Gunfighter: A Modern Warrior's Life

My Dad

Reposted from Real Dads, June, 2007

My parents were divorced shortly I was six years old... Between my father's philandering, unholy temper, propensity for using his hands to express anger, and my mother's unwise use of chemicals, theirs was a match made in the depths of hell. As difficult as it was, their divorce, in 1969, was a blessing for the whole family.

After the divorce, my mother took us three children from California, where my dad was stationed (he was in the Air Force), to New Jersey where my maternal grandmother lived.

We were raised by my mom and (mostly) grand mom, and saw my dad whenever he was stationed somewhere nearby... in the early 70's, it was in central Massachusetts.

On school holidays, my father would drive from Westover Air Force Base, Mass., to our house in NJ, come inside long enough to say hello to my mother and to use the bathroom, and we'd be on the road! It was during these trips that my father first demonstrated his perfectly abysmal ability to tell jokes. My father told the absolutely worst jokes on the planet. He would tell a joke, and then roar with laughter... not caring if anyone else found them funny. My dad also told awful knock-knock jokes, like this one:

Dad:  "Kncok, knock"

Kids:  "Who's there?"

Dad:  "Emerson"

Kids: "Emerson who?"

Dad:  "'Em are some funky socks you got on!"

Kids:  "Dad... that's not funny!"

Dad:  "Bwaaahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

Jeez.

My dad and I formed a decent relationship, and after he retired from military service, in 1973, he went back to his hometown of Baltimore, Maryland. We (my older brother and sister, and I) visited fairly regularly, and after the older two graduated from high school and went out into the world, I continued to visit on my own... by this time, I had graduated to taking the train, which I thought was pretty cool.

I continued my visits with my dad (and his wife and their daughter, my half sister), until I graduated from high school and joined the service.

One of the best things that my dad ever did for me, is something he probably doesn't even think of now.

When I left home to join the service, my recruiter picked me up early in the morning, and took me to the processing point, in Newark (NJ, not Del.), where I had to fill out forms, get shots, etc... We were then put aboard a bus to the airport for flights to our basic training destination... in my case, Parris Island, South Carolina.

As we were about to board the plane, I heard a shout across the terminal: "Billyyyyyyyyyyyy!" It was my dad, sprinting in my direction. He didn't even tell me he was coming! This was in 1981, and my dad was about three years older than I am now. He drove his little Toyota Tercel to the point where his engine completely gave up the ghost in the parking lot of the airport... just to get there to see me off. He gave me a hug and said: "I'm proud of you, son!... time to be a man, now. Take care of yourself, and call when you can"

He had driven nearly three hundred miles with a car whose engine was literally coming apart at the end of the trip, to spend about thirty seconds with me. It was then that I realized that many of the things that my mother had said about my dad for years, weren't all true. Somebody that doesn't give a shit about their children (which is what my mother never stopped telling us) doesn't do something like that.

Life went on, and my dad was a proud observer of my time in the service. Proud of my accomplishments, and of my promotions. He was even more proud when I came back from overseas the first time, speaking German even better than he does (an odd talent... my brother, father and I are nearly fluent in German... it drives our other relatives nuts!).

We didn't have a perfect relationship, but it was functional. As I grew into my thirties, and had a family of my own, I started thinking more about my dad, and had come to some unpleasant realizations about my own childhood. He sensed the growing tension between us, and wrote me a letter asking what it was all about. I answered him and told him that I wanted an apology. I wanted him to apologize for being a wife beater. I wanted him to apologize for not being around more when I was little. I wanted him to apologize for all of the things that I had to do alone in Scouting when the other boys had their fathers with them. He didn't see me achieve a varsity letter for throwing the discus, or sing in the school shows.

I didn't even know those things were bothering me, but they all came out in a rush of words.

I immediately felt like I had taken a load of bricks from my shoulders, and it felt good.

My brother and sister were pissed about what I said to my father, but that is a story for another time.

Anyway, it was time for Soccergirl's baptism, and he and I had a long talk in which he apologized to me for all of the things that I mentioned, and some that I hadn't mentioned.

From that day, six years ago, to this day, my dad and I have enjoyed a fantastic relationship.

