Subic - Finale

Mechanical bulls, evil ministers, and too much alcohol – the perfect combo for trouble!  Feeling left put?  Just go back and read the first three installments – I promise you’ll be up to snuff in no time!

I seated myself, borrowed black hat in place, doubling up on the strap - gripping with my knees like I was back in dressage class.  For a split second I considered what might be the better part of valor.  This bull riding craze was stupid and dangerous, and I was way too wasted to be participating in any way.  Part of me saw myself leave – but that was the floaty me.  In reality, I stayed right where I was.  Looking out over a veritable sea of faces, I felt like I was back on stage again.  Immediately the fear passed.  Steeling myself for the first shock of movement, I tentatively raised my hand up into the air, signaling I was ready to begin.  The operator didn’t waste one second.  The moment my hand moved, he spun that sucker around so fast I almost got whiplash.  I was determined not to fall – no matter what.  So I grit my teeth, and hung on for dear life.  I can still remember the spinning – part of it external, part opium and beer – I swear to god my stomach seemed to come up through my chest.  Did you all know the spinning movement of a mechanical bull pushes all the air out of your lungs?  I thought I was going to pass out any minute.  Eventually the operators fevered attempts to dislodge me began to be met with jeers and threats from the crowd.  I was able to breathe again, and the fucking thing slowly cranked to a stop.

I was aware of loud cheering, and hands lifting me down, but by that time I was too far gone to give a shit.  Someone told me it was the highest setting ever managed by a girl.  Someone else said the bastard had pegged the machine, and it was out of commission for the evening.  I do know the operator was getting harassed by some of the drunken sailors who took issue with his perceived American animus.  Several of the girls along with one of the bartenders were trying to hustle him out.  Things soon turned ugly.  A beer was thrust into my hand, and I was set up on a high bar stool.  Robin was there, and the preacher, I think - I’m not sure though.  All I know is it was getting loud.  Oh murder, I thought – replay of ‘Donovan’s Reef.’  BAR FIGHT!  Taking a long hard pull of my beer, I tried to focus on the now frenetic activity taking place all around.  The crowd seemed to move in unison, back and forth, like waves on a beach.  In the middle was the bull operator and at least two local guys, forming a kind of cordon, separating him from the rest of the crowd.  Everyone looked really pissed, and there was a lot of shouting – in both English and Tagalog (the Philippine language).  Suddenly it struck me there might actually be a fight here.  That meant military police; and Robin’s husband would not take kindly to his wife getting arrested, not to mention how the situation might reflect on mine as well.

Dropping the beer on the bar I grabbed Robin’s hand.  “Time to go” I shouted, trying to be heard above the din.  She really didn’t protest, and I didn’t wait to see if the evil minister had followed.  Getting out the door, though, proved to be somewhat of a challenge.  You see there were about 200 drunken sailors between it and us.  Going down wasn’t a good idea – too many booted feet - we’d end up being stomped to death.  That left up and over; because through just wasn’t happening.  This is where the ‘two of me’ opium induced phenomenon really took over.  Somehow, I floated up above the crowd, looking for a path over the tables.  I remember looking down, and thinking ‘how odd is this’?  To my utter and complete surprise, there actually was a way out – leading toward one of the side doors.  Looking back, I saw my body begin to follow, Robin’s hand held tightly in mine.  Her mouth was moving, so I’m guessing she was actually saying something, but I couldn’t hear a damn thing with the thinking part of me standing over by that bloody door.  Funky, I know – but floaty me guided corporeal me around the mob, over tables and out of that side exit.  Suddenly – I was back inside my body, and heading down the street as if I hadn’t a care in the world.  Go figure.

Now, I’m thinking there must have been more to it than that, but the drug had me so I couldn’t tell which way was up half the damn time.  My body was doing this kind of vibrating pulse – like when you stand next to the speakers at a Stones concert – some invisible bass line was tickling my diaphragm; I don’t know – maybe it was my heart.  At any rate, it was odd, and vaguely unpleasant; mostly because I couldn’t seem to make it stop.  I could finally hear what Robin was saying, however – she had sobered up mightily, and wanted to go someplace quiet to take stock of the situation.  This struck me as a helluva good idea.  I looked around.  It was just Robin and I; the pornographic minister had evidently melted away - and good riddance to bad rubbish.  We were standing outside of a club called ‘Strawberry Fields’.  In we went, looking for a private table at which to power down.  Now, you are probably thinking this place was called Strawberry Fields as some sort of tribute to The Beatles.  Nope.  Its nom de plume came about because they piped in the smell of strawberries.  And it was strong, too!  Heavy, hanging in the air like smog – I swear – the oil got into your hair and clothes; I smelled that shit on me for about a week!  Add to that a series of pink chase lights, and it was like Christmas for Keebler elves – I actually had to close my eyes to keep from passing out.

