Discharge: A Gay Navy Novel

By Ron Belpedio

Discharge is the comic story of four gay sailors being released from the Navy in 1995.

While stationed in Western Australia, Hospital Corpsman Mickey Matlin, the married father of two young children, is discovered in an intimate situation with 19-year-old Seaman Apprentice Eddie Vasquez.

Journalist Jon Gates is dumped by the base dentist at the same time, and in a somewhat dramatic fashion, he informs the Legal Officer he is gay and requests a release from the Navy ASAP. No hard feelings. He simply wants to be free of the military in the same way Elizabeth Taylor wanted to be rid of Eddie Fisher after she met Richard Burton.

Arrangements are made for the sailors to journey to Treasure Island, off the coast of San Francisco. In Perth, they meet up with Machinists Mate Lawrence Watts who is also en route to the states for a medical discharge.

Their travels take them through New Zealand, Sidney, and Honolulu.

They consider the trip a last fling of sorts that is, until they reach Treasure Island where they are tossed into a daytime jail disciplinary barracks, which allows them evening liberty in San Francisco.

There is screaming and some sex, as each man struggles to construct a new life outside of the military. Young Vasquez deals with coming out issues. Watts learns to accept his HIV status, and Mickey Matlin must confront his wife, who joins them in San Francisco from their rural Illinois home.

Their stories are related through letters, journal entries, and other fairy tales that document their military discharges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 10, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462839766

Ron Belpedio

Ron Belpedio is a writer who has worked as an editor, teacher, waiter, concrete construction laborer, U.S. Navy journalist, insurance underwriter, bank teller, and golf caddy. Discharge is his second novel.

Book preview

1.

their friday night date

Vasquez knew it had to happen sometime. It was inevitable. He sat Indian style on his bunk waiting to hear Mickey’s footsteps in the hallway. Their deal was that Mickey would come by as soon as he saw Vasquez’s roommate, Hayden, and a couple of the guys from the softball team walk across the parking lot toward the enlisted club.

Vasquez and Mickey had been seeing each other for three weeks-had even gone away camping last weekend, but still, they had never gotten around to talking. At lunch, they might wave hello across tables in the chow hall, a sideways hand movement as Vasquez set down his tray. Enough activity was involved with everyone getting fed, rushing around the dining room with second helpings of dessert, that no one noticed their brief public acknowledgements. And that was a good thing. Mickey pranced around the base like a royal princess, glancing at groups of men with sidelong stares, all eyes and lashes flashing-and he regularly spent way too long with those dramatic eyes staring directly at Vasquez! Hayden and the other guys had begun making cracks about it, about how Vasquez was able to accept that shit because he was from Anaheim and therefore liberal with guys like that because there were so many of them in California. Webb, the center fielder, worked at Medical with Mickey and he said that Mickey had pictures of his kids hanging up around the office and he talked about his wife all the time. He’s not queer for sex, Webb said. He just acts like a pussy. This baffled young Vasquez and he knew it would probably be one of the things they would talk about tonight when Mickey arrived. Last Sunday night after they had brought the camping gear back to Special Services, Mickey had asked: Don’t you think it’s time you started talking? Vasquez, crawling with goose flesh, didn’t answer. Mickey had looked quite serious and said Next time with a distinct finality, making it clearly an irrefutable statement.

Vasquez sat alone in his dark barracks room now with the shades pulled down. A small fluorescent desk lamp provided a hint of light. He was thinking he still didn’t know how to feel about Mickey when footsteps announced his arrival in the hall outside. Vasquez jumped to open the door.

It’s almost Thanksgiving and it’s fucking burning up out there, Mickey said, entering the room. I wish it were snowing or something, you know, like a winter wonderland. Not this fucking summertime heat in a desert on the beach. I’m so over it.

Hi. Vasquez shut the door quickly.

oh, dear, Mickey sighed and shook his head at the handsome young Latin man. Eddie, Eddie. I keep forgetting you won’t talk. But today I’m making a new rule. No talking, no sex. He sat on Vasquez’s bunk, crossed his legs and plumped a pillow between his back and the cement block wall. Of course we both know I’ll break down sooner or later. Sooner, I’m sure, but you’ve got to start saying more than ‘Lick my balls’ because I need the connection! It’s November and it’s going to be the holidays soon and we’re going to be here together. Whether you want to admit it or not, we’ve become attached.