I think I mentioned, over at my other blog that my father was largely responsible for my remaining in touch with my oldest child after my divorce. I called him the other day to thank him.

If you have any bad feelings with anyone, friends, remember that it is NEVER too late to try to reconcile with someone if both parties are still living.

ADDENDUM:  My Dad was the only member of my extended family who called me to wish me a Happy Father's Day.   Good thing I'm not bitter.

My Blogging Brush With Celebrity

  So, yesterday, I posted... OK, RE-posted something that I had written a while back at my old blog.  If you haven't read it yet, I'll wait.

Done?  Good.  At the end of that post, you will see a link to a woman named Sharona Alperin.  No, she isn't the Sharona from the story... well, only she really is, sort of.

As I said in the post, the story was mostly fiction.  The part about being in love with a girl named Sharona was ALL fiction. 

Anyway, I know that most of you are probably old enough to know the great 1979 hit song "My Sharona" by The Knack, right?  Well, the song "My Sharona" was actually about a real person... the person whose website I linked to, yesterday.

After I made that post yesterday, I visited Ms. Alperin's website and saw that there was a "contact" function, so I did what geeky fans probably do more often than they should.  I sent her an email and told her about my blog post.  Well, she read it and emailed me back.  She thought that it was a funny story and wished me well, etc... I asked her permission to tell this little story here and she was very cool about it.

How about that?  That song has been one of my top 10 favorties for 30 years, and I get to talk to the woman who it was all about.

I know.  Geeky.  Go on, laugh at good ol' gunfighter.  I can take it.

There you have it, my celebrity brush for the day.

Maybe next time I'll tell you the story about when I was almost run over by the Speaker of The House of Representatives (true story).

(Alperin  today)

My Sharona

This post is a year or so old... I wrote it as part of Kristen Chase's "Blog Exchange"  The premise was to write a short story based on the title of a song that you like.  Since "My Sharona" has been one of my favotites for nearly thrity years, I used it. 

I "found" it again when I was transferring my posts from my old blog.  It's good for a few laughs.  If you weren't reading me then, you might enjoy it.

GF

Looking back at a distance of 27 years, I suppose it was kind of stupid, but, back then, what did I know?

It was 1980 and I was in love.

I met her when I was almost 17. It was summer vacation and she was the cousin of my friend Kim, who lived down the street from us, in sleepy Vauxhall, New Jersey.

Her name was Sharona…

Sharona was beautiful. She was exotic. Most importantly, Sharona wasn't a local. She was from... The City. Not just any city, mind you... when you live in northern New Jersey and you mention "The City", you can only be talking about New York.

I was a goner from the start.

She paid me scant attention, because in those days, I was known locally as "The Professor" because I as a kind of doughy and bookish. I was pretty bummed about it, and wondered when she was going to give me some time. Luckily for me though, I got to stay in her orbit (below her radar screen, of course) because I was pals with her cousin.

It was a great summer, and by the time it was over, Sharona and I had become friends. She told me all of her secrets and wishes, because, as she said: "You're sooo nice, Billy!" (the kiss of death, romantically). It was great, and I wanted it to last forever. If I couldn’t have her, I was content to just be around her. Sadly, summer came to an end, and she went home.

School started and still she was on my mind. I tried to be cool and not ask Kim about her too often, but I am sure that she knew I had the hots for her cousin.   Time passed, and 1980 gave way to 1981. I was something of an athlete in those days, and that was the year that I shed all of my baby fat, and started to bulk up (I was a discus thrower and a shot-putter) and come into my nearly-adult growth. Before the school year ended, I was the biggest kid on my block. Girls started paying attention to me, but at the end of the school year, my thoughts turned, once again, to my Sharona.

Kim had remained my friend, and had told me from time to time that she had been in touch with Sharona, who had asked about me in passing. Just knowing that Sharona had mentioned me had sustained my hopes for the following summer.

When summer finally arrived, Sharona, once again came to stay with Kim's family. She and Kim came to visit me at my summer job (loading and unloading produce trucks for Big Mike, who was a local wiseguy... youknowwhadI'msayin'? fuggedabowdit), and I was so excited to see her, I dropped a crate of cabbages that rolled into the gutter. Well, I had to pay for it since they were ruined, but what did I care? She was back.

