Tall Tales of Felony and Failure Read online

  Tall Tales of Felony and Failure

  by

  Warren Haustrumerda

  Wild Child Publishing.com

  Culver City, California

  * * *

  Tall Tales of Felony and Failure Copyright © 2011 by Warren Haustrumerda

  Cover illustration by Wild Child Publishing © 2011

  For information on the cover art, please contact Posh Gosh.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editor: James D. Kellogg

  ISBN: 978-1-936222-97-1

  If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please stop by www.wildchildpublishing.com.

  Wild Child Publishing.com

  P.O. Box 4897

  Culver City, CA 90231-4897

  Printed in The United States of America

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Tom and I are on the beach, celebrating. In two days we head back to the grind, back to the submarine and all that goes with it. We’ll be subjected to the drudgery of standing watch, running casualty drills, cleaning. I'll be chasing hydraulic leaks and clogged plumbing. Tom will be chasing electrons or something.

  Our boat has just started a six-month deployment, but we were left behind for a few weeks. Tom had to finish a limpwristed electronics course. I had to rest my broken brain, the sad result of a fight outside a bar, too late to be out with work the next day. Something to do with a collision between the pavement and my skull. All I remember is puking in the ambulance, then waking the next day with a diaper on my head.

  I’ve been in the hospital for about three weeks, supposedly to be observed. I’ll be released in the morning.

  I think the staff’s concern is waning, though. They haven’t been concerned enough to verify my continued existence since the third day. So I'm not concerned enough to stay in my room.

  Tom picks me up just about every evening, and we make the rounds in Waikiki. I’m convinced that the alcohol’s helping my body dissolve the blood clot that’s formed between my brain and skull. I don’t think it’s helping stave off the eminent brain damage I’ve noticed lately. I’m keeping an eye on that.

  But none of that matters now. We’re on the beach, it’s three in the morning, and all of the beachside hotel bars have shut down. It’s just Tom and me in two stolen lounge chairs, choking through a bottle of store-brand tequila he found under the seat in his truck. Sometimes the homeless wander by. A few groups of drunks stumble past; trying to keep the night rolling after the town’s shut down. We ignore them.

  “This is just too good to ruin by going back to that damn boat,” Tom declares.

  “Maybe. I don’t know how much longer I can run around with you unsupervised.”

  “You’ll be okay.” Tom takes another pull from the plastic-bottle tequila. “God, this stuff is awful.” He tries passing the bottle to me.

  “No, I'm getting a little sick.”

  “Yeah, that’s new. You’ve been puking a lot since you got your ass kicked. You should watch that.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  He’s right. I have been throwing up lately—a lot. I can’t hold down food. Booze isn’t much better. Not that they care at the military hospital. They may have forgotten that I'm a patient. Of course, I have been sneaking out every night. Overall, it’s been a real test of character keeping up with Tom as well as I have.

  “You want me to take you back to the hospital?”

  “No thanks. I’ll get a cab. I don’t want to spend another morning prying your bumper out of your front tire while you dance around a cop with some bullshit sob story."

  "I do alright."

  "Usually, but I'm checking out of the hospital in a few hours. I need to be there for that.”

  “Okay. I’m going to go sleep in the back of my truck for a couple hours. Call me when you’re ready to be picked up at the hospital. I should be back in the barracks by then.”

  I stagger up, stretch, and yawn. It will take about an hour to make it back to my hospital room. “I’m gonna take the bottle with me.”

  Tom looks up at me. That last drink must have been a keeper, because his eyes are glassy, lids drooping to slits. “Okay,” he says.

  * * * *

  Back at the hospital, I stumble from the cab and ditch what’s left of the tequila in a trashcan out front. Eventually making it to my room, I settle to the floor, curl up and hide from my sickness. I sit there, not thinking, with my spinning head resting on my knees. When the light through my eyelids brightens from gray, I lurch up and shamble into the bathroom to change the bandage on my head. The tear in my skin, left by my impact with the sidewalk, is still oozing. It’s easy to see because they shaved around it. It’s leaking white fluid now instead of clear. I think it’s infected. At least it’s not bleeding anymore.

  I cut another square out of the t-shirt I’ve sacrificed for bandage-making and attach it to my head with a length of duct-tape from the role Tom brought me two weeks ago. Looking in the mirror, I’m a mess. My hair’s dirty, my face is a mismatch of sporadic beard. I have an oozing bald spot covered with a t-shirt scrap and tape. I’ve been wearing the same jeans for over two weeks and a shirt almost as long. I could grow plants on my teeth. Goddamn, I wish Tom had brought my bathroom kit like I’d asked. Oh well. I could have picked it up myself, I guess.

  I’m only stating this to help you understand the funk I’m in. I have no intention of recovery. It's blissful.

  * * * *

  Three years ago I couldn’t have imagined the person I am now. I used to at least pretend to care about my circumstances. I think I did, anyway. I used to concern myself with what other people thought, and kept myself up to standards.

