the head of a hammerhead shark, launched out several anchors to the tops of nearby skyscrapers, then it settled in the space between them, suspended by these outstretched appendages.
It was time to go back aboard. Our fun time in future Guam was all but ended. The sentiment was festive, if bittersweet, and I thought,
"*******, *******. What a life."