We did manage to find a table along one of the aisles leading to the dance floor.  (All of these clubs had some kind of dance floor).  I don’t remember what flavor of music was playing (probably something sappy) because the smell from those damn strawberries overrode everything else.  Now, I used to like strawberries.  Note I said ‘used to’.  Try drowning in a vat full of them – it’ll crush any jones you might have had for the fruit right quick.  My poor stomach was beginning to do flip-flops, so in an attempt to calm it, I ordered some food.  Well - too little too late, as they say.  Too much alcohol, coupled with the after effects of the opium finally wreaked its havoc.  The waitress placing a sandwich in front of me became the final indignity – it was everything out, no waiting.  I barely made it into the street before the up-chucking began.  Robin followed me out - bless her - keeping my hair out of the way while I rid myself of the formaldehyde laced beer.  I had had it at that point.  My wild night was definitely over.  It was time to try and find a relatively safe place to crash until the main gate opened at 7 am.  I looked at my watch.  4:30-ish.  Well, not too long to wait.  I wasn’t about to hang around the downtown, though - too great an opportunity for trouble.  And I really had to get away from that sickening sweet berry smell!

So Robin and I hailed a jitney, and asked the driver to take us to the nearest hotel.  The coolish air on my face had a somewhat salutary effect in that it helped clear my head a bit.  I was still three sheets to the wind, though – and a bit shaky to boot; so I wasn’t paying super close attention to exactly where we were going.  Well - the ‘hotel’ the driver took us too was one of the most disreputable looking flops I had ever seen in a month of Sunday’s.  Hell – the Tenderloin in San Francisco had better drunk stops than this one – cleaner too, and that’s saying a lot!  (Not that I’ve spent a whole lot of time exploring the Tenderloin, but I’m sure you get my drift).  Unfortunately, beggars can’t be choosers, and we needed to hole up somewhere.  The look we got from the mamasan running the joint was priceless, though.  It’s obvious she thought this was some sort of sexual liaison.  Thank God it passed Robin by in both lanes!  I really think that would have been the last straw for her.  She had been silent for like, 45 minutes by this point; and her face had that kind of set look that just screams pissed off.  I guess we were now back to being mad at me.  She seemed to conveniently forget she also participated in our so-called ‘night of debauchery’.  I mean, I didn’t climb up on that bull all by my self, don’t ya know!  Not that it mattered a damn to Robin, though.  Girlfriend was geared up to play the martyr, and I had obviously been cast as the evil step-sister.

When we got to our room, it was a sight to behold – bare mattress, bugs running everywhere – the antithesis of our nice, clean island accommodations (except for the bugs – no matter where you went in P. I. you ran into bugs).  I started getting sick again, so Robin just put me in the shower and turned the water on.  I know to a certain extent she meant to be a bit nasty by this, but really, it was the best thing she could have done.  I sat on the tiles and let the water wash away any remaining fuzzy-headedness.  After about 2 or so hours I was definitely feeling up to snuff.  That’s when I realized there were some noticeable gaps in my memory.  Robin was no help there at all.  She claimed total amnesia – didn’t even remember the fucking bull – and certainly not the near riot we almost caused.  What she did remember was we were supposed to meet our husbands for breakfast at 8am sharp, meaning there was no time to try and get back to the island first.  Me – I’d planned on telling hubby everything.  I may not have been proud of all my decisions, but I wasn’t ashamed, either.  Still, I understood her concerns.  My divorce was pretty much a done deal by this time.  Robin – well, she was still trying to accommodate her hubby; and that man had more rules and regulations than the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice).  So, if she wanted to pretend whatever happened was totally on my back – cool; that I could do.