Since I had a job and was old enough to drive, I was able to screw up the courage to get close enough to look in her eyes and ask her to go out with me. She told me that she had be waiting for me to get around to it all along! She was mine!

That was a happy summer. The happiest I ever had up to that point and for several years afterward. Sharona and I spent lots of time together, going to White Castle for burgers out on Route 22, going to see "Escape from New York" at the Union Drive-In (I miss the drive-in). It was a summer romance, and in those days, that was the best kind.

The summer came to an end, as summers do, and Sharona and I parted, promising to stay in touch and see each other, since New York City wasn't terribly far away. As it turned out, we weren't going to see each other many more times at all.

Since it was my senior year, I had to make some decisions about what I was going to do with my life. College wasn't a real option for me, despite my good grades. The only way I was going to get to go to college was if I was going to Kean College, which was right there in town, but with all of the things happening in my family, staying home wasn't an option. I decided to enlist in the Marine Corps, and was scheduled to leave for basic training at the end of the summer.

When I told Sharona, she was upset, but not as upset as I thought she would be. As it turned out, she had started seeing someone else.

Well. That just wrecked my plans for the summer!, which included what would have been our first time... well, you know. Anyway, I contacted Staff Sergeant Lohr, my recruiter, and told him that I wanted to report for duty right after graduation instead of hanging around for the the summer... like any recruiter, he was only too happy to oblige.

I drove to Long Island to say goodbye, face to face. I suppose there was some glimmer that she would tell me that she wanted me after all. I told her that I loved her.

I haven't seen her since.

That was more than 25 years ago, and I am happy with my life, but I always wonder about what could have been. To make matters worse, I still hear that song on the radio from time to time to remind me of those days.

I wonder where they ever got the idea for that song, anyway?

****Please note that this was mostly fictional.  The girl I was dating in that time frame was named Kim... and my recruiter's name was Staff Sergeant Blake Lohr.  I did live in Vauxhall New Jersey, I was a discus thrower in high school, and Big Mike gave me my first job.  That stuff about Kean college (now Kean university) and leaving home is also true.  Oh, so is that stuff about being "sooo nice", but I didn't figure it out for a couple of years.

Sharona Alperin

A Murder In Washington, DC

The following is a short story based on information traded with a random partner via email.

The assisting minister said “Go in peace, serve the Lord” To which the congregation replied “Thanks Be To God!”.

Hamish MacDonald bolted into the parking lot via the back door, and headed to his car.  His pager had alerted him to an incoming call from the dispatch center, which was always a bad sign… especially on a Sunday. Bad sign or not, he wasn’t going to take the call in the middle of the service… Lutherans don’t do that. Especially since today was Reformation Sunday.  After the last chorus of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”, the service ended and MacDonald could call back to the bosses and see what they wanted… even though he already knew what the problem was.

You see, MacDonald is a cop. A homicide detective. There had been a murder.

The details were few, because the crime had taken place in a sensitive location, but what MacDonald already knew was enough to give him some things to think about while he made the 25 mile drive from Woodbridge, Virginia into DC. The traffic was mercifully light as it is only on Sunday morning in this area… and since it was nearly noon, and the Redskins had 1 O’clock kickoff time, most people had  already gone wherever it is they were going to watch the game from.

MacDonald took the 12th street exit off I-395, and as he drove toward the National Mall, he decided that he wouldn’t stop at first district headquarters… what would be the point? He already knew that there was a body at the National Air & Space museum… he already knew that the crime had taken place, and there were no witnesses… well, at least no witnesses that had spoken up, yet.

When he got to the museum, he spoke with the uniformed officers securing the crime scene, who told him that no one had entered the area since they had arrived on scene, and that the museum employee who found the body, Caren Cramer. Was waiting to speak to him in a nearby office. He could talk to Cramer later… he had a crime scene to process.

“Well, no sense wasting any time” he thought… “time to go look at the stiff… er, the departed“.

The Smithsonian security officers, along with a uniformed DC police officer, took MacDonald to the second floor maintenance area located just behind the interior mock-up of the Lunar Excursion Module (LEM), in the Apollo exhibit. The body was laying face down, in pool of blood, that looked like it came from a massive head injury. MacDonald gave a brief, silent prayer for the soul of the deceased, and got right to work. The deceased was a white male, in his middle to late thirties, with brown hair, and he was wearing a suit.

