[Thanksgiving Day is the uniquely-American holiday that commemorates the Pilgrims first successful year in the colony.  It is a traditional time of family gathering.]

“Frank, you got plans for the holiday?”  Rob Kerr was ready to go somewhere.  He found me sitting on my bunk, wondering what to do with myself.  I did not relish four solid days of solo, miniature golf, “Hell no, what's up?”

“My grandparents in Sacramento told me to bring a friend for Thanksgiving.  Can you afford a round-trip bus ticket — I only got enough for my own.”

Our schedule would not have been tight except that Kerr selected a late bus and pooped off the intervening hours, since class let out, spit shining himself and (probably) scrounging bus fare.

On the bus, we talked with two girls who were already on board.  There was no opportunity to ever meet again, so we engaged in light chitchat until they got off at Lodi (California).  We disembarked at the Sacramento bus terminal at nine o'clock.  Rob judged that it was too late to call his Grandfolks.

I had to go to the head, but Robbie insisted, “Marines don't pee.”  I swear, when I entered, the rest-room door was marked HEAD, nothing more.  Reexamining it later, it said LADIES, MUJER, MAMASAN, FEMME, and bore the international skirted silhouette.  Curiously passing off the absence of urinals, I entered a stall to take care of business.  The waterworks were well turned on when the main door burst open and the entire Sacramento chapter of Brownie scouts came swarming in.

“Sir, sir, did you know this is the girls room?”   “Tee-hee, Marcille, look.  There's a man in there.”   “Miss Shuman, there's a man in there — do something, Miss Shuman.”  Stall doors were slamming right and left, screams of delight and fright echoed in the stark room.  Someone was playing with the light switch, creating a surrealistic, stroboscopic effect.

Miss Shuman had to do something, I suppose.  She addressed my heels, “Sir, do you know this is the ladies' toilet?”

“Yeah, I just figured that out.” the heels replied.

“Well, you will just have to leave right now.”

The heels were steady, “Just a minute, I'm almost finished.”

Shuman was unreasonable, “No, right now.  Out, out!  I'm going for the police.”  She had gone off to get help when I exited.  I grinned at a couple of kids and whistled down the hall as though nothing had happened.

Kerr reminded me, “Real men don't pee.”

With no more than loose change, we went for a beer.  There were sailors on the street but no SP's or MP's; that meant we could pick a fight.  There were no takers.  I should explain that we were not combat-toughened Marines.  In fact, we were about as New Corps as the Crotch (we affectionately call the Marine Corps) produced.

A stranger approached us at the bar and introduced himself as Howard.  Kerr tried to start a fight with him, but Howard sidestepped, “You want to meet some girls?  Let's go to my room.  There's lots of free booze there too.”  What could we loose?

Howard's room was second-floor, front, and center of a large hotel.  His window was directly over the brightly-colored, striped awning of the hotel entrance.  He began by making one phone call and pouring a round of whiskey.  Within 10 minutes, two girls entered.  I liked the fact that he wasn't paranoid about his door.  The girls didn't drink, and I declined the second round.  Kerr socked his down and helped himself to another.

The women assigned themselves, one to Kerr and one for me.  I characterize them as polite.  We sat and talked until Howard decided to liven things up, “We need a radio.  Karen has one in her room.  Frank, would you get it — room 262.”

Away at the back of the building, no light showed under the door.  I tapped lightly.  It was eleven o'clock, and I hated to awake someone.

“Come in?” I was bade.  Jesus, this door wasn't locked either.  I opened it a crack, “Hi, Howard sent me for your radio.”

“Come on in.  Sure, it's here.”  She switched a light on and sat up in bed.  She was properly clad in some kind of nightie, but I'd never seen a woman in less than a robe before.  She was completely candid, inviting me to sit on the bed.  I did, and we talked.

“Am I supposed to come?” she sounded resigned as she knuckled sleep from her eyes.

“No, I'm awful sorry to wake you.”

“Okay.”  She flopped face down in the pillow and was lost to me forever.

Back in Howard's room, sirens intruded on our party.  A fire truck and two smaller vehicles pulled up outside our window to extinguish the awning.  I suspect one of our cigarettes was the culprit because the window had been open at least part of the evening.  One or another of us sat on the window ledge, feet dangling over what was left of the awning, to view proceedings.

“Hey you, get out of there!  We're fighting a fire here.” a man hollered at us.

“Okay.”  The window sitter vacated to be replaced by another.  “Save me, save me!” a girl giggled.

Kerr's assigned girl was teasing him.  Howard had a few words with him as well.  My girl displayed a cat-ate-the-canary look in that regard and wouldn't tell me what was going on.  I noticed the bottle was nearly empty, “Hey old buddy, take it easy on the hooch.  Remember your Grandparents.”

Kerr was belligerent toward me, “You big, dumb, son of a bitch.”

Howard looked thoughtful, “Tell him, Robbie.”