So – off we went, grabbing a jitney crowded with locals.  Talk about strange looks!  Robin was impatient and fidgety – wanting to get to the restaurant early so we could work on looking presentable.  I figured my clothes would dry in transit, so I didn’t even bother to try and towel off before leaving the hotel (not that I wanted those towels anywhere near me).  The streets were quiet by this point.  Shore Patrol officers went around to each bar collecting drunks like confetti, dumping them in the back of their jeeps. Subic by day was quite different.  For one thing, it was as hot as Hades – so by the time we made it on to the base, I was not only dry, but sweating.  Luckily for us, the bathroom in the restaurant was empty.  I dragged a comb through my hair, splashed water on my face, and attempted to pull the worst of the wrinkles out of my shirt.  There was a small improvement, but frankly, I still looked the worse for wear.  No stale beer smell, though; just the scent of STRAWBERRY, which I guess was a god-send, but I still didn’t like.  My stomach was fine, though.  As a matter of fact, I was ravenous – felt like I could eat a horse.  Robin looked a little pale – anticipating the meeting with her husband, I guessed.  I asked her what she planned to say.  I had no problem lying through my teeth to her husband.  She needed to know I was going to tell the truth to mine, however.  Yes, our marriage was well over; but out of basic respect the man deserved the truth.  Besides – I hadn’t done anything really awful – and after all, the opium wasn’t my fault, exactly. 

So – we all had breakfast together, and a tenser meal never existed outside of your typical family Thanksgiving.  I was tucking into my eggs Benedict (I love eggs Benedict – and I always craved heavy meals after I’d been drinking), while Robins husband was scowling out from under brows so creased he looked like a Jawa.  Lord, could that man convey heavy disapproval with just a look!  I really didn’t like the asshole – he always behaved as if his knickers were twisted.  Robin sat silent, her eyes cast down like the dutiful wife.  Me – fuck ‘em - I ordered seconds!  As for my husband – he did the usual, pretending to see and hear nothing.  Anyway – afterwards we were hustled back to the island to pack – as our transport plane would be leaving that afternoon.  From the moment our feet hit the dirt, Robin and I became instant pariahs.  The other wives whispered and pointed a lot.  Evidently we had been much discussed.  I guess it really upset Robin, as she never stopped flashing me angry looks, coupled with deep sighs and the occasional tsk tsk.  I could have cared less.  At that point I had been living in Japan for 2 years.  My life before had been dissected and reassembled in a crucible that closely resembled hell; as a result I swore to never, ever pass up anything life had to offer.  Maybe I was a bit out on the edge; a touch unruly and unrestrained - but at least I lived by my rules – not someone else’s. 

As you can imagine, it was a quiet ride back to Clark; and an even quieter trip home to Yokosuka.  Since I obviously was being regarded as something contagious, I spent the time trying to recall everything about the previous night.  Those alarming blanks in my memory remained permanent, however.  Thank God I haven’t had too many of those in my life.  It’s not something to be proud of.  You know, I never returned to Subic Bay.  Some of my friends did, however; and told me people at the shit-kicker bar were still talking about my wild ride.  And there was a small riot that night – at least Shore Patrol turned up and banged a few heads together.  Evidently, I am banned from bull riding there in perpetuity.  Well - kinda nice to know your famous – or notorious, as the case might be.  Anyway – that was the P. I. – and my adventure in it.  Everything’s changed now that Marcos is gone and the Navy abandoned the base – and for the better as far as I’m concerned.  But I remember how it was – hell and damnation - you’re damn skippy I remember!

So there you have it – well; what I can remember of it, anyway.  Next week I’ll tell the story of how I got to Japan – my epiphany, and how life almost wasn’t.

Comments

[SB_Gypsy]

Whew, Wild ride indeed!!

[Debby]

What a helluva tale and you certainly know how to tell it!! Love the part about the mechanical bull - only rode one once - you are right, they sure are something!!!!!

So glad you survived to tell the tale, or at least as much of it as you remember. LOL

[ShellbackTv3]

I have so enjoyed your sea story. I myself ventured to the PI by way of the "Ageless Warrior" USS Coral Sea, (CV-43) on the west Pac of 79-80. On my first date with the PI, I had an old Senior Chief and his mates as guides. Nothing better than having your guides on a first name basis with all the retired chiefs who owned the bars!!! I don't remember paying for anything that first night. I am almost tempted to write a story for you entitled, "Cheri's First Date With the PI." lol