Black and Bitter Navy Coffee

 

Black and Bitter Navy Coffee
by Mushroom Montoya

 

I sat in a barber’s chair.

The barber buzzing off my hair,

Removing my civilian status

On my first day in bootcamp.

 

I was not the only one, of course.

The barbers’ chairs were full

Of young men, boys, really,

All of us losing our identity.

 

Red, black, blond, and brown hair

Floated down from our heads,

Landing softly all around

Each black and chrome barber’s chair.

 

The barber next to me

Removed the black fabric drape

From the newly shorn recruit,

And left to take a break.

 

He came back to his station,

Holding two Styrofoam cups,

Filled to the brim

With hot black coffee.

 

He lifted my drape

Exposing my hand

And handed me

One of the Styrofoam cups.

 

“I don’t drink coffee,”

I complained to no avail.

“Yer in the Navy now.

That’s all they give us to drink.”

 

I hoped he was joking.

But I suspected he wasn’t.

He bellowed a command,

“Drink before it gets cold!

 

Don’t let it go to waste.

I’m doing ya a favor.

I made a fresh pot, myself,

So, drink up, it’s free.”

 

My own barber silenced his clippers

And accepted the other cup.

He took a sip before resuming removing my hair.

I took a sip out of the Styrofoam cup.

 

Fresh cut shards of hair,

Freed by the barber’s clippers,

Flung off my head,

Flew into my cup of coffee

 

That was mean and bitter

With no cream or sugar

To sweeten the insult

Of losing my identity.

 

“Drink up!” my own barber yelled.

As my own hair floated

Inside my Styrofoam cup

Of black and bitter Navy coffee.

 

 

 

 

Philippine Doppelganger

 Philippine Doppelganger

by Mushroom Montoya

“Wow! You were great on the guitar

Last night in the Mania Bar.”

I stared at my shipmate

Wondering what mischief

 

Wondering what trick

He was attempting to play.

I didn’t have a guitar

And I was never in a bar

Last night.

 

I pulled back my blanket,

Climbed down from my rack,

And stared at his goofy smile,

Still wondering all the while,

What he was up to.

 

“I saw you playing the guitar

With that Filipino band

In the Manila Bar

On main street.”

 

I told him I’d had duty.

I never left our ship.

I suggested we go tonight.

I knew it would foil his trick.

 

We strolled into the Manila Bar

Two pretty, young ladies

Took our hands

And lead us to a table.

 

“You buy me drink?’

The mini-skirted, bright red lipped

Lady of the evening

Requested with a smile.

 

“I will if you drink

One of the two I buy for myself.

She nodded and giggled

And left to bring my beer.

 

I knew her glass

Would be as beerless

As she was braless

In her tiny revealing miniskirt.

 

The band came on stage

My shipmate stood and pointed

“How can that be

You are there and

You are here by me?”

 

My beard was thicker

His hair was longer

Our size and weight

Were about the same.

 

When the band took its break

The band member stared

And pointed at me

And stared at him.

 

The whole band came to our table

Staring and pointing

Their mouths declaring,

Wow’s and awes.

 

We sat across from each other

Or could we say ourselves

Staring into a mirror

That moved on its own.

 

He didn’t speak English.

I didn’t speak Tagalog.

So we just stared at each other

And smiled.

 

I gave him my glasses,

The band roared with laughter,

My shipmate looked stunned,

The ladies giggled

And sipped their fake alcoholic drinks.

 

They offered to let me play

On my doppelganger’s guitar.

I wish at hadn’t declined,

For then my shipmate

Would have seen the future.

Click here to listen

Ice Cream in Chicago

 

Ice Cream in Chicago

By Mushroom Montoya

 

Anticipation jumps up and down

The tunnels in my stomach,

Hanging on bungee cords

From my overly taut shoulders,

 

Fighting with them

To calm down

A notch

Or two.

 

The bones in my butt cheeks

Press like cinder blocks

Against the cold gray metal chair.

Where I sit with hope jiggling in my gut.

 

A tall skinny airman,

Clipboard in hand,

Calls out the names

Of sailors, soldiers, and airmen.

 

One by one they stand

And float out of the waiting room

Wearing happy traveler smiles

On their way out the departure door.

 

Only one seat is left

I could get bumped off the flight

If any sailor, soldier, or airman

Shows up

With official travel orders.

