Tuna In a Can

This afternoon, around 1200 hours, I decided to prepare myself a lunchtime sandwich of tuna and mayonaise on white bread. I'm told this is a classic. Anyhow, I sat down in my reading chair and watched some afternoon television, which is ghastly. The only show I found even mildly entertaining featured a blonde lesbian woman who hoots and dances around while she interviews "guests." Enough of that.

As I drifted off to sleep, after my lunch, my mind slowly began to stir and old memories flooded in, warmly and lucidly. It was the Summer of 1939 and I had just met a strapping chap up at Fort Bragg in northern California. His name was First Mate Rodney Burns. Rod Burns and I took to one another like two constructively interfering waves. Both of our persons were bolstered and rejuvenated when we were in each other's company.

Rod Burns and I, Dick Butler, forged a pact that we were going to taste more lady that summer than we ever had before. The best way we figured---to do this---was by purchasing a portable sleeping quarters. Something we could tow behind an auto on our love quest. We wound up buying an old, beat-up Airstream, the shiny sliver aluminum things that have wheels. It was comfortable to sleep in but I must say did not circulate air very well which was not very desirable in the summer months.

One evening we stopped off at a small base in a truly backwater segment of Utah. It was nothing but a few Army men and their wives and other itinerant women who were there to service the Army men who did not have wives. We danced and drank the night away. I knew better than to expect any kind of lady tasting in an area so overrun by bucks. But old Rod Burns---he did not quit that easily.

Rod settled his sights on a straggler who was all alone at the end of the bar. No one bothered to pay her any attention, the poor thing. She was slim up top, a decent countenance, not bad. To shorten a drawn out courting, Rod Burns managed to get her home back to the Airstream. I did not immediately follow. In fact, I wound up drinking too much rum sauce and fell into a drunken stupor under the bar.

The next morning I gathered myself and went back to where we had parked the Airstream for the evening. Well, let me tell you something. The inside of that trailer smelled worse than any mackerel dump I have ever witnessed on any wharf anywhere in the world. Holy hell. I love you!