Vasquez pulled out his desk chair and sat with the back between his thighs, facing Mickey.

Tell me a story or something. Can’t you at least pretend that I’m worthy of your conversation? I thought last weekend at the beach would break you, but now I can see it hasn’t. You just want me to come over here, suck you off and then leave. That was okay for a while, but I want more. I know you talk. I’ve seen you with your friends. One time you were laughing and jumping up and down with your buddies when I walked by the softball diamond after a game.

Mickey stopped speaking, put his arms across his crotch forming an X, and waited.

Vasquez nodded, but said nothing. He had seen Mickey that day too.

2.

the stenciled names in men’s underwear

Gates began collecting them, trading them with the other players in the game.

More often than not, he’d sneak in the dark and exchange them with his own while their owners were preoccupied. They’d scamper out into the night twisting their heads both ways down the hallway before leaving Gates’ room, as if they feared searchlights attempting to locate wayward homosexual activity. They had no idea that the scariest event of their evening had just ended.

Gates always replaced the stolen shorts with semi-soiled ones of his own that he kept under his mattress in a back corner. (Wouldn’t you know if you were slipping on a freshly laundered pair? Too obvious.) Often, Gates tried to imagine how these occasional others reacted when they first discovered his name stenciled onto their shorts. Would they immediately throw them away? Maybe burn them? Or secretly keep them in a drawer, perhaps pulling them out to sniff and stroke? Or did they just wear them as another pair of their own, thinking nothing of it?

Journalist Third Class (JO3) Jon Gates sat in the greenhouse-style chapel room across from the Navy chaplain and asked him what he thought other men might have experienced on a spiritual level when finding the name GATES stenciled on their undershorts. The old man balked. He was a decidedly Southern gentleman with the kind of soft white skin that obviously had not encountered too much physical labor-it was like tissue paper.

What do you mean? the chaplain asked, rubbing his tender nose. He thought he understood, but he couldn’t be sure, and all those counseling seminars he’d attended back in the states suggested asking again if you weren’t completely clear.

Well, Gates sat upright placing his elbows on his knees, addressing the chaplain with his entire body. The room was overstuffed with furniture and a heavy ottoman was on the floor between the two men. Gates’ foot kicked it accidentally toward the religious man. Do you think anyone ever kept my underwear afterward like a souvenir and thought fondly of me?

You know you aren’t supposed to be telling me this, the pink-skinned chaplain coughed. I cannot advise you on these situations. Discussing your sex life while living on military bases is inappropriate. I do not want to make this any more difficult for you than it has to be. Do you understand?

Gates nodded at the ultimate coalition of church and state: the Navy chaplain. He believes in God and he outranks you.

I’m supposed to tell you that I haven’t slept with any men on military bases or ships for the past five years. That’s nuts. I spent two years on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean that is entirely a military base. Do you think you can report that I have been celibate and expect anyone to believe it? Do you think anyone stationed there could say that? Both of Gates’ feet came in contact with the ottoman, pushing it closer toward the old man. Huh?

I am not an expert on homosexuality, the chaplain replied calmly. To be honest, I don’t frequently discuss homosexuality with people, because people do not frequently discuss it with me. I am an officer in the United States Navy and sexuality counseling is not one of my priorities. He reached out with his hands and firmly grasped the ottoman between them, adjusting its position to give himself more leg room. He picked up his pen and a clipboard. We need to complete this report if you are going to be discharged properly. If you require further assistance adjusting to your sexuality, you’ll have to seek consultation elsewhere. I really don’t think I can help you. I am simply not suited for it. Can you understand that, Jon?

Humbled, Gates retreated. The chaplain was right, of course. Gates was just upset. This wasn’t between the two of them anyway, and nothing that was going to transpire in the small greenhouse study off to the side of the chapel at Harold E. Holt naval base in Western Australia would change the world. This was a room that bore witness as the chaplain counseled young people away from home for the first time, and husbands missing new wives or lamenting over an indiscreet night with a prostitute in the Philippines that led to syphilis. Screaming here would solve nothing.

