The dream was back. It usually came in the nights when I had drank too much and kicked in at the point when the body's blood sugar is altered and drops as it is effected by the amount of demon rum pumping through it's veins, heart, and brain. First the eyes snap open. Looking at the clock you realized you've only been asleep a few hours. You already feel the start of a hangover. Terrible cottonmouth. The dreaded hot pipes. You need a drink of water but don't get out of bed. You need to piss but you don't stir. Your eyes close. You start to drift off. The snakes and spiders in your brain start to stir and to move about.
The dream is about Rose. It almost always is. You now know that Rose is dead. Or worse. A year or so ago you called a buddy of yours back in Hawaii. Big time weed dealer on the island. A Navy guy that got into the business while stationed in Pearl Harbor and decided to stay after his hitch ended. He's always full of colorful stories, information, and gossip. Which is one of the reasons you call him. That and to check up on the past.
Janine has found Jesus and changed her cock chasing ways and is now the secretary to the Pearl Harbor Chaplain. A huge drunk. The chaplain not Janine.
Chief Mason dropped dead of a heart attack at work. "That guy was a prick with ears." Old news.
Then he tells you that Rose came back to Hawaii. Somehow she was still in the Navy. Some big wig admiral on the island liked that pussy so much that he pulled some strings and got her re- assigned to his staff. Then one day she disappeared. The kind of disappeared that involves being ground up and fed to the sharks or buried in a shallow grave. The rumor going around is the old admiral flipped out and beat poor Rose to death over some weird sex thing gone wrong. Supposedly a couple of enlisted pukes took care of the dirty work for the feeble prick.
In the dream, which is always the same, you walk into Rose's apartment. You call out her name. Your looking for Reggie but will fuck Rose if she's willing. The place is dark, disheveled, and smells of death. When you call out her name, she answers from the bedroom. The bedroom is even darker than the living room, lit only by a candle. A black candle. Rose is sitting on the bed. Naked. Her body is emaciated. Her face is battered and covered in dried blood. Her eyeballs have eight ball hemorrhages. She looks at you as she plays with herself and beckons you to come to her with her free hand. When she smiles at you, you can see that her teeth are rotted and stained like she's been chewing betel nut. Like an old Viet Names whore.
Sometimes you wake up screaming.
Not this time. A loud clicking noise wakes me. It's my answering machine shutting down after taking a message. I had turned down both machine's volume and the telephone's ringer. Even though I had been a full time, dues paying member of the longshoreman's union for almost three years I was still considered a rookie. So if a ship came in unexpectedly on a weekend - this was a Saturday morning - I was often called in for the unloading, hence the answering machine which I fucking hated. The sun was coming through the only window of my shitty studio apartment - one room that holds a bed, ratty couch from the Salvation Army, small stove and refrigerator, television, and a tiny bathroom off to the side. My hangover appears to be bad but not crippling and I painfully roll over and discover that I still have company from last night. A cute, chubby Mexican gal named Felicia, a waitress from the bar that is just across the street from my apartment. One of those bars that is so ancient and so nasty that it doesn't even have a name any longer. For some reason it used to be called "The Gong" but now is just referred to as "The Place." She's laying on her back and has her mouth wide open as she snores softly. The sheet is pulled down just below her belly button, exposing a beautiful pair of jugs. This is her third or fourth time at my place. She's in the country illegally, speaks very little English, and sends home money faithfully every month to her husband and two children who live back somewhere deep in the interior of old Mexico. I recall drinking shots of tequila chased by iced down bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon - a nasty combination - with Felicia and the bar's cadaverous-looking owner, Rocky. Rocky had been an old time pornographer back in the fifties and had actually served time in San Quentin for producing and distributing a film of two women getting it on with a large pig.
I gently run my hands across Felicia’s breast and then down to her bush. She is truly a beauty and I sincerely wish that she wasn't married. She sighs, mumbles something in Spanish that sounds like "knock it off, fuckstick" and rolls over on to her side and resumes her snoring. I roll over back to my side of the bed and sit up with my feet on the floor. The alarm clock tells me that it’s ten o’clock. By union rules I have two hours to respond to their call. I grab my pack of Camels and light one up with my battered Zippo. I sit and stare at the lighter for several seconds. It has my old Navy ship, the USS Dixie, inscribed on it, the only keepsake I have from my days in the military except for my honorable discharge certificate. Standing up I shuffle over to the small refrigerator and get out a can of beer. Testing the waters I gently sip it. Tasty. The old hair of the dog. It seems like everything is going to be all right. I think I'll call the dock office and take a sick day. They won't be able to say much since this will be my first and then I'll take Felicia out for brunch and then maybe we'll got to the beach later. She loves the beach. I take my cigarette and beer and sit down on the couch and pull out the answering machine from under the couch. One call is waiting to be listened to. I turn the volume up slightly and hit play:
There's a pause then a coughing jag. I about shit the couch when I hear the voice. "Hey asshole. Long time no see. I just wanted to let you know that I got some bad news yesterday. My old man got shanked up at Stillwater. The poor old fucker died in the prison infirmary before they could an ambulance out to the prison. Bad fucking way to go. Seventy some years old and a nigger runs a sharpened up piece of plastic through you. Shit!
Anyway, that means all bets are off. I know that my old man and yours used to be tight but as you can see, those days are fucking over. So I hired a private detective to look you up. Didn't take too fucking long since you left quite a trail. Plus, we have a mutual acquaintance. A little birdy in Leavenworth prison. He got hold of me and said you he had some information about you. That made things a lot easier for the dick I hired. So anyway. Here's the deal you miserable little prick. You got two weeks to come see me. If you're one goddamn second late I'm going out to your dad's house and break both his fucking legs and burn his house down with him in it." There was some wheezing laughter. "Just like what happened to your buddy. Mike was his name wasn't it? And I've got another nice little tidbit for you. I just discovered that you have an older brother who's married and has two beautiful children. I never knew that before. They live down in Florida. Pensacola I believe. Very successful couple. Pity for anything to happen to them because you're such a fuckup. You can leave a message for me at the Aragon Bar. Have a nice day."
I almost jumped out of my skin when the hands touched my back. I whirled around to find Felicia standing, still naked behind me. She looked at me quizzically.
"Problem?"
"Yes, baby. Big fucking problem."
I leaned over and put my head in my hands.
It was time to pay up. I looked back up a Felicia who was looking at me with genuine concern in her eyes. I wished to God I could just crawl into bed with her and never have to go anywhere again. "I have to go home for a while. But on Monday I need you to go to the bank with me. I have a safety deposit box there. I'm going to put your name on the access list so that you can get a key to it."