  I’m not very concerned now, though. Maybe I’m in a transitional period, so my current situation doesn’t define me. Of course, this is probably a cop-out, because all you are is what you are. What you were or what you’ll be is irrelevant. It’s as simple as me succumbing to my innate derelict potential since joining the Navy. The more I decline, the more I invent to justify myself, which is kind of funny.

  I’m dressed and re-bandaged after a rinse in the shower. You’d think they’d at least give a man some soap here. I pack the few clothes I have with me into my sea bag and head to the front desk. I’m assuming there is such a place and that’s where you check out. I find a desk near the hospital entrance, anyway, and it’s there that I submit my regards. There’s a nice looking girl sitting there in green fatigues. She seems reasonable, so this should go pretty smoothly. Our eyes meet.

  “Yes?” Her smile fades to a grimace, mixed with a bit of disgust.

  “I’m Cranston Staigne, checking out this morning.”

  “This isn’t a hotel. Where are your discharge papers?”

  “I don’t think I have any of those.”

  “Do you know your room number? I don’t suppose you know your doctor’s name?”

  She cuts to the quick, this one. “That’s true. I don’t know my doctor’s name.”

  “Just a minute, I’ll try to find out for you,” she says. “On what floor were you treated?”

  “I was on the fifth floor. I think treated might be too strong a word, though.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll see.” Using her desk-phone, she inquires with my name and liste
ns for a bit. Her eyes shift to my patched skull.

  “I haven’t asked him yet, but it looks like some kind of head trauma,” she tells the phone.

  “I was kicked in the face.”

  She covers the bottom of the phone with the palm of her hand. “Somebody kicked you in the face and did that?”

  “No, somebody kicked me in the face, leaving this little bruise on my cheek.” I poke my cheek with my finger. “The ground did this to my head when it came up to meet me. Two separate, but not unrelated, events.”

  I guess this bores her, because she’s started talking to the phone again. “He has head trauma, and I think his brain’s leaking out. Something’s leaking out. He stinks.”

  She pauses for a moment, listening. “Okay, I’ll find out.” She asks me, “Why do you think you’re being discharged today?”

  “During my second day here, someone came into my room, and that’s what he said.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “No. He brought me lunch. I asked him how long I was going to be here. He looked at my chart and told me three weeks for observation. Then he took my chart, put it into a bin on the side of his food cart, and left. I haven’t seen him since. I haven’t seen anyone since. Nobody’s even brought me more food.”

  “What have you been eating?”

  “Food from the vending machines on my floor.”

  Front Desk Girl relays this information, sits staring for a while and sighs. “I’ll ask.”

  She frowns at me. “Have you been leaving the hospital without authorization?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there are no vending machines on the fifth floor. This has been confirmed. Are you sure that you’ve been eating?”

  “No, not really. This has been a strange three weeks.”

  “Why would this meal-person take your chart?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t like me. I threw up on him.”

  “Oh, you didn’t mention that.”

  “Well, that’s what I did. Maybe he thought if my chart disappeared, he wouldn’t need to bring me any more food.”

  “It obviously worked.” She listens to the phone for a while, thanks it, and hangs up.

  “They found your nurse. You weren’t in your room during her biweekly checking-on-patients rounds. It would have been your third evening here. Your chart wasn’t there either, so she assumed you were dead.”

  That’s pretty stunning news, right there. “Did you tell my family that I’m dead?”

  “Oh, no. The Navy hospital would have to that. This is an Army hospital.”

  “There are no Navy hospitals on Oahu.”

  She sighs. I’ve touched a nerve.

  “I know. That’s been a problem for some time. The paperwork would have eventually gotten through. Now that you’re not dead, though, we don’t have to start it.”

  “What if I had died? How long would it take anyone to know?” I have to admit that I’m getting a little irritated. My skull’s leaking more than usual.

  “Like I said, the right people would have eventually been informed.” She shrugs. “You’re Navy and that’s what we like to call ‘low priority’."

  Goddamn I hate air quotes.

  "Definitely lower priority than me goofing off and doing nothing.”

  She seems very amused by her remark. She even takes her gaze off of my skull long enough to stifle a little laugh.

  Once composed, she continues. “I have to ask you some questions to make sure you’re medically cleared for discharge.”

  Now I sigh. Her concern is touching. “Why, are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m an administrator, which means I’m more than capable of doing many, many things. Administrators are the life-blood of the military, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Are you now, or have you been, dead?”

  “No.”

  “Phew, thanks,” she says, relieved. “If you had gone the other way with that answer, I’d have been busy until lunch getting it straightened out.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t have wanted that to happen.”

  “No, we would not have!” Her work done, she gives me a big smile. “Thank you for staying with us.”

  Now seems like a good time to walk out the front door to the payphone, call Tom, and get the hell out of here.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Sometimes, when I’m stressed or low for too long, the vault opens and I see my baby boy. They took him, and my wife hates me. She was happy when I left; most people are. The scale of my unreliability is only exceeded by that of my indulgences.