Gates altered his tone, asked for a glass of water to clear his throat. He spoke the words the chaplain needed to hear. He told him the story about the summer Paul died of AIDS, how he was left alone and lost after the funeral. He rented Private Benjamin one afternoon with his best friend lily, and together they watched it while drinking martinis and smoking joint after joint from the shoebox of pot they split that summer. Then lily drove him to the recruiter’s office. Gates was 27 then, teaching a few GED classes and accumulating an altogether too large collection of Connie Francis albums and college degrees in unmarketable subjects like English, Philosophy, and Psychology. His parents still supported him reluctantly. The Navy provided an escape back then, and now five years later, he was escaping again, this time from the military. (His idol at this time was Barbra Streisand in What’s Up Doc?)

The chaplain placed his clipboard down for a moment and reached behind him for a heavy, rather ominous-looking leather-bound book. He opened it to a page that listed discharges, transforming himself into a friendly department store salesclerk. Gates imagined himself at the Bridal Registry selecting a china pattern.

What kind of discharge would you like? the chaplain asked.

The type of discharge and the character of separation Gates received would affect some veterans’ rights and benefits. And, as one document plainly stated: Many an employer will turn down an ex-serviceman who can not produce an Honorable Discharge certificate.

There was a lot to consider and the chaplain was very business-like, detailing the amount of time each option would take, the public awareness, and personal sacrifice involved with his decision. Gates kept thinking the phrase naval discharge sounded as though it were some sort of unwelcome bodily function, a dirty word.

This is your choice, the chaplain repeated. His eyes remained down, blurred over the text in the open book on top of the ottoman between them.

Gates chose to get out by identifying himself as a lifelong homosexual, admitting he had lied when he originally enlisted and checked the NO box to the question: Have you ever engaged in homosexual activity (sexual relations with another person of the same sex)? This was officially termed Fraudulent Enlistment, granting Gates a General Discharge Under Honorable Conditions. He was releasing himself from the military because he was a liar. Not simply because he was a homosexual, but because he was a homosexual liar. This category of discharge encompasses inaptitude and unsuitability which was exactly how Gates was feeling about the military at that time. He was told he would be able to upgrade his discharge to Honorable after filling out a few additional forms, but Gates didn’t want a fight. He simply wanted to be free of the military in the same way Elizabeth Taylor wanted to be rid of Eddie Fisher after she met Richard Burton.

Optimistically, Gates anticipated an amicable separation.

Together they wrote the answers that needed to be written, very legibly on the chaplain’s report. Coming out to God. There were no mentions of JO3 Gates’ patented radio show seductions, sex on moonlit beaches, love, friendships, or any of the humanity that made up his navy life and the lives of his closest friends. Instead, for the record, he documented the naval experiences of a repressed sexless man who hid behind the shame of homosexuality. Just the kind of crap that would quickly release him from his commitment to the military.

It was a hell of a way to quit a job.

3.

a homosexual act

I forgot my wallet! I’ve got to stop back at the room.

You asshole! You’ve got the cash.

Motherfucking Forget-Me-Not!

The three sailors took their time walking back and headed up the back fire exit stairs, pulling themselves by the railings with their arms, taking two steps at a time. Hayden’s room was on the third floor.

Hurry the fuck up! I got a beer waiting’ on me! another of his mates yelled from below.

Hayden slid in his key and pushed open the door quickly, flicking on the overhead fluorescent lights. Mickey Matlin, that queer corpsman, was down on his knees giving head to Vasquez, Hayden’s new roommate, the new first baseman. Vasquez had his hand on the back of Mickey’s neck. He’d been stroking it.

Shouts of Motherfuckin’ Faggots! filled the barracks, echoing like well-rehearsed Christmas carols sung in three-part harmony throughout the hollow hallway.

Just givin’ head to that Chicano boy, down on all fours like a dog was the way a base barber retold the tale.

Probably just waitin’ to get it up his ass. Barber #2 confirmed the story. He had a marine in his chair, trimming his flat-top with sharp scissors and a thin black comb. That’s what them fags like. They get it all wet with their mouth and then slide it up their butt!

Another marine cringed in the corner of the two-chair barber shop, waiting on an orange plastic sofa flipping through Stars and Stripes. Shit! Everybody knew that little Mickey boy was a sissy. He threw down the newspaper on the seat next to him. But who was his butt-buddy? Velasquez?

"Vasquez, that new kid, the first baseman. Damn, and he was limber too. Wasn’t ever afraid at all to reach for a ball. He was Captain Favetti’s new gopher, a nice kid. Been here less than a year, straight from boot camp. I don’t know how he got sucked into that …"

And the entire barber shop stopped on the word suck. Scissors were held still between fingers and the two marines shifted in their seats. Barber #1 laughed first. Then they all were laughing. It seemed to ease the uncomfortable moment of their joint visualization: Mickey Matlin, that sissy boy, down on all fours sucking the dick of Vasquez, the new kid, the limber first baseman.