Their were crime scene technicians and a team from the coroner’s office waiting to finish their work, so MacDonald let them finish doing all of the things that they needed to do, from checking for fingerprints on doors and walls, fingerprinting the victim, to taking copious photographs of the scene from various angles.

Once all of that was done, MacDonald and his newly-arrived partner, Abigail “Abbie” Carter, searched the body. The search turned up most of the usual stuff, twenty four dollars and sixty one cents in cash, a partially used farecard for the Washington, DC subway system, best known as “The Metro”, an inexpensive-looking cellular telephone, and a key chain with the keys to a Ford. There was also a wallet with the usual credit cards, auto insurance, health insurance, and a drivers license, all in the name of one Julian Krasnovski.

Once all of the items carried by the victim were catalogued and bagged for evidence, it was time to remove the body. The coroner’s office took care of the removal in short order, pausing only for the police photographers to take a picture of the body’s face… Nothing conclusive there, though MacDonald, since the face was covered with dreid blood.

Considering the degree of rigormortis, the body had been there for at least a few hours before it was discovered. The coroner’s people placing the time of death at approximately 7 A.M. “Well,” said MacDonald to Carter, “that’s a start. At least we know when Mr Kasnovski got whacked… now all we need to do is figure out who did it and why” Carter rolled her eyes and said “Great, Mac… this shouldn’t take any more than an hour, maybe two to figure out, right?” MacDonald laughed and scolded his partner with mock severity and said “That’s about right, Abigail (she always bristled when he did that… apparently her dad always called her that), but don’t interrupt your elders while they are solving crimes. Now, let’s go talk to our witness.”

Caren Cramer was twenty six years old, white, with red (almost orange) hair and bright green eyes… a real stunner. When MacDonald and Carter came in to talk to her, she gave them both a very frank look of appraisal, that you seldom see from most people so young. “Maneater” MacDonald thought, but fortunately for him, and perhaps not so fortunately for Cramer, MacDonald wasn’t susceptible to that kind of thing… he had been married for nearly 14 years, to a smart, sexy woman, and he got all that he needed at home.

“Miss Cramer?, I’m Detective MacDonald and this is Detective Carter of the Washington Metropolitan Police Department” he said while both Detectives proffered their police identification. “We’d like to talk to you about what you found this morning” Cramer immediately replied: “Well, I’ll tell you what I told the other guys already, I am the floor supervisor for the early shift at the museum. It’s my job to make sure that all of the exhibits are clean and presentable before we open for the day. I arrived just after 6 this morning, and after I clocked in, I took a look at the schedule to see what, if any, special events were taking place today. There weren’t any, so I started my walk-through to make sure everything was ready I started at the far end of the hall, across for the Skylab exhibit, and checked for clean carpets, the restrooms, and the exhibit spaces themselves. Everything was normal… until I got to the Apollo area. When I walked in, all of the recordings and auto play animation was already running. I saw that the maintenance area door was slightly ajar… which is unusual, because all maintenance doors are supposed to remain shut at all times… that’s why I walked into the space, when I stepped in I saw… well, I found the body.” Carter immediately asked what Cramer had done next… had she touched the body?, how did she conclude that the victim was indeed dead? Who did she call?, did she leave the scene to get help? Cramer answered all of her questions, but by the time she was done, her tone had gone from cooperative to wary.

MacDonald noted the change in tone, and he and Carter shared an exchange of arched eyebrows when Cramer abruptly asked why she was being interviewed a second time. MacDonald told her that the uniformed officer’s initial questions were just used to establish a few facts and that the homicide detectives always started from the beginning in order to get all of the information first-hand. Cramer insisted that she understood all of that… and practically sniffed at the Detectives that she wasn’t an idiot (she was a Georgetown graduate, after all).  What she meant, she said with the tone that is usually reserved for the particularly stupid, is why MacDonald hadn’t gotten all of this information from the Federal investigators that arrived even before the uniformed city cops showed up?