Rob slapped the woman's hands away from his shirt buttons and struggled to his feet.  “So you think just because you're bigger than me, you can whip me?  Le'me tell you something, slim, a good little man can beat a good big man every time.”

I think he had it backward, but this was not the time to correct him.

Howard reminded him, “Don't forget the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”  This pimp, or whatever he was, was directing an exercise in manipulation.

Robbie added, “Yeah, a real Marine can whip anybody.”

His angry facial expression and tone worried me, “No Kerr, I'm your buddy.  We're both Marines, remember?”

“Don't gi'me that shit, you civilian, swab-jockey slob.”  Swab jockey, deck ape, and anchor clanker are derogatory euphemisms reserved for sailors.  These would normally be strong fighting words, but Kerr's mind had been messed with, not the least by alcohol.

“Gung ho, Semper fi, Grandma, Grandpa.  Square away, Gyrene.”  I tried to counteract his mood with suggestive words while I gathered his jacket, hat, and shoes.

“Here's your tie.”  I stuffed it in a pocket, testing at the same time if I could get that close without getting clobbered.  His masseuse snickered at me.  Howard was immensely pleased.

“C'mon little buddy, off to Grandmother's house.”  I guided him out the door.

“Did you say you could whip me?  You can't whip me.  Who you calling little, you dogface sack of sailor shit.”

The elevator door stood open, beckoning, at the end of the hall.  I shoved Kerr in and let him slump to the floor.  The damned doors wouldn't close — must be shut down for the night.  “We got to move, Rob.  The Gooks are coming, we have to move.”  Again on his feet, he could ambulate a little, and we went hunting for the stairs.  With Kerr in the stair well, I went back for parts of his uniform, left in the elevator.

Then, we couldn't get out of the stairs.  The ground floor door had been locked for security reasons.  I looked at Kerr's watch, two o'clock.  I thought we'd sleep it off until something opened up in the morning.

There was to be no sleep for the wicked.  A security guy found us.  He showed me the fire escape and helped get Kerr, who was all fucked up, to the street.  I told him, “We are seeing who can drink the most and stay awake longest.  I have won and am sorry as hell for it.”

This account is sprinkled with authentic service-man expressions.  “All fucked up” is the opposite of “squared away”.  I believe both expressions date from sailing-vessel days.  Your sails are either squared away against the wind or . . . not.

We wove our way back to the depot.  Kerr could just about support his own weight but required a steady rest (me).  I was too tall to get my arm under his nearest arm pit.  I had to surround him to get a hand under the far shoulder, giving the impression of two fay sisters struggling down the street.  The lesson is that the taller should become incapacitated first.

Swabbies are so unimaginative.  We got calls of, “Woo, woo!” awfully outdated even then, and, “May I help?” in insinuating tones accompanied by the limp-wrist gesture.

Back at the terminal, I propped Rob in the end of a bench and used him as a pillow.  I dozed off, but there was a disturbance.  I opened one eye to see a fur-covered beast staring at me.  “That's a sheep!”

One of the two Navy people explained, “It's a goat — football mascot.  Have to get her to Oakland by tomorrow afternoon, and they won't let us take her on the bus.”  He looked hopefully for a suggestion.  A Seaman First Class, for chrisake; anyone can make rank in the Navy.

I tried my best to be helpful, “Get the godamn thing away, we eat goats.”

Kerr stirred awake, “That's a goat!  Let's fuck it.”

“Let's fuck it and then eat it.” I elaborated.

A bus station attendant politely suggested the sailors couldn't stay in the waiting room with their animal.

“Har, har, Haw. . .w, swabbies can't stay in the station.” the Marines sympathized.

“Oh yeah, well you are animals and you are in here.” a sailor complained.

The bus station guy apparently agreed, “You all have tickets?”

“Yeah, return trip to 'Frisco, Friday morning.”

“Why don't you fellows get cleaned up and go have some breakfast.”  The man was judging our general appearance.

The swabbies, ever witty with words, “Haw, haw!  Jar heads and goats can't stay in the station.”  The Naval detachment withdrew to the street.

I looked at Kerr for the first time in hours.  “Jesus, Rob, your Grandparents can't see you like this.  Let's go to the head.”  He had a six o'clock shadow that would make an Arab look like a billiard ball.  His winter greens hung nearly to his knees, his barracks hat was flat, and he had dried vomit on his shoes.  His tie dangled from a hip pocket, and he'd lost one sock somewhere.

When it came time to call his people, “Hi, Gammie!  It's Robbie.”   kissie, kissie   “I brought a little friend like you said.  We're at the bus depot.”   snuggle, whimper with pleasure   “Can Gampa come and get us?”   cuddle and coo   “I wuv 'oo too, Gammie, bye, bye.”
.  .  .

“Wake up, Frank!  Hey, you want to go to church?  They got girls there.”  Kerr was snapping a wet towel at me.  Church, I thought, no possible chance to get in trouble.  How little I knew.

(Article is changed monthly.)