Moiré’s Insanity

By C.M. Moore

Petty Officer Miguel Moiré serves aboard the mighty navy warship USS Johnny Good, where he has settled in to the same robotic cycle as everyone else around him—complain, work, complain, drink, sleep, repeat.

Over the course of a few days, Moiré has several encounters with a mysterious new shipmate, who advises him to drink less. Soon the petty officer finds himself forced to confront his alcoholism amid the day-to-day demands of being a sailor and a new consciousness of his own personal issues. Moiré’s self-awareness becomes impeccable as he reflects on social trends and his own persona. But if he doesn’t act soon, his heightened perception may not do much more than give him a front-row seat to his own self destruction.

Painting a vivid portrait of the life of a navy officer, this novella offers a look at the mind of an alcoholic attempting to function in society while maintaining an outward semblance of normalcy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728340784

C.M. Moore

C.M. Moore is a native of Fayetteville, North Carolina. He has one child, a daughter. He draws inspiration from his early up bringing in North Carolina and his family.

Book preview

© 2020 C.M. Moore. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/21/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-4079-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-4078-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920823

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

About the Author

38661.png

CHAPTER 1

On a Wednesday morning, one like any other in port, aboard the mighty navy warship USS Johnny Good, I awoke from my rack—a tight squeeze for my six-foot-four frame—to the sound of reveille at 0600 hours. I slid into my black-and-white shower shoes carefully as to not let my feet touch the deck, a movement I perfected over my short tenure aboard. The atmosphere in the male supply berth was thick with the sound of shipboard ventilation pumping recycled air into my lungs. It had little to no effect on the pungency of morning breath marinating from the previous night’s cheese and onions combined with the offensive odor emanating from working feet that spent the day encased in steel-toe boots.

I rose from an alcohol-induced slumber to add sour armpits to the mix. As my consciousness stirred, I forced my body into a stretch, reaching my hands toward the overhead. The feeling was pleasant, joints and bones making sounds resembling a fresh bag of pork rinds chewed rudely with an open mouth. Exhaling sighs of relief, contemplating drunken mistakes—at least the ones I remembered—I couldn’t continue to delay the inevitable preparation for work. I gathered my towel and items needed to shower. I would wash away the remnants of last night’s adventures supplemented by the alcoholic spirits encouraged by my navy culture. I proceeded to the head. That’s where I met him for the first time.

I entered the head, otherwise known as the restroom facility. I turned the round silver knob on the painted gray door. As I turned the knob clockwise, I lightly pushed the door open. I stepped over the one-inch or so threshold onto a deck soaked with urine and standing water. The space was humid and smelled of feces. I stood in front of a row of sinks adjacent to the shower area. I placed my bag on the sink and hung my towel on a protruding screw from a broken light fixture. I saw an unfamiliar face two sinks to my right. A new check-in, I thought as I removed my shaving cream and my yellow Lady Schick razor; female razors seem to work better on my face. Then I spoke to him. Good morning.

Sup, bro, he replied. He stood about five feet nine, or maybe ten, with medium-brown skin and dark-brown eyes. He couldn’t have weighed more than 160 or 170 pounds, much smaller than me. His hair was black, about three or four inches long, in kinky tight curls with a skin taper and a fresh lineup. Being a barber, I notice people’s hair more than the average person would. His nose was a tad sharper than most black folks’. Moderate body hair was visible outside his standard PT gear—a yellow short-sleeved shirt and blue mesh shorts adorned with the word Navy in gray reflective letters. His jawline appeared ravaged by ingrown hairs and irritation undoubtedly caused by shaving too often.

I wet my face and began to apply shaving cream as the unknown sailor began brushing his teeth. You new here? I asked.

He mumbled yes as best he could with a toothbrush in his mouth.

You in supply? I asked, and he again replied yes. I stopped talking as I cupped my two hands together to fill them with water from the faucet and rinsed my face of the remains of shaved facial hair and shaving cream. By this time, he had rinsed his mouth of toothpaste. I dried my hands on my gray sweatshorts and reached my still damp right hand toward him. I’m Petty Officer Moiré.

He directed his hand toward mine. I’m Seaman Anderson, he said as he gripped my hand in a firm shake.

I returned his grip while making eye contact. My large hand dwarfed his, but not as much as I would have guessed from his frame. Nice to meet you. We released our handshake agreeably, and I returned my attention to my sink, as did he. I began to brush my teeth, washing away leftover whiskey and cigarette smoke. So where you from, Anderson?

Rinsing his face with what looked to be Nivea face wash, he replied, Everywhere, really. My dad was military, so we moved around a lot.

Oh, that’s what’s up. I rinsed my mouth and spat. I’m from Louisiana.

Nice. I got people down there.

Oh yeah, what part?

He replied, Umm, near Myrtle Beach, I think.

I gathered my towel and toiletry bag. Yeah, I been there a time or two.

He almost passed me as he started toward the door. Well, nice to meet you, Petty Officer Moiré. I’ll see you around.

Same. I took a couple of steps toward the showers. Anderson exited the head. As I hung my towel on the hook outside the first shower stall and began undressing, Quentin, who apparently had been in one of the stalls, walked over to one of the stainless steel sinks and started washing his hands.

As I entered the shower stall, now naked, Quentin shouted, Aye yo! Moiré, who were you talking to?

A new check-in.

Quentin was a cook. He was of Mexican and Caucasian descent, originally from Los Angeles, California. He was in his early twenties and stood about five foot six, around 140 pounds, and 80 percent of his body was covered in tattoos. He maintained a faded buzz cut. His facial features were somewhat flat, and his eyes slightly slanted. He boasted a natural unibrow that stayed neatly shaped and separated. His jaw rounded with consistent stubble, and his nose, less than awkwardly bulbous, sat above a mischievous smile that took up over half of his face. Quentin’s life goals consisted predominantly of cooking after he left the navy, having sex with as many