“Oh shit,” thought Hamish, “not again”

Miss Cramer…” he began, “actually, I prefer Ms.” she interrupted. “Of course,” he relented, “Ms. Cramer” can you tell me the name of the agency that the investigators were from? Did they show you any identification?"  “Of course", she replied, “I’m not some twit who just believes that someone is a cop just because he says so… I was raised in Detroit, and in Detroit, you don’t believe anything anyone tells you just because he says so… not even the parish priest.” Carter said “Oh, you must have been a real pain in the ass in Confirmation, with that attitude” Cramer actually smiled for the first time since they had arrived, and then actually laughed! The loud, braying sound was incongruous coming from that delicate face, and she then proceeded to launch into a tale of her exploits with the nuns in the convent school she had attended. MacDonald actually had to cut her off in order to get back to the discussion of these Federal investigators that she had mentioned.

“Oh... them,” Cramer said “their identification said that they were from the FBI, but I’ll tell you, they didn’t really look like those clean-cut guys you usually associated with J. Edgar Hoover’s boys. MacDonald asked what she meant by this, and Cramer told him that both of the men that she talked to were white, of average height, nondescript suits, and had longish hair. One of them actually had a goatee. One thing she could tell about them, though, was that they were both in excellent physical condition. Carter asked how she could tell what kind of shape they were in, and Cramer asked her how hard would it be to NOT know “after all,” she said, “we’re young single women… we notice these things in men, don’t we?” noting Carter’s blank stare, she went on: “Oh… batting on that side of the plate, are you? Well… whatever.”

“Ms Cramer, I think that’s enough for now, but I am certain that we will want to talk to you again soon, so please make yourself available… we have already taken the liberty of speaking to your supervisors so that we won’t have to visit you at your home. Here is my card, and that of Detective Carter as well. If you think of any details that you might have forgotten about discovering the body, or the FBI agents you mentioned, or anything else, please give us a call”

MacDonald and Carter left the museum and stood near the Independence avenue exit, and pooled their facts while the tourists lined up patiently to go through security. Mac just shook his head, remembering when he first came to Washington, DC as a young Marine in 1986. When he first came to town, the public could just walk into the building. All of that went out the window after 9/11. Security was one thing, he thought, but the problem is that most of the security measures put into place since 9/11 were only useful in deterring the odd crackpot. Anyone who knew anything about security knew that the person determined to wreak havoc, didn’t try to bring a small explosive or gun through the proper doors. Vehicle-borne explosives were the real danger, and short of banning vehicle traffic, there wasn’t a single bloody thing you could to to protect yourself from it… not in an urban environment, anyway.

Setting that tangent aside, Mac and Carter knew that something bad was happening to their investigation, even before it got started… but that didn’t mean they weren’t going to see this thing through. Both MacDonald and Carter were veterans of the United States Marine Corps… and Marines don‘t know the meaning of the word “quit“.… the first thing that they needed to do was to talk to their Captain.

“Feds? What the f*** were they doing there? Who the f*** called them?” Captain Roy Martin thundered, “that’s all I need, the Feds getting in the way. You two be careful, but I want you to continue to investigate this like no one said anything about Federal involvement in this case.”

“OK, Abbie…"  Mac said when they were done with the Captain, "how do you want to do this? You want to work together? Or do you want to start running these things down separately?” “Let’s do this together, Mac, there are always a few things that a young detective can learn from an old dude like you” quipped Carter. “Old dude, my ass” was the immediate rejoinder “First, I am only seven years older than you… and I happen to know that the reason that you wanted to work with me in the first place is because of my Yoda-like status in the first district… that and you have the hots for me.” Carter heaved a huge sigh and rolled her eyes in feigned annoyance… she had asked to be assigned to MacDonald, not because she had the hots for him (she already had a special someone in her life) but because MacDonald was as smart guy, a good cop, and even though he was serious about his faith, he was never judgemental about her sexuality. Mac was one of the good guys, no two ways about it.