Barber #2, realizing his pun, smiled proudly. You know, it’s like that movie I saw once with Dustin Hoffman …

Tootsie? Barber #1 offered. That was a funny one.

No. No. Barber #2 shook his head, waving his comb and scissors through the air as if the gesture would help him remember the name of the film. "No. It was another one. Damn! Midnight Cowboy. That’s it. Dustin Hoffman played a street hustler and some big blond guy played a young kid like Vasquez."

You know, Barber #1 said. I think I saw that film.

I did too, said the marine receiving the flat-top.

Yeah. The others nodded.

So what happens to them now? The marine picked up Stars and Stripes again.

They get shipped back to the states and they’re out of the Navy. Barber #1 spoke firmly.

They’ll be gone before you know it. Barber #2 agreed.

4.

my dear lily,

November 1, 1995. It’s happening. I’m leaving. I need to keep track. It all started Sunday night when I went by my dentist Gregg’s room on the way home from the beach + asked him if he wanted to go out for a beer. He didn’t, but said that he did. I went home + took a shower + went back down to meet him, but he’d left his room already. He was walking toward the parking lot in a snit because I’d taken too long.

Hey, do you want me to go with you or not? I went up to his truck. Tell me the truth.

He said, Get in.

We went to Claude’s Bistro, trying to be polite all the while. He was, in his words, a cold, heartless bastard, and he dumped me, ruthlessly, before we’d finished our second pint.

The next morning—Monday—I went to see Lt. Spillane, the legal officer. It was easy. I told her I was gay and needed to get out of the Navy now. She advised I go see the chaplain, which I did Tuesday morning, Halloween. By Wednesday, everybody at work knew because I told my roommate Steve before he went to the Halloween party (as a humpy Chippendale dancer, I might add) and he told everyone.

Today, I signed some documents with Lt. Spillane, and did a lot of personnel and pay paperwork at PSD. And I packed. I can’t believe they’re sending me to San Francisco, the gayest city on the planet, to be discharged at Treasure Island. It’s too ironic.

God Bless the United States Navy.

Finally, this afternoon I talked to Gregg. I couldn’t resist. I saw his truck at the country store and walked over as he was coming out with a couple new CDs and a bag of barbecue potato chips. Aren’t you working? He still remembers my work schedule! How sweet.

Haven’t you heard?

No.

That’s surprising, I said, a little bitchy. Everybody else has. Then, after a pause: I’m leaving tomorrow.

Why?

The obvious reason.

Lily dear, I’m still in a dither every time I look at him for more than four consecutive minutes. Even though his personality has made him uglier, he’s still Robert Redford in The Way We Were and everything will always work out well for him.

C’est la vie, he said, dismissing me.

Those were his last words. Really! Who says C’est la vie anymore?

I swept past him dramatically, trying to make a grand exit, beyond him, leaving him in my wake as I went on to conquer the world. But I found myself heading in the wrong direction down a dead end hallway, and I had to walk back past him again to enter the country store. Real Lucy Ricardo. I want to leave now.

I’m not sure what’s going to happen. It’s like watching tv while someone else holds the remote control.

Yes, I’m somewhat frightened. JO3 Gates

5.

and then there were three

Petty Officer Mickey Matlin continually shook his head in despair. It was one of his most distinctive habits. He was thin and effeminate, wearing his military uniform crisply, an outfit designed for his sleek figure, as he sat in the air terminal at Harold E. Holt. Inside his bony sailor body was a little old man who occasionally appeared, shaking his head at the ways of the world. Although he looked much younger with taut creamy skin and wide-open eyes, Mickey was 28. He’d been in the Navy only two years and was still somewhat afraid of its absolute authority. Maybe that’s why he looked young, because he was on edge all the time. Holt had been his first duty station after he’d graduated from corpsman A school in San Diego. He had a good job at the dispensary, and after a few more months, he was planning on bringing his wife and kids out. It was all going to be perfect. That was why he joined the Navy in the first place: to provide a better home for his family, one that was subsidized by Uncle Sam because Mickey’s own relatives weren’t much help. Both his parents remained in Rockford, Illinois, only five blocks from where his wife was staying near her mother. They visited their grandkids regularly, and they weren’t happy at all that Mickey was thinking of relocating everyone to Western Australia. Now, of course, they wouldn’t have to worry about that.

