LIBERTY CALL

by Dick Lancaster

New York City was a fantastic liberty town according to the ship's scuttlebutt, and Times Square was the only place to go. Long boring hours at sea were consumed with the telling and retelling of lascivious tales that detailed the smorgasbord of carnal delights that awaited deprived..and depraved sailors in it's many dens of debauchery. The old timers reverently praised it as a virtual Paradise consisting of endless sailor friendly gin joints that were open nearly all night and crammed with sex starved women. Times Square was easy to get to. You hopped a subway just outside the Brooklyn Navy Yard and you were there in forty minutes.

My first opportunity to sample the told and retold pleasures of Times Square was in the summer of 1952. I was an eighteen year old 3rd Class Petty Officer in the US Navy and My ship, the USS Wright, was in the Brooklyn Navy Yard for repairs.

It was early evening when my shipmate, Sonarman third class R. A. "Fats" Wahlgren and I arrived at the Times Square subway station. As we climbed the stairs into daylight a flashing "Silver Dollar Saloon" sign immediately caught our attention. We quickly crossed the street and entered through its brass festooned swinging doors. It took a minute for our eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Lets see some I.D. and two dollars each," The muscled arm of a huge black man with a glistening bald head standing behind a booth in the entryway blocked our entrance. He eyeballed our doctored ID cards, gave us a conspiratorial wink, took our money and waved us inside where we quickly found an empty booth.

It was a cavernous place, forty feet wide and twice as deep. A crowded ancient bar with a brass footrail sat in its center. Rotating mirrored chandeliers lashed everything with moving spots and stilettos of light. Ceiling high drapes cloaked the walls between evenly spaced Doric columns that framed large mirrors above dark, cave like booths. In back was a bandstand and small dance floor where several silhouettes were swaying to the music of a small band that was trying to compete with the high decibel drone of raucous conversation and the clatter of tinkling glasses. The friendly smell of old beer, tobacco, Pine-Sol and perfume permeated the murky air. It was our kind of place.

A short, slim Latino waiter with a white apron and a toothy smile arrived at our booth minutes after we had settled in.

"Can I be of sarveece," He asked with a heavy accent. We ordered eight bottles of Hamm's beer, four beers each. Being perpetually broke was an integral part of our lifestyle and to conserve financial resources, our drinking routine usually consisted of chugaluging three or four beers to get a buzz on, and then nursing the next bottle as long as possible.

Fats was a Hamms drinker and I drank it because He did. All beer tasted like horse piss to me so the brand didn't make much difference. Both Fats and I were fundamentally shy and we drank mostly to acquire sufficient alcohol induced courage to pick up girls.

Our waiter quickly returned with the beer. I grabbed my first bottle and automatically made my unique brand on the label with my thumbnail. It was instinctive. Fats didn't worry me, but It wasn't uncommon for a barbarous shipmate to try and swap his empty bottle for a full one, and you wanted to make sure it wasn't yours. We quickly consumed the eight beers and ordered two more.

"What do you think?" , Fat's eyes regularly swept the place like radar. " I don't see any loose tail in here. Everything's hooked up. Yawanna check out a few more joints down the street and see what's happening".

"Nah, we've already paid to get in here", I was just getting settled in, "Its early yet. Lets hang in here for an hour or two. All you do when you run around is waste drinking time and sober up." Two bucks was a lot of money to a sailor who only made about $2.00 a day.

Fats agreed, never contesting good logic, especially if it had anything to do with beer.

"Hey Fats, have you noticed that all the women in here are twosomes?" I asked.

"I'm way ahead of you R. L. There are twenty one pairs of women in here and they're all with guys". The ever observant Fats was more observant than I thought.

"Yeah, but it's the damnedest thing. have you noticed how in every pair of women here, one girl is a doll and the other one is uglier than a mud fence?"

"What else is new", Fats philosophized. "It's always that way, the good looking one wants to improve her chances by contrast and the ugly one uses the good looking one to lure in the prey."

"And the ugly one always seems to be the one with the brains and in control," I replied.

"And usually the one with the car." Fats laughed.

"And usually the only one that fucks" I nodded.

