National City

I was in San Diego for two weeks of training. Spinks, whom I'd served with during the first two years of my tour, was stationed at nearby 32nd Street. I called him and we went out to National City to drink and dance and maybe, well, just maybe . . .

I had the benefit of understanding her language.


In Tagalog, she told her friend, "I'm taking him home. I'm so lonely."

Her friend said, "I'm lonely, too. But I don't like his friend."

She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. She smiled.

The waitress presented the bill and she looked at me. Standing behind her, Spinks shook his head. I said to the girl, "Ready to go?"

She looked at me. "The bill?"

I shrugged. "I don't have any money."



Her eyes misted while the waitress stood waiting. She stammered and stared away from me to the waitress. Slowly, she removed her wristwatch. "Please," she said. "Can I leave this for a day or two? I promise to come back with the money."

Spinks said, "You girls came here to eat without money?" He reached down and grabbed a french fry, dragged it through a puddle of catsup and brought it to his lips. "That's crazy."

Later, back at the nightclub where we'd met the two women, we sat drinking. They were there, too. Two sailors were buying them drinks. I looked at the floor the table legs sat on.

I listened to the music.

She stared past her friend and grimaced. Then she averted her eyes.