 

The clock’s tic toccing on the wall

Is teasing me with the question:

Is anyone with travel orders

About to walk through the door

And bump you?

 

I sit all alone in the waiting room

Accompanied only by empty chairs,

Like mouths of baby birds

Waiting to be fed.

 

The giant metal bird rumbles

Outside, in the cold

Pulling on its leash

Eager to fly away to Chicago

 

Thirty tic toc seconds left

I stare at the entry door

Praying no sailor, soldier, or airman

Runs in at the last second,

With travel orders.

 

My name is finally called.

I heave a sigh

And stand up and run

To the big metal bird.

 

The doors clank closed.

My seatbelt clicks snug.

The giant metal bird

Loudly vibrates its flight.

 

After sitting backward

For nearly two hours

In the cavernous belly

Of a military cargo jet

 

The doors open

And pour me and the others out

Onto the tarmac

On an early March afternoon.

 

George Roby,

My sailor buddy,

Arrives with his smile

Filling the interior of his car.

 

He takes me to his parent’s house,

And leads me down to the basement

He asks, “What kind of ice cream

Would you like for your birthday?”

 

“I am not picky

I’ll take whatever you have?”

His laughter is so contagious

I am laughing at I don’t know what.

 

He opens the door

Exposing a standup freezer

Filled to the top

With half gallon boxes of ice cream.

  

My eyes pop wide open,

Followed by my mouth.

He asks me once again,

“What flavor would you like?”

 

I scan the huge variety

And point asking if THAT one is open

He removes an unopened half gallon

Of Rocky Road ice cream.

 

He opens the box.

Plunks a big metal spoon

Into the middle of the Rocky Road ice cream

“You have a week to finish it,”

 

He laughs and grabs his own

Half gallon box of ice cream

And directs me to sit down

On one of two oversized stools.

 

We dig in our spoons,

Like little boys,

Laughing and eating

All the ice cream we want.

Audio Clip

 

Covid Shackles My Ankles

I don't like Covid’s confinement.

It reminds me of being aboard,

Although never bored,

On the USS Trippe

Before we actually started

To sail our circumnavigation,

Completely around the world

With our first port,

Being Roosevlt Roads,

In beautiful Puerto Rico,

With its super clear water,

And people who spoke

Espanol much faster

Than my family did back home.

Covid’s confinement 

Shackles my ankles,

Or more correctly, 

My car’s black tires,

All the while, leaving 

Fattening snacks

Within too easy reach

Of my two too willing hands.

Thank goodness for my neighbor

Who helps keep me trim,

By letting me swim

In his kidney-shaped

Sky reflecting swimming pool,

Over which the Canadian Geese

Fly in their V formation

Laughing a lively conversation

On their trip to the park,

While I swim back and forth,

Expressing my gratitude

To the Water Spirits,

To whales, dolphins, clams, and eels.

After which I come home,

With my opened heart and cleared mind,

To sit at my desk,

To dance my fingers across the keyboard,

And begin to gather muses and thoughts

Stirring the pots on the stove of my mind,

Cooking complaints and whipping up solutions,

Boiling dreams and scenes of beauty

Into my poems.

Equatorial Crossing 17 October 1972

by Mushroom Montoya

Unlocking the dogs, opening the hatch,

Hurry, hurry, I must be on my way,

I ran in my flip flops down the passageway,

In my effort to catch the morning light.

Last night's dream, of that the old Northwest Indian,

Who kept the sun hidden from the ancient Raven,

Cackled and taunted a sinister warning,

Of the treachery on the way to the tunnel.

 

I must be brave enough, to run fast enough, 

Over the bilge, passed the boiler,

Through the next watertight compartment, 

Sliding with my hands down the rails,

 

My feet barely skimming above each rung, 

Before kerplunking on the deck, 

And running to the repair locker, 

Only to find him with both hands,

 

Trying to containing his brains 

From falling out of his hangover, 

“Snap to, get up, get into your skivvies,

Our required uniform of the day.” 

I need to get him out out of this windowless cage, 

He had asked me to hide him in, the night before,

Where spanner wrenches, sump pumps, 

Fire hoses, and 6 foot long pry bars are stored.

 

Today is the day that we must show our grit

To endure what we must, to show we can take it.”

Even if we are only swiney, whiney pollywogs.

I grab his hand and help him up.

 

We run up the ladder, turn the dogs, 

Open the hatch and climb out, scurrying

Into the mess decks for a breakfast of slosh,

Shit on a shingle, and green eggs and ham.

Bleep, bleep, Attention! Attention!

The shellbacks are screaming crazy commands,

“Choke it down, You’ve got to go, 

You slimy, smelly, sweaty pollywogs.

Get your asses up and at ‘em

Get to King Neptune to be judged

And sentenced for your crime.

Beg for mercy, you pussy piles of shit!

Bow down, low in supplication,

To kiss the toe of Neptune’s drag queen.

Smile wide and look real pretty

Before you kiss their greasy baby’s belly.

Don’t forget to stop at the dentist

He’ll open your mouth, check it twice

No, we never said he would be nice.

He’ll toss in a raw oyster and squirt in Tabasco. 

You mustn’t lose it, oh hell no!

Or back to the beginning you'll go.”

They’ll beat us with shalalies,

Made from worn out scratchy fire hoses, 

Who cried so often that now

They are only good for whipping

 

Pollywogs who move too slow 

As if slogging through thick snow

When we all know 

The sun is playing hide and seek.

We run the gamut, being hosed and whacked

Till we reach the ladder that tunnels down

Into a stinky, smelly, foul, skinny town, 

Filled with bilge sludge, monkey grease, and coffee grounds.

The shellbacks waste not time,

Whacking our nearly naked butts. 

They smack us sliding down the tunnel

Into the gooey, sewage of muck.

“What are you now? Still a pussy pollywog?!

Tell me, as you bathe and twist 

In this trough of piss and shit, 

What are you now after crossing the equator?”

I spit out the oyster, wipe the gunk off my face.

I stand up in a timid defiance.

“Is this the end? Are we done?

Am I finally a Shellback now?”

“Yes, you are! You god damned prick!

Get out! Go wash your precious dick.

Don’t just stand there in that sludge.

Tell me who you are. and say it loud,

“I’m a shellback, Navy proud!”

We got washed off with fires hoses

Cleaning away the slop from our noses

Washing away the polliwog disgrace

And putting a smile on every sailor's face.

Knowing that we were now a crew

Of victorious mighty Shellbacks,

Feasting on lobster, chomping on steak,

We've crossed the equator, for goodness sake!

Bright Yellow Egg Yolks

 Bright Yellow Egg Yolks

By Mushroom Montoya

He, the me that really knew,

Pulled my shoulders up and back,

Lifted my chin just enough 

To look proper and prim,

 

With highly polished shoes,

A uniform of lintless Navy dress blues,

To be more than ready 

For the morning inspection.

 

I stood at attention

Remembering Mrs. Johnson,

My favorite teacher of all time,

Lining us, second graders,

Side by side,

Choosing one of us each day

To be the inspector of 

Our bodies, 

And our clothes,

 

Making sure we were clean

From our head to our toes.

And giving us a gold star 

Or a yellow dot 

If we passed muster.

And here I stood, 

Looking so darn handsome,

In my lintless Navy dress blues,

Waiting for the Chief to get to me,

To inspect my face, my eyes, and ears,

To see his reflection 

In my highly polished shoes

That I had spent the night before

Spit shining with Kiwi shoe polish 

And my own real sweat and spit.

While the Navy Chief was still

Three or four or maybe even five

Sailors away from me,

He, the me that really knows,

Told me a joke

About a bright yellow egg yolk,

Who hung around with no folk,

All by himself in his tiny round room 

That no doors and no windows.

He prayed for friends.

He prayed for freedom

To break free 

From his isolation.

His prayers were answered

With a crack to his shell.

He landed next to a friend

In a sizzling frying pan.

And then I started to laugh.

And the closer the chief got to me,

The more obvious it was to see,

My laughing was going to get me

In trouble.

So, when the chief arrived,

Staring into my eyes,

With a big mean frown,

Asking, “What’s so damn funny?”

All I could think about

Was the bright yellow egg yolk

Stuck in his shell

With no way to get out.

Struggle as I might,

I just couldn’t stop,

Except to say, 

“I’m just in a good mood, Sir.”

While thinking in my head,

This is really stupid,

Having a grown man,

Inspecting me,

another grown man,

As if I were a second grader,

To see if I am clean enough

To earn a gold star, 

Or just a yellow dot.

After inspection,

I wondered if I would get

Fresh fried eggs

With bright yellow egg yolks

For breakfast.