Yellow Mama E zine

Kelly Blue

 

By Dale Scherfling

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         She had that dark, cropped hair, the kind of pretty that doesn’t announce itself but sneaks up on you. Not magazine-beautiful, but real. Approachable—a face at home in an enlisted club.

She had that edge—a Harley girl who could pass dress blues inspection with flying colors. Something cocky and confident, a second-class petty officer who knew her job and rankled Navy chiefs. Maybe twenty-five, drunk as hell when I found her—or when she found me. I’m still not sure which.

        I wasn’t looking for anything, not out on the prowl. Going through a divorce I didn’t ask for, I was just trying to get through the evening at the Acey Deucy Club without too much thinking. But there she was, squared away even three sheets to the wind—tough-girl exterior with something vulnerable underneath if you paid attention. The kind of sailor who’d have your back. The kind of woman who’d probably break your heart without meaning to.

         We had maybe six hours together, start to finish. A stranger when the night began, still a stranger when it ended—but one of those encounters that sticks with you always. She had a guarded quality, rough around the edges, real in a way that made the whole night feel like something mattered. Just two sailors on San Diego liberty.

         Her name was Kelly, and she wore dark blue shorts—not butt-baring, but the kind you’d see in a Market Street bowling alley. Right then they were in my face—dark blue, more than sky, less than neon—covering a rounded ass that made the color seem alive. I was sitting in front of a TV I wasn’t watching when she stepped in line for another beer.

        “Sorry to block your view,” she said, turning to smile.

          “Honey,” I said, “you are the view.”

         She teetered and nearly fell. I reached out and steadied her arm. She tried to right herself, then pitched right into my lap. I caught her, careful not to spill the Labatt’s in my other hand.

          “So thirsty,” she groaned, took the beer from me, and chugged half the bottle in one long swig. Then she drifted off against my cheek, asleep in the middle of the barroom floor. I put the bottle down and cradled her, not knowing what else to do. Nobody seemed to notice.

           She smelled of cigarettes and day-old beer, but her cheek was soft, and she purred in her sleep. “Bar Song (Tipsy)” blared from the jukebox, flashing blue lights beside us—a perfect lullaby.

Someone jostled us, waking her. She looked up at me with slow, glazed eyes.

            “I love you,” she whispered, and kissed me long and deep. When I say long, I mean longer than some affairs.

          “Mmmm,” I smiled, for a long, long time.

          Then, sleep again. I signaled for another bottle, and a shipmate I didn’t know passed me one, picking up loose change from the beer-stained table. An acquaintance whispered, edging by, “Looks like you’re getting lucky tonight.” I kissed the top of her head and shut that thought down. Not like this. The E-6 instinct kicked in instead—to care and protect those under me.

            “Hey,” I said, nudging her awake. “Where do you belong? Let me get you to your quarters.”

She tried to focus. “Between stations,” she mumbled. “Going-away party. Where’s the others?” She looked around, confused.

         “Where you going?”

          “Navy Operational Support Center San Francisco,” she stammered, fumbling for her orders.   “Gotta be there by oh-nine-thirty.”

           “Oh, shit,” I said, pulling her to her feet. She tottered and I held her steady. “You’ll never make it.”

          “Got a Southwest ticket. They fly every hour. Flight’s only about an hour and a half.”

          “Can you check in wearing civvies?” She nodded. “Where’s your bag?” Another nod toward the bar—just one, a Navy Exchange special. I grabbed it and steered her out the door.

          “So tired,” she sighed. “Let’s get a room and let me sleep awhile. And then we’ll do it. Okay?”

            “Some other time,” I said, ushering her through the dark. “Gotta get you on that plane.”

She stopped me in the middle of the road, plastered herself to me, toe to top, and kissed me again as cars swerved by. “Go man, go,” someone laughed, honking. That kiss lasted longer than some honeymoons.

           I broke it off and got her to the car, buckling her in.

          “Need a cigarette,” she said.

          “Don’t smoke,” I answered, starting up. “I’ll get you some.”

          “Camels. Unfiltered.”

          I bought her cigarettes, a thermos, hot black coffee, and some mouthwash. She sipped the coffee as we drove, smoke mixing into the aroma in the car. We parked in the Lindbergh lot and kissed some more—soft and gentle, a little sweet. Liquor smelled too strong to pass security, I thought.

          “They won’t let you fly like this,” I told her. “Get some sleep and sober up. We’ll get you on the oh-four-hundred flight.”

          She slept an hour in my arms. I nuzzled her hair, thought of what might have been. Another time, another place, maybe.

          She woke at oh-three-hundred, a little steadier, took the coffee and rinsed her mouth. Ditch the smokes, comb her hair, breathe. She’d be okay.

           She smiled, snuggled in—warm, content—and kissed me softly, took her time. Almost nice. I kissed her back.

          “You married?” she asked suddenly, her eyes clearing for the first time.

          “Sorta,” I said.

          She sat up so fast her hand swung back and slapped me hard. It stung.

          “You rotten bastard,” she snapped, swinging again. I caught her hand and held her still until the alcohol-fueled rage subsided.

         “Hell of a thing to say to the guy who’s trying to get you to your next duty station,” I muttered. “And didn’t take you to some motel. Hell of a thing.”

          She pulled her hand away, grabbed her bag, then kissed me once more—still soft and sweet, but sober now. “You’re right,” she said, nodding to herself. “You’re a nice guy.”

            I didn’t feel like one. Not lately. But maybe tonight I’d earned it.

           I walked her to the terminal, made sure she got through security. She turned back once with a little wave, that guarded, crooked half-smile. The 0400 Southwest flight would get her to San Francisco by 0530, maybe 0545 with taxiing—plenty of time to catch a ride to the NOSC, clean up in a head, and report by 0930. Or so. She’d make it. Maybe a few minutes late, maybe catch some hell from whoever was waiting—but she’d make it.

           Thanks to some E-6 she’d never see again, who spent his night getting a drunk second-class petty officer to her plane instead of bed.

          I watched until she disappeared into the terminal, then walked back to my car as dawn broke over Lindbergh Field.

           Kelly Blue, I thought. That same dark hair, that crooked smile. One San Diego night that really mattered—for no reason at all.

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       Dale Scherfling is a newspaper veteran of 30 years, serving as a sportswriter, columnist, editor, and photographer and a retired Navy journalist and photographer. His work has appeared in Third Act Magazine, Does It Have Pockets Magazine, Lost Blonde Literary, All Hands Magazine, Pacific Crossroads, Daily Californian, Naval Aviation Magazine, Propeller Magazine, and Buckeye Guard Magazine. He is the recipient of three U.S. Army Front Page Journalism Awards. He is also a college lecturer and photography and music instructor.

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     Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She's an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.