It’s been almost forty years since the old man in a wheelchair was a young sailor. Way back when, he bled and dodged bullets in some Southeast Asian jungle, in a country he hadn’t even heard of before enlisting in the United States Navy.

As a young sailor, he thought he’d be on some ship far from shore while ground forces hashed it out with rifles, bayonets and hand grenades. Instead, he ended up as a corpsman attached to a Marine Corps infantry unit.

Like all corpsmen assigned to Marine Corps units, the sailor was affectionately called “Doc.” Doc was a warrior as well as medic. He gritted his teeth and fought alongside the grunts when needed, and ended up losing a leg while fighting his way to save a fallen comrade.

Doc lived life the best he could after coming home from the war. He was confined to a wheelchair and still carried some grenade shrapnel in his body, which had a tendency to shoot pain up his spine from time to time. And when those little bits of metal weren’t reminding him of the war, the dreams would never let him forget.

A few years ago, the old man came down with cancer. It slowly started eating away at his liver. He fought the cancer tooth and nail, but it kept coming back. Just a couple of months ago, his doctor at the Veterans Affairs hospital broke the news: it was only a matter of time before the cancer would kill him.

The former sailor took up residence at the VA hospital where he waited for the cancer to do what thousands of Viet Cong bastards couldn’t do. While there, he met another veteran, who was similarly diagnosed. They were veterans of different wars, currently being tortured by the same enemy.

The two men craved an occasional drink, to numb their anxiety and make the passage of time easier to endure. The hospital staff wouldn’t allow it. Why they couldn’t drink, in the face of imminent death, didn’t make sense. But instead of arguing with the nurses and doctors, the two vets quietly went AWOL from the hospital in their wheelchairs.

Today, the two men in wheelchairs bought a bottle of rum, a few cans of cola and some paper cups from a liquor store. After finding a quiet spot near the entrance of an alley, they mixed their rum and Cokes and drank to the many friends who never made it back. “At least we’re gonna die at home,” said the former sailor.

The two veterans were in the middle of their fourth round when they were interrupted by a couple of cops driving through the alley. The patrolmen got out of their car and approached the wheelchaired vets. NGUYEN and CHANG were engraved on the cops’ nameplates. “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Officer Nguyen. “What are you drinking?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, officer,” replied the former sailor. “We’re having some rum and Cokes.”

The cops looked young. Too young to remember the war that claimed his leg. “Are you aware that drinking in public is a misdemeanor?” asked Officer Chang.

Chang pulled out a ticket book and started writing a citation. Sure I know you’re not supposed to drink in public, thought the former sailor. They won’t let me drink in the hospital so I’ve got to drink in an alley like some fucking bum. I’ll be damned if some slope with a badge is going to lecture me about drinking!

Although the former sailor was angered that the young cop would be so eager to scratch out a ticket for a couple of dying vets, he maintained his composure and calmly stated his case to the two policemen. Nguyen looked at the hospital bracelets on the old men’s wrists and the hospital gowns underneath their coats, then asked, “What branch of the service were you in, sir?”

“Navy. I was a corpsman.”

Nguyen signaled for Chang to stop writing in his ticket book. “I was a Marine. Our corpsmen were always as good as Marines in my book.” He motioned to his partner to start heading back to the patrol car. “Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen.”

Before the two cops started walking walking away, the fomer corpsman extended his hand to the former Marine. They shook hands. Emotion filled the old sailor’s eyes. “Semper Fi, Marine.”

Semper Fidelis. Latin for “Always Faithful.” Motto of the Marines. The old man earned the right to those words as a young sailor who fought and bled alongside his Leathernecks.

“Semper Fi, Doc. And be careful out here. This alley isn’t very safe.” The two patrolmen got back into their car and drove past the two veterans.

Doc. No one had called him that in years. The sailor smiled at the Marine and raised his cup to him, thinking of all the Marines who used to call him “Doc” and who still haunted his dreams. “I’ve seen worse places, brother. Much worse.”

Tags: cancer · drunk · marines · military · navy · police · veterans

Most transients have at least a piece of cardboard to use as a mattress. This bum was so out of it that he passed out without his. But no one seemed to care since he was on a sidewalk with very little foot traffic.

Tags: drunk · homeless

It was not unusual for Sleepy to drink himself into a drunken stupor, and then pass out. He couldn’t help himself. The liquor numbed him to the fact that he would have been better off as an abortion. But the one thing that the liquor couldn’t numb was the incessant pain in his rectum.

Strange, this soreness he felt up his ass every time he woke up from passing out. And it seemed to get worse after every drunken escapade.

In time, perhaps two or three months later, Sleepy suspected that his drinking buddy Pedro was regularly ass raping him while he was unconscious. It was hard for him to believe, but he could not think of any other reason for his newfound tenderness.

One night Sleepy and Pedro were at the neighborhood watering hole, drinking cheap liquor, listening to a broken down jukebox. Sleepy passed out and woke up in his own pad with a sore, throbbing rectum.

The next night, Sleepy and Pedro were lushing it up once again. Sleepy decided to pretend he was drunk when he wasn’t. He called it a night, returned to his apartment, locked the door behind him and pretended to pass out. He kept one eye slightly open and watched as his friend Pedro stared at him through a window, salivating, attempting to enter, unable to open the locked door.