When they had checked in at the airport counter, a member of the ground crew dispensed cold box lunches (a choice of either a bologna and cheese sandwich or cold greasy fried chicken). Both Mickey and Vasquez chose chicken. This meal can be eaten at any time. Some people eat during the thrusting back motion of the take-off, others eat in mid-flight, and still others (like Mickey and Vasquez) prefer not to mix digesting food with their flying at all and eat in the stark terminal while waiting to board the plane.

Did you want another breast, Eddie? Mickey held out a half-eaten piece of chicken dripping with oil and saliva.

Across the room, Vasquez was isolating himself in a corner, hunched over chicken parts.

Oh no, I’ve forgotten. Breast meat isn’t exactly your style-or is it? He placed the chicken breast against his own and jiggled around a little, getting oil stains on his dress white uniform. Can’t you liven up a little? It’s not the end of the fucking world!

Fuck off! Vasquez was surrounded by his luggage, which encircled him like a child’s fort. He was writing a note on a very large postcard, balancing it on his knee and keeping it secure there with the force of his pencil. His meal, which had been reduced to immaculately cleaned chicken bones and half a chocolate chip cookie, had been placed just outside the parameters of his fort on the ground.

As JO3 Jon Gates approached, Vasquez’s glared at Mickey, and Gates half-expected the boxed lunch was going to be hurled through the air. I’m Jon Gates, he said with a cheery grin, trying to break the tension. I think we’re going to Treasure Island together.

We know, Mickey said. He had heard about Gates’ confession to the legal officer over at Medical. Looks like we’re going to be playing the Western Hemisphere: Mickey Matlin and His Poor Navy Queens.

Vasquez shot them both a dastardly look. He may have even growled.

"Well, two of us are Navy Queens. Mickey turned toward Gates. one is just a confused boy who is beginning to get on my last nerve. Is it true that you just walked in and busted yourself?"

Just then, the legal officer, Lt. Spillane, came striding into the airport in her tight white summer dress uniform, looking very sharp, prim, and proper. Her blonde hair was pinned neatly into her officer’s cap. She paused for a moment at the door to locate them, and then purposefully began walking briskly in their direction.

Good Afternoon, Ma’am, Gates said, retaining a bit of his Navy formality.

Jon. Michael. Eduardo. She nodded at each of them. I need to go over your itinerary. Jon, you are the ranking enlisted man here and you are responsible for the safe arrival of the four of you at Treasure Island by Monday at midnight.

Four? Vasquez sat upright in his tiny fortress. Yet another person was going to know he was a homosexual-caught in the act.

Petty Officer Lawrence Watts, a Machinist’s Mate from the Constellation will be joining you in Perth. He’s meeting your plane. He’ll be traveling with you to Treasure Island for discharge.

A Connie Girl. Mickey said. Watts. He searched his memory bank for family gossip, but found nothing there.

I’m sorry. Lt. Spillane spoke to Gates. I didn’t even find out about the addition until just this morning I got a wire from D.C. Watts’ situation is similar to yours and his destination is also Treasure Island for discharge, so you’ve been routed together for travel purposes. She turned to the others, raising her voice. Petty Officer Gates will be responsible for your arrival by midnight on Monday, five days from now.

Vasquez and Mickey tried to look at Gates differently, but couldn’t.

Well, it’s not like we’re going to go AWOL after all this humiliation, Mickey said sarcastically. He was bitter, very unmilitary-like, lashing out at the Navy via Lt. Spillane. I don’t think I can eat another meal in that enlisted mess anyway. Everybody stares at me. I’m an outcast to people who were my friends for the past year. And they already knew! Don’t let anybody tell you they didn’t. Apparently everyone can tell just by looking at me-or so they say now! They knew. They’ve known all the time.

Lt. Spillane ignored the outburst and handed Gates their travel orders. Jon, you have a phone number on your orders if it’s necessary to reach me.

The plane was becoming visible in the distance and it was time for good-byes.

Thanks, Gates said to Lt. Spillane. You could have made this hell for me.

Just take care of yourself, she patted his back as Mickey and Vasquez gathered their bags silently and headed toward the door. Be safe.