  * * * *

  We're on our way back to our barracks at Pearl Harbor in Tom’s old, red Japanese mini-truck. The sun is slaying me through the windshield. I'm trying to ignore this and get some sleep.

  “So, you were dead, huh?” Tom asks. “How’d that feel?”

  “Alright, I guess. I didn’t get a chance to savor it.”

  “Well, you should have.” He pauses for a beat. “That’s kind of like what Jesus did, you know--rose from the dead.”

  “Driving to the barracks in your piece-of-shit truck is a lot different than ascending into heaven.”

  “Well, yeah, it doesn’t gel, exactly. But it’s pretty close, up to a point.”

  “Yes. With the exception of the two events having nothing in common, they’re pretty similar. Now, notice that my eyes are shut. That means I’m done talking. Wake me up when we get to base.”

  “We’re already there. Get you ID out so we can get past the gate guard.”

  I mutter, fumbling around with my wallet. Finding my military ID, I show it to the gate guard and smile. Respect the one with the gun, I say. He waves us through, but doesn’t smile back. He does wink at me, though, which is strange. Especially since, after he winks, his eyes disappear, he catches fire, and melts into the ground.

  Tom glances at me as we drive to the barracks, curling his lips. I think he just smelled me. “Goddamn, Cranston, you stink. Not just your normal stink either. It smells like you’re rotting.”

  “I know. I think my head’s infected or something. I’m showering as soon as I get to the room. If that doesn’t work, I’ll scrub at it with your toothbrush. Doc can look at it when we get to the boat.”

  “The boat’s in Guam, and we’re not flying out until tomorrow. You’re going to gross out some airline passengers with that nasty skull of yours. Glue it shut or something.”

  “Maybe it will come to that.”

  “At least change that bandage. It’s disgusting.”

  “I’ve already changed it twice today. Seems kind of pointless.”

  “You’re pointless.”

  “I know.”

  We park behind the barracks. Tom hops out of the truck while I grab my sea bag and stumble out. We both shuffle up to our rooms on the third deck.

  Since our submarine's on deployment, I have a room to myself. Usually we’re four to a room with two rooms sharing a connecting bathroom. Ever seen eight guys wrestling for the right to use the shower? Panting smiles masking malice and contempt.

  I check my door, remembering I gave my keys to Tom. It’s unlocked, though, so I lurch in, drop my sea bag, and turn on the radio. I go to the fridge for a beer. It’s empty.

  I brush my teeth, then shower. There’s no cold beer to rest on the soap-ledge, which is a drag. The shampoo stings the hell out of my gashed skull.

  After I dry off, I cut a square out of my towel and tape it to my head. It should be more absorbent than a piece of t-shirt, I hope. I shave, dress, and swallow some ibuprofen.

  I leave my room to find out what the hell happened to my beer.

  “What the hell happened to my beer?” I yell at Tom, barreling into his room. I wave around the fire extinguisher I’d grabbed on the way, just in case things end poorly.

  Tom is lounging on the floor, back against the wall, drinking one of my beers.

  “I have no idea,” he answers.<
br />
  “That’s the beer I had in my refrigerator three weeks ago. I wrote my name on each one.” Pointing the fire extinguisher nozzle at him, I ask, “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “I see where you think you’re going.”

  I howl, enraged, and squeeze the lever on the extinguisher. He’ll have quite the mess to clean!

  Nothing.

  “That extinguisher’s empty,” he says. “You discharged it off of the finger-pier Saturday night.”

  “I wasn’t on base Saturday night.”

  “Not dressed, you weren’t.”

  “I was on base?”

  “Yep.”

  I slump to the floor, defeated, trying to remember. I lay the extinguisher at my side. “Why didn’t we get in trouble? Was the pier empty?”

  “Nope. Two boats tied up. The Kam and the Bremerton, I think. We can both run pretty fast, so it wasn’t much of a problem.”

  “I must have been pretty drunk. I don’t remember that at all.”

  “I was. You weren’t. I had just picked you up at the hospital. You wanted to swing by the base so you could get a shower before we went downtown. You never did get that shower.”

  “Why did I spray the extinguisher off the pier?”

  “You said the fish were on fire.”

  “Were they?”

  Tom shrugged. “Not as far as I could tell.”

  “If they were, that would have been the right thing to do.”

  “Most likely.”

  “You shouldn't steal a person's beer.”

  Tom scratches behind his ear and thinks for a moment. “I guess not. You gave me your keys so I could pick up your bathroom stuff. When I finally made it to your room, I checked your fridge. It was full of beer. It took three trips to get all your beer into my room. I never did get your bathroom stuff, though.”

  That sounds reasonable enough. “At least walk over to your fridge and grab me one of my beers.”

  “I would, but I can’t. This is the last one. I’ll give it to you, though. It’s still half full.”

  Tom offers me the beer and I accept. I take a nice long swallow. I love a cold beer. I offer the bottle back to Tom. “Want another sip before I finish it?”