Norman and I walked down the ship's gang plank and half way across the Navy base to the Subic Bay telephone exchange. The mugginess of the night air oozed drops of sweat down my back. My heart ached in anticipation of hearing my two year old son's voice. As we walked under a grove of tall trees, I leaned over toward Norman and asked, “Are you going to call your parents or your girlfriend?”
His eyebrows shot up as he replied, “Linda, of course. I know you're calling home.”
“You bet I am. I want to talk to my son.”
“Will he recognize your voice? You've been away for a long time in that kid's life.”
Norman's words stung. I hadn't seen my son since I came on board, five months ago, nor spoken to him since we set out to sea, 3 months ago. The little one story, white stucco telephone exchange with its red clay tile roof reminded me of the Spanish style houses back home, making me more homesick than ever. Cigarette smoke billowed out of the entry to the telephone exchange. It seemed as if everyone, waiting to make a phone call, puffed on a cigarette. Since I didn't smoke, I took a seat near the open door. While we waited for a phone booth to become available, we overheard half the conversation from the phone booth closest to us.
“Hi Mom. How are you? I'm fine.” A huge smile lit up the sailor's face as he talked on the phone. “No. The food isn't as good as yours, but it's healthy enough. Yes, they give us fresh milk.” His eyes brows scrunched together. His mother must have said him something he didn't want to hear. Tilting his head into the phone, he blew cigarette smoke slowly while holding his cigarette next to his temple. “I can't tell you that over the phone. I don't know how long we'll be here. Thanks. I appreciate that.” Rolling his eyes, he said, “Yes, mom, I pray every night...”
Norman tapped me on the shoulder, pointed to the sailor that we were eavesdropping on and said, “Sometimes it seems as if every mother has the same script that they say on the phone. I betcha that if I called home, that I would be saying that same exact thing to my mom.”
“You've got to admit, Norman, that our being out here scares the hell out of our parents. Hell, it scare me.”
“Yeah, that's for shua.” Norman said with his Boston accent. “But what bugs me most is that we've got to be careful not to say anything over the phone that the censors won't like.”
“I want so badly to tell my dad about blowing up the church,” I said. “Maybe he'd have an idea about what to do?”
Norman grabbed my arm, pulled me closer to him and whispered, “Don't even think about opening your mouth about that. The censors will cut your call and throw your ass in the brig so fast, you'll think that you started to make your call in the brig. You’re better off talking to your dad about the whores in Olongapo.”
“I won't talk to my dad about whores, my brother maybe. I bet the censors will be getting horny listening to you talk to your girlfriend,” I said.
“Fuck 'em. Let 'em beat their meat while they listen, I don't give a fuck.”
I heard the operator say, “Montoya to booth number four, Montoya to booth number four.”...
No comments:
Post a Comment