wasn’t sure at all. He didn’t yet know Peretz well enough to say what he really feared: I’m only here until I prove something to my dad.
The last morning, Alan went to say goodbye. They were anchored in the Bay of Naples. Alan was excited, mostly about the imminent meeting with his girl, an imminence of sex that was so powerful he was sure he smelled of it. Sailors and women, oh boy—it was all true!
“I’m on my way, sir.”
“Hey, it’s been good. Your dad’s a lucky guy. Listen—” He held Alan’s arm. “Stay in touch. I mean that.”
“I will.”
And he would. His father wouldn’t approve, but he would stay in touch with Peretz.
Alan ran his father down in the squadron ready room. They shook hands, neither moving to an embrace because other men were nearby. The distance that had opened between them had not been closed, and Alan found himself dodging the suggestion that they get together in Naples.
He would think later of the time thrown away, time they might have had together, valuable only when it was too late.
20 March 1990. 0648 Zulu. Naples.
It was a day of the kind they make tourist brochures about, the bay deep blue and sparkling with the sun; toward Capri, the water looked greener, and the boats heading for the island trailed crisp, white wakes. In the other direction, Vesuvius seemed unthreatening behind a thick rim of beachfront development.
Petty Officer First Class Sheldon Bonner was not impressed. He liked Vesuvius well enough—enjoyed checking it out each time a sea tour brought him here—but “See Naples and Die” sounded stupid to him. The volcano looked a little dimmer today, he thought—more smog, more people down along the bay, more cruddy towns. But what he liked about Vesuvius was its lurking menace, and one day, he was sure, it would crack open again and pour ash and lava down on all the crud, and the bay would be cleansed and the air would be clear again. That would be worth seeing.
“Hey, Boner.”
A body joined him in the line. He didn’t even look back to see who it was. He grunted.
“Hey, Boner, gonna get some?”
“What else do you think we visit this shithole for?”
“Great pussy here, huh, Boner?”
“So-so.”
“You’re a fucking cynic, you know that, Boner? Your old lady know you got such high standards in pussy?”
Bonner carried on these conversations without thinking. Most talk, he had found, was done on autopilot. Men lived their real lives someplace else, hustling each other about what great sex they had, or what bad sex they had, how drunk they were last night, how they were mistreated, misunderstood, ripped off by the system; inside, they were thinking about other things entirely. He, for example, was thinking about money.
The line lurched forward and a speaker boomed out, “Boat away.” He gave his name, started down the ladder. Below, a boat was just moving away from the ship, the water opening between them a deeper, blackening blue. He descended into shade and felt cold.
Another boat nudged up and men began to file aboard. Bonner followed, clutching his toilet kit.
“You been this place before?” the E2 next to him said. Bonner remembered him from the hangar deck, a kid just out of high school.
“Lots.”
“It true they got a guy with a humongous prick at Pompeii?”
“Depends what your standard of comparison is.”
The kid laughed and turned red. He started to tell Bonner how he and his buddies were going to rent a car and drive to Pompeii and see the porn. Bonner tuned out. It was no good telling them that the train was a lot cheaper and easier. It was no good telling them the porn was stupid. It was no good telling them anything. They were young. Let them get ripped off by the Italian car rental agency, screwed by every gas station and trattoria; let them pay some ancient Guinea a hundred times what he was worth to be told a lot of bullshit about Pompeii. They were young and stupid—and in three to five years, they’d be out of the Navy or they’d be on their way to passing him by. They’d be headed for chief, and he’d still be a POI.
Sheldon Bonner, POl-For-Life. He thought of it as a title. He’d been busted twice, come back both times to POI, knew now he would never rise beyond it. The hotshots got their promotions on the backs of people like him, who made them look good. Were they grateful? Not a chance. They got the promotion, changed the uniform, hung out with their own kind and laughed at him behind his back. He knew. He’d had buddies who’d done that.
“Hey, you see that guy?” The kid nudged him. He was jerking his head toward a young man just coming aboard. Officer, Bonner thought, even in the civilian clothes. Behind him was a huge black man Bonner recognized as a super chief.
“What about him?”
“That’s my skipper’s son. Isn’t that amazing?”
He looked to be a perfectly normal, snot-nosed j.g., from all that Bonner could see. “What’s fucking amazing?”
“He’s the skipper’s son.”
“I’m not amazed.”
“He came in on that S-3 that took the net four nights ago. Maybe you didn’t hear.” He sounded suddenly apologetic, as if he had just realized that what was wonderful to his novice eyes bored the shit out of an old man like Bonner.
Bonner grunted. He didn’t much care about officers. They had almost nothing to do with him. He resented them, but this was simply a fact of life; everybody who wasn’t an officer resented them. But it was a given, part of their world, like the law of gravity. He watched as the super chief seemed to surround the young officer, protecting him. Old Dad had seen to that.
“Nice to have somebody to wipe your ass for you,” he said. The boy snickered. It wasn’t officers Bonner really resented, it was hotshot enlisted like this super chief, clearly younger than Bonner, already making better money. This one, he supposed, got there by being black.
“We’re the biggest minority in the fucking world,” Bonner said.
“Who?”
The boat separated itself from the carrier. The breeze freshened as soon as they swung away. Bonner shivered, then put his face up as they swung into sunlight. “White guys,” he muttered.
Did he really believe that? Bonner was never quite sure what he believed. Other people seemed to have fierce, clear beliefs, but he was aware only of large areas of dislike or grievance or distrust. The White Power guys, for example; they really believed all that, but when he talked to them, they sounded bananas. He knew guys in the Klan; they were out of it, too, he thought. No, what he hated about the Navy, about the world, was something so huge, so unexplainable,
