GOODBYE NOTES
Part Cuatro
To the teenage boy in Ensenada, Baja Mexico in 1977. I’ll tell you man, you got me good. I admire an expert in anything and what you did to me was top-drawer-slick. We were standing across the street from one of those curios shops and you were selling serapes. I was with my sister who was visiting from Massachusetts. I totally impressed her with my broken Spanish and the way I talked you down to five dollars for the serape. As you walked away with the five you told me not to let anyone know where I bought it. I felt like a tall dog in a red wagon. My sister and I continued across the street to the curios shop. Inside I saw the same serape for four dollars. I steered my sister away from that part of the shop before she saw it. My face was hot. Good job. And goodbye.
Herbie…you son-of-a-bitch bastard. Man of a thousand sit-ups daily. We stood watches together on Polaris submarine patrols. While we were still in port preparing for sea you got news your mother had died and left you the family farm in Arkansas and fifteen thousand dollars. Big pay-day eh, boy? You didn’t want to stay in the Navy any more so you and your wife manufactured a family emergency which only fooled a few people, but not me. My word convinced the officers to force you to make the patrol and I put you in my watch section to keep an eye on you. Ten days before the end of the patrol you went coo-coo. Good. The ship’s doctor kept you sedated until we reached port. The Executive Officer determined you were a malingerer. Your penalty: A quick turnaround to an oiler going to the Med for six months. Goodbye, you little prick. And your wife too.
To my old friend Bee Thomas. I remember you came to the Navy Counseling Center on temporary duty status. You worked with us for a few months and we got to share a lot of life stories. I miss you. I’ve tried finding you in Ventura but no one responds at the NAACP office where you were treasurer. You got your legs crushed in an accident on the 10 one night when you were responding to a friend’s call for roadside help. A car rear-ended your car and caught you between that and the disabled car. Tragedy. You were in a wheel chair the last time I saw you. Since the accident I heard you had recovered and were walking. That was great news. Goodbye, Bee. I miss you.
To “Red” Skelton from my very early days in the Navy at Great Lakes Naval Training Center. You were one fun guy. We both graduated Electronics Technician “A” school in 1958. We were so grateful due to our low, low standing in the class. The night we graduated we went to Waukegan for a little celebration and we over did it of course. While we were staggering back to the Navy base later on a shore patrol wagon filled with SP’s stopped us for drunk and disorderly and took us back to base. We got two weeks extra duty. I never saw you after that. Goodbye, Skelton. Thanks for the great night out.
Jim Flow, you big ugly prick. You made commander and thought you were Fleet fuckin’ Admiral. You were a Brainiac when it came to metallurgy and other sciences. I was made QA Officer when I was transferred to Hunley and you were the Assistant Repair Officer. You made my life miserable with your holier-than-thou attitude. You were brilliant but your leadership qualities really sucked. The only time you were ever fun was the time we got drunk at the “O” Club at the Naval Weapons Station in Charleston. We were with Captain John “Black Jack” Matthews, USMC, and a few other guys and we decided to have a fight with swabs from the kitchen. What a blast that was eh, Jim? Wet swabs swinging from the heels! SPLAT!!! Right across the head! To bad you reverted to King Ass Hole right after. Goodbye, Jim. You fucker.
To my dad. A riddle wrapped in a grouchy old enigma. This won’t be the last goodbye, dad. I am really confused by what I discovered just a few months ago. All us kids were aware that you had graduated from Colby College. You had the classmates, the friends and many experiences that you related over the years to us. I sucked up all the stories and I even retold them to my kids and others for years. I dropped by Colby, as I said, and discovered you are not on the graduate rolls. I found only 1 year book, 1917, in the library with your name in it as a freshman. After that you dropped out of sight. I found a few of your friends, Burt Small was one. No Louis Randolph Goodwin. I called the administration office and they found no record of you graduating. What’s up, Daddy? Goddam, I miss you.
To Autumn Tankleff. I’m not ready to say goodbye to you yet. We have a few more episodes left in us. Let’s just see where life takes us. I’m sure it will be a gentle phase of our travels. Maybe we’ll go ride the swings again in Great Neck at night. That would be a miracle, eh? Be well, dear friend.
G. M. Goodwin
June 9, 2018
Playing Fair and Being Kind 