They were walking out onto the tarmac when Gates began to get nervous. The tension between the three of them was not exactly facilitating the harmonious vacation before discharge atmosphere he had anticipated-or even that of a quiet introspective journey. Instead, Gates found himself stuck with two mixed-up, fucked-up guys dealing with their homosexuality, coming out under duress, and trying to sort out their feelings toward each other.

Look, I hope you’re not going to just sit around and play bizarre mind games, Gates shouted over the sound of the approaching plane engines in the hot Australian sun. "We’ve got per diem for five days and a trip half way around the world. Who knows what’s going to happen when we get there, so let’s just try to get along, okay? It’ll be fun. We’re going to Perth, Sidney,

Honolulu, and then San Francisco-unescorted with layovers in each city."

Gates became the demented tour-guide from hell.

You don’t know anything about what’s going on with us, Vasquez said. For the first time he looked purposefully at Gates with his dark brown eyes, a well-built Hispanic fantasy. If only he wasn’t so fucked up and young.

I know that the two of you were caught fucking. I believe Mickey was sucking you off if I’m not mistaken.

We’re not like you! Vasquez spit.

Mickey cleared his throat, calling attention to himself, but said nothing.

"Well, I’m not like you anyway. This is just …"

Gates got the distinct impression that they didn’t even really know each other. Casual sex might be the term to describe their relationship, or fuck buddies-with a lot more fucking than buddying going on.

I’m not like you, Vasquez repeated. I’ve got a lot on my mind now. I don’t have any time for a fag road party.

I do, Mickey said, then he turned to Vasquez. Just say it was my fault, Eddie. Case closed. Say I seduced you, he shouted over the thundering engines.

None of the other passengers heard or paid them the least bit of attention. They were busy in preparation, ready to board the plane, breaking off into groups, concerned with their own travel plans. Harold E. Holt was a small naval station and everyone knew about the three homosexual sailors screaming at each other, but no one really cared.

Shut up! Vasquez looked around the airstrip. Let’s not talk about this. Please! If you don’t mind, I don’t need any more bullshit. Okay?

Gates shrugged, his arms loaded with luggage. "Okay, we won’t talk about your … situation-but only if you’ll both try to have a good time on this trip. None of us knows what the fuck is going to happen. We can’t care now. What I see is the three of us in transit with per diem money for five days. I’m gonna enjoy it. I don’t give a shit what you do. We’re all at the mercy of the military system now anyway, so can you at least try and have some fun? Please?"

Mickey was preoccupied with a bunch of marines ahead.

Vasquez seemed to be smiling a little-or was he only squinting into the sun?

Two Airmen were pushing a large staircase on wheels alongside the impatient huddle of passengers. They were going to board the plane by climbing a tall set of steps which at the moment led up to nowhere.

Somehow, that seemed very appropriate.

6.

no-frills air travel

On very primitive flights like the one they took to Perth, there are no actual seats. Instead, a heavy netted nylon mesh material is stretched from ceiling to floor and reinforced by thick aluminum tubing. This contraption creates two rows of seating along each side. No windows, just two rows of passengers facing one another, backs to the sides of the plane.

Gates and Mickey were strapped together on the military aircraft, sunken side-by-side into the nylon mesh. Each of them had a wool blanket. Most of the passengers, like Gates, wrapped the blankets over their chests and legs to ward off the invisible rushing chill of night air, but Mickey wore his like an old woman wears a shawl, around his shoulders and held together at his neck-a rough army-green wool shawl.

Vasquez sat across from them, slouched down into a fetal ball, looking very much like an overgrown elementary school boy. His head fell back, his mouth parted open, and he was snoring almost before they took off.

After they’d been in the air an hour or two, Mickey began shouting his life story at Gates over the roar of engines in the not-so-very-insulated cargo plane. Gates didn’t ask him to stop. He had spent the last five years of his life regurgitating Navy propaganda as a journalist, and Mickey’s story was like nothing he had ever heard outside of bed. Certainly, Gates had listened to the whining ways of married men he’d just fucked as they gathered up their clothes at his beside, but this was different. Mickey was out of control. He didn’t know what was going to happen next. He hadn’t called his wife. He said it would be better to do that once they got to the states. It would be cheaper.

Eventually, like the rushing stream of cold air that whistled beyond the shell of the plane, Mickey’s loud lilting voice became another background sound for the other seven passengers, most of whom were sleeping or bobbing their heads to heavy metal music pumped loudly