“Alright, let’s start with the deader, Mr Julian Krasnovski: There is no indication that he is married or living with someone, and the administrative folks are trying to track down next of kin, so why don’t we see what we come up with at his residence. His driver’s licence and some of the other crap in his wallet give his address as 618 A street, southeast, Apartment 325. Let’s get over there and get started, but first, let’s go over to Burrito Brothers and get something to eat… I’m starving…”

Three days later, MacDonald and Carter had found out lot’s of things: First, Krasnovski had turned out to be a an accomplished violinist, who played for the National Symphony Orchestra. He had been some sort of prodigy as a youth, and big things were expected of him. He had gone to Juliard on scholarship, and was noted as a young man on the rise. He came to the NSO as a fairly young man… and that’s when the bottom dropped out for him. It seems that the young Krasnovski likes to gamble. A lot.

They also found out some things… some disturbing things about Caren Cramer… a cursory background investigation revealed some inconsistencies that caused MacDonald and Carter to want to interview her again. When they attempted to do so, they met a blank wall. The personnel office at the Air & Space museum claimed that they had no employee by the name of Caren Cramer. When they attempted to contact Cramer at the address she had provided, there was no one by that name at that address.

With a gnawing sense of dread, MacDonald went to his Captain to ask his advice, the Captain looked him in the eye and asked him what he was talking about. After going over the case and everything that they had discovered, the Captain took MacDonald and Carter to the office of the Deputy Chief of Police, who introduced them to a certain Mr. Johnson, from the United States Department of Homeland Security.

Mr. Johnson told them that what they encountered at the Smithsonian had been declared a National Security Incident, and as such, was under the perview of the Dept. of Homeland Security.  They were told that their investigation was being terminated at the direction of the United States government, under the Authority of the USA Patriot act. All notes, evidence, and reports concerning the investigation have been deemed classified at the Top Secret level, and all such materials are to be turned over to DHS personnel immediately, and all personnel involved in the investigation were hereby enjoined from discussing the investigation with anyone.

Please note that this story is a work of fiction. All of the characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Also note that stuff like this happens… and if you think it shouldn’t be happening in this country, it is your moral duty to oust all Republicans from elected office, at any level, throughout the United States.

It isn’t too late... yet.

The source material for this story was given to me by Jen, who can be found here.

In The Eyes of A Child

This was my entry for the July Blog Exchange... I know some folks get bothered by the exchange and therefore don't bother to read some of the posts, so I'll let you read it here. This month's: "In the Eyes of My Child" (or, "In The Eyes of A Child)

GF

It is late at night, and I can hear men shouting... I wish they would stop but it seems to go on and on. The men are yelling at my father, they want to come and use our house. My father said no, because he is responsible for the protection of all of the children. The men got angry, but they went away, and quiet returned. My father is a strong man and he keeps us safe. All of the grownups seem nervous.

I don't understand.

During the day, our house is very hot, so we spend our time outside. Papa says to stay close to the house, and we younger children are always under the eyes of my father, or, when he is meeting with the green men, by one of our uncles, or the men papa hires to guard our house. I don't like the green men, because they wear strange clothes, and speak in a strange way.

I don't understand.

At night, the shouting returns... this goes on almost every night, and every day for a week, men shouting and threatening my father in the dark of the night, and the green men asking my father questions in the hot light of day.

I don't understand.

One day, the green men took my father away... there was much shouting in the village, because the people don't want my father to leave... my father is the local Mayor. Why did they taking him?

I don't understand.

When the men come that night, they forced my uncle to let them into our house, and the other houses in the village. The next day the men in our houses fought the green men. There were explosions, men screaming, and lots of noise and dust. I hid under a table. When it was over, I went and looked for my mother... she was dead. We screamed and cried... later the green men brought my father home.

I'm afraid... and I don't understand.

That night, the men came back to our house... but they didn't shout. They killed my father's men and one of my father's brothers. Then, they killed my father... all while I watched.

After the funerals, I asked my uncles why my parents were dead. My eldest Uncle, our new Mayor (in my village we call him "Sheik" instead of Mayor) answered me by shrugging his shoulders and saying: "This is war, my sweet" I asked him who we were fighting, and he thought about it for a moment, then looked at me and said: "Everyone".

I am only eight... and I am not sure of what "war" really means, but I know enough. War is loud, war is terrifying, war means fear, war means death.

I'm an orphan because of "war"... So are all of the other children in our house.

I don't understand war, but I know that I don't like it.

GF

Yes, the end is modified... I mistakenly sent the first draft, but was too late to re-submit.