When confronted about the sneaky sodomy, Pedro denied the whole thing. Why would a married man sodomize his best borracho buddy? No, Pedro held steadfast to his alibi of reading his Bible and listening to Christian music during the time of the most recent alleged sodomy.

Although Sleepy didn’t enjoy waking up with a sore rectum, he continued to drink every night with Pedro. Sleepy couldn’t bear the thought of drinking alone. Pedro enjoyed his friendship with benefits. It was, in a sense, a symbiotic relationship.

Tags: drunk · sex · sodomy

I heard some muffled shouting, cursing and a series of thuds punctuated by agonizing yelps. It came from outside–the universal sounds of violence. I turned my head to the direction of the commotion, unable to see outside the windowless room. “Just a couple of drunks fighting,” she told me nonchalantly. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

The girl sitting next to me was no stranger to violence. She was used to getting smacked around from time to time. Not that she enjoyed the occasional beating, but she accepted it as an adjunct to her livelihood. She never cried while she licked her wounds, and she certainly could care less about some two-bit drunk getting his face rearranged.

She looked at me, holding her gaze for a few seconds, sizing me up as she pulled on her cigarette and expelled a stream of smoke from the corner of mouth. She had a cold, icy stare that made her older than she was.

After she finished sizing me up she stood, took another drag from her cigarette, opened the door and said, “Get undressed. I’ll be back in a few.” She blew out another cloud of smoke, walked out the door and shut it behind her.

There wasn’t much in the room–just a worn out mattress and a small pillow. The red light bulb on the ceiling flickered and dimmed from time to time. It was all very utilitarian. There was no pretense; no veneer to disguise the fact that this was just a dirty little brothel that serviced the local population of blue-collared married men and horny college boys.

I sat at the edge of the mattress and wondered how I got suckered into joining my two compadres in their journey through such a seedy back alley in a seedy part of this strange town. There was no way I was going to disrobe for this broad.

When she returned with a handful of handy wipes, lubrication and a condom, she saw that I was still fully clothed. She frowned, mildly irritated. “I ain’t got all night, bub,” she said dryly. “We’re on the clock and I ain’t getting paid to undress you. What’s the matter, you shy or something?”

The last thing I wanted to do was to copulate with this whore. The second to the last thing I wanted to do was pick a fight with her. “It ain’t that I’m shy,” I replied. “But I’m here because one of my buddies dragged us down here. He’s been out to sea for six months and the only ass he’s seen is on the back of a bunch of hairy sailors and Marines. He ain’t been laid in a while and he’s been driving us crazy, with the way he’s been acting on account of that fact. He’s picking up the tab, and didn’t want to come here alone.

“Me, I got a nice girl waiting for me back home. I might be a dumb Marine, but I’m smart enough to know a good thing when I got it and I ain’t gonna mess it up here. Like I said, my buddy’s picking up the tab, and it would make him feel good about himself if he didn’t know that we didn’t do anything more than converse.”

The hardened eyes of the whore softened just a little. She paused after taking in my words. “It’s nice that you have love. There isn’t a whole lot of love in the world. Take care of that girl and treat her right.” She lit up another smoke and asked, “Want some coffee?” I nodded yes.

She left and returned with a small cup of joe. Her eyes had returned to stone. When I finished the cup she shooed me out of the room and down the hall, towards the brothel’s entrance.

The very round madam of the place wobbled towards us, looked at the whore and nonchalantly asked, “Was there a happy ending?” The madam might have been running a dirty business, but she wanted her customers to get what they paid for. The young girl with the old gaze nodded yes to her boss, walked me to the front door and turned around without a goodbye.

I looked back and watched her sit next to another girl on a squeaky couch in the anteroom. They sat emotionless, sitting with arms folded and legs crossed, smoking cigarettes, waiting for their next appointments. I joined my buddies outside. We walked out of the alley, howled at the moon and jumped in a cab.

Tags: drunk · love · marines · prostitution · sex

It was two o’clock–time to kick out all the drunks, clean the place up and get the hell out of dodge. It was a task I took on in a most expeditious manner at the end of every shift. The faster we could get every customer out the door and lock it up, the faster we could get underway.

On this particular night, the only thing hindering me from my goal of leaving the club was some drunk broad sniffing around the outer perimeter of the dance floor. “Can I help you find something?” I asked.

“Ohmygod,” she slurred. “I can’t find my friggin’ keys. How the hell am I gonna get home?”

Keys are one of the most commonly misplaced things inside of a nightclub, next to sobriety and sensibility. But unlike sobriety and sensibility, keys have a way of turning up sooner or later for the drunk in question. In the case of the broad standing in front of me, losing her keys was probably a good thing. She was a head-on collision waiting to happen. “Don’t you have a friend you can crash with tonight? I can call you later if my crew finds a set of keys.”

“My baby,” she blurted as she struggled to maintain her balance. “He’s in my apartment all alone.”

I held back my shock and revulsion. It was none of my business, but I asked anyway: “How old is your boy?”

“He’s almost 18 months old. And he’s gonna freak out if he wakes up and I’m not there!”

I looked at the drunk broad standing in front of me and thanked the man upstairs that my mother wasn’t some boozed-out bimbo who checked in her sobriety and sensibility at the front door of a gin joint like mine.

Before heading out the door, the crew and I had a drink together. One for that abandoned baby, and one more for the road.

Tags: drunk · nightclub · parenting