Both Fats and I had experienced the subtleties of both types of women on our many liberties together. Each time we tried to pick up a pair of girls it was often a race to see who would end up with the beauty and who would end up with the beast. There was an unwritten rule that the loser had to be nice to the ugly one. If he wasn't, we would both invariably lose. More often than not, the one who ended up with the ugly one was the one who got laid, and most of the time, it was Fats.

Fats was straight off a farm in North Dakota and He wasn't really fat, but everyone had a nickname, usually something that would piss you off. Kidding around was part of the culture aboard ship and Fats, being the good natured farm boy He was, was kidded relentlessly about having "mud on his cuffs" and his "stump trained cows" among other things. Fats was built like a whiskey barrel and He had the strongest right arm of anyone I ever knew, and I never saw him beaten at arm wrestling aboard ship or anywhere else. Fats claimed his exceptional arm strength was due to a long and habitual regimen of whacking off'', although most of us suspected it was a result of many years of milking cows. Fats was always walking into bars claiming He could "turn any arm in the house" for a beer, and He seldom lost. Fats drank more beer and spent less money than anyone I knew. Losers reluctant to forfeit the requisite beer money soon learned that Fats was also an imposing, hot tempered brawler who wasn't afraid of anyone, a character trait that probably saved my ass on more than one liberty.

"Would you like another round?", our smiling Latino waiter was back.

"Si. Dos cerveca, por favor," I said, trying my fractured Spanish. I added jokingly "And any beautiful senoritas you can find." About ten minutes later He returned with the beers and one of the sexiest girls I had ever seen.

"This is Naomi," the waiter said. "She is from Puerto Rico, and her English is not so good." Naomi was five foot five with raven black hair, large brown eyes and a full sensuous mouth. She was gifted with the petite voluptuous body so often prevalent in young Latino women. Naomi looked at me and smiled, revealing perfect teeth. The evening's prospects were improving.

Preempting the move that Fats was about to make, I quickly reached up, smoothly put my arm around Naomi's waist, slid over, and gently pulled her in next to me. Fats gave me a dirty look. He was pissed because I had outflanked him.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked Naomi. She looked at the waiter and they briefly conversed in Spanish. "Naomi would like a beer." The waiter said. I quickly grabbed one of the fresh beers that the waiter had just delivered and handed it to Naomi. "Bring us a couple more." I asked the waiter.

"Women or beer?" He replied. "Both." I smiled. It looked like a long night.

Shortly thereafter our smiling waiter returned with our beers and another raven haired Latino beauty named Oletta. She and Naomi conversed excitedly in Spanish for about ten minutes. Oletta then explained to Fats and me that she and Naomi were friends and had planned to meet there after Oletta had gotten off work. Fats wasted no time pulling her into the booth beside him. She giggled and appeared pleased with Fats. Since Oletta could speak pretty fair English, she translated for Naomi and me.

"You look like you're related. Are you sisters?" I asked Naomi, turning to Oletta for the reply.

Oletta talked with Naomi for a moment and giggled, "No, we're not sisters. I'll bet we all look alike to you gringo's. We're just friends, we work at the same restaurant and live in the same neighborhood".

"What kind of work do you do?" My relentless pursuit for the truth continued.

"We work in a restaurant over on the East Side." Oletta replied. "Naomi and I wait tables."

"What's your last name?" I asked Naomi, again looking at Oletta for the answer.

"Naomi's last name is Montalvo, mine is Rodrigez." Oletta said, giggling, "But then, nearly half the people in our neighborhood have those names.".

Naomi and I didn't talk much because we couldn't understand each other but we had no problem communicating. After several hours of drinking and dancing, It was obvious to me that we were both there for the same reason and I was anxious to make my move. A continued state of penis erectus was developing into a terminal case of lovers' nuts. I gave her a big squeeze. "Baby, I need you," I passionately whispered in her ear. "Seriously, You're the only girl for me." It was our standard line of bullshit and Fats and I had used it many times in the past with mixed results. Naomi seemed to understand.

"Naomi," I desperately continued, "can we go to your place, Tu casa, muy pronto, si?"

She understood and shook her head, "No, no mi casa, hotel. We go hotel, si?" She gave my wang a suggestive caress. I damn near came in my pants.

Fats wasn't talking much either. He was a man of action and was engrossed in a contorted entanglement with Oletta. There were several times I thought they were going to make out right in the booth. It was hard to tell with some of the positions they got into.

"Fats, we gotta get out of here, now!" I shouted. He didn't seem to hear me. I reached over and grabbed his arm to get his attention. "hey Fats, come on, lets get the hell out of here, O.K.?".

Fats looked at me. His blurry eyes slowly focused and He grunted, untangled himself and stood up. Oletta's arms were wrapped around his neck and she had one leg wrapped around his waist with the other between his legs. I remember wondering how in hell she could bend like that. In the meantime Naomi had her head in my lap trying to unbutton my pants with her teeth and had ripped off one of the buttons. I finally got Naomi and myself out of the booth and flagged down our smiling waiter. Fats and I split the bill with a healthy tip and the four of us quickly wobbled outside and hailed a cab. My share of the bill had emptied my wallet. The Silver Dollar Saloon wasn't cheap!

Outside I pulled Fats aside and whispered, "Jeez Fats, that damned bar bill tapped me out. I don't even have subway fare. How are you fixed for money?".

Fats pulled out his wallet, dug around for what seemed like forever and pulled out three ones and a limp, tattered ten dollar bill. He shook his head, "This is it. All I got. It's my emergency money. Christ what do we do now"?

I glanced at Oletta and Naomi. They had a cab and were waiting at the curb with the door open. "Maybe the girls could help us out?".

We walked to the cab and I explained to Naomi with Oletta interpreting what the situation was as we climbed into the back seat. Naomi and Oletta conversed in Spanish for a few minutes. "Es OK. We go home and get some money, then we get a hotel room", Oletta explained.

Oletta gave the cab driver an inexplicable address and we pulled away from the Silver Dollar Saloon.

I had no idea where we were going. We crossed a few bridges and drove for about forty minutes. We ended up in a run down neighborhood with all the signs written in Spanish. We found out later from the cabby that we were in Spanish Harlem. By this time it was about two o'clock in the morning and the streets were nearly empty. The cab pulled up in front of a corner bar called the El Mucho Macho. Oletta explained that we would have to wait there while they went and got the money and that they would be back in a few minutes. Fats and I got out and the cab pulled away. We went into the El Mucho Macho. The name should have given us a clue.

It was a run down corner pub with a bar along one side, windows and booths along the other, several tables in the middle and a juke box and small dance floor in the back. There were about fifteen guys in the place, all wearing a variety of shiny pastel colored outfits. Most of them appeared to be of Latin descent and had slicked back hair in ponytails or DA's. Some were wearing lipstick and several were on the dance floor moving and caressing each other.

The bartender was the stereotype of everything I could possibly imagine a queer would be. He was dark skinned with long bleached blonde hair. A day old dark beard framed large lips smeared with orange colored lipstick that gave him a sad clownish appearance. He was six feet tall with broad heavily muscled shoulders and arms. He was attired in what appeared to be silky, plum colored pajamas.

Fats and I looked at each other. Fats whispered, "Jesus, what have we got ourselves into? This is a goddamned Latino queerbarn."

I nodded.

Fats shook his head and giggled, "It looks like we're outnumbered."

I turned to leave, "I'm getting the hell out of here."

Fats grabbed my arm. "hey, hold off a minute, I need a beer. You didn't see another bar around here, did you?".

He had me there. "OK Fats, I'll stick around for one, but then we're out of here, OK."

We found a seat at the end of the bar as far away from the activity as possible. The bartender moved to our end of the bar and was in front of us by the time we sat down.

" Good evening, I'm Jorge. What can I do for you darling boys?" He was smiling, licking his lips and looking at us like we were prime cuts at a highbrow meat market.

We asked for a couple of Hamms. Jorge said He was sorry but He didn't have Hamms so we settled for a couple of Budweisers.

About thirty minutes had passed and the girls hadn't shown up yet. We were nearly finished with our beers were getting worried. Most of the clientele in the bar ignored us except for indirect glances. I suspect that Jorge had staked us out as his private stock and had advised his patrons to lay off.

Jorge brought us two more beers. "These are on me, you boys enjoy, OK."

Fats nudged me. "You know, we could sure use some money." Fats was feeling me out and I knew exactly what He had in mind. It wasn't that unusual for sailors to peddle a little pecker now and then for twenty or thirty bucks. Every coastal city had places, usually the men's room at the local train or bus station, where you could find someone who would pay you to suck your salami. I had never engaged in this practice, but I knew crewmen who had. I certainly could understand why. We were always broke and a decent night on the town could blow a months pay. It wasn't considered a big deal to go out, get paid for feeding some queer the salami and spend the rest of the night partying around and looking for girls.

Jorge was spending more and more time at our end of the bar, probably in response to Fat's intermittent stares. Jorge finally made his move.

"At the risk of being presumptuous, I could show you darling boys a delightful time. I could really send you to heaven." He was face to face with Fats, sensing my lack of interest. "My apartment is just a few blocks down the street and I close the bar in about thirty minutes. How about it. I have some great records and lots to drink." He paused, adding desperately, "I could make it worth your while." Jorge knew the routine and had probably indulged in some reasonably priced seafood somewhere in the past.

"What did you have in mind?" Fats began the negotiations.

"I really don't really like to do this, but how about twenty dollars apiece for a couple of hours." He appeared quite excited, sensing He was close to making a score.

The ever pragmatic Fats pulled me away from the bar to talk. "Come on RL, what do we have to lose, the girls have ditched us, we're broke and we don't know where we are."

All and all, He had a pretty persuasive argument. "Forget it, Fats. You're out of your mind. There's no way in hell I'm going anywhere with that fairy. I'll tell you what, if you're so damn interested, you go ahead and I'll go along and wait outside because I don't want to be left alone around here, but I'm not getting anywhere near that flaming cocksucker". I started to giggle. "Another thing, if you're so damn interested in money, why don't you doodle him twice, maybe three times. You'll make sixty bucks and then you can loan me twenty. You know I'm good for it." By this time I was laughing so hard I almost fell off the bar stool. It was contagious and Fats began laughing too. Between guffaws, I struggled on. "If you're really worried about getting back, we can find a way. We've been in worse situations then this. Christ, do you remember Tripoli?"

I was referring to the time that Fats and I had taken a cab from Beirut, Lebanon to a whorehouse that a pimping Arab cabby had insisted was only a few minutes away. It turned out to be a tent in a Tripoli sheep camp about 80 kilometers from Beirut. The damn cab driver left us there after an argument over the fare. We ran around for two hours trying to find someone who could speak English with no luck but somehow managed to hop a ride back to Beirut in the back of a sheepherders broken down truck full of sheep just in time to catch the last liberty launch back to the ship. We were crawling with fleas and our dress blue uniforms were damn near white from all the wool we picked up. We were kidded for months about being a couple of sheep fucking faggots along with an endless variety of embellishing baaaa's. Fats doubled over and laughed for about two minutes. "Yeah, I guess we have."

We went back to the bar. We were still on the thin line between giggling and hilarious laughter. Jorge was anxiously awaiting our decision. Fats and He moved down the bar a few seats and conversed privately for a few minutes. Jorge nodded a few times, patted Fats on the arm and walked away.

"What's going on?" I asked Fats as He returned.

"Its all squared away. I told him that I was really interested but you had the clap and were out of action and I didn't want to participate without you because it would make you jealous." Fats giggled. "I assured him we would come back some other time. He thinks we're both queer and that He really made a big hit with me and He's giving me some free beer." Nobody ever got the best of a deal with Fats.

Jorge came back with a sack containing six quarts of Budweiser and a churchkey. He set it on the bar in front of Fats and winked. "Don't forget to come back." He gave me a consoling glance and affectionately patted Fats on the arm.

Fats gave him his most heartfelt look. "I won't, and thanks for the beer."

By now, forty five minutes had gone by and the girls still hadn't shown up. We were really getting worried, especially since our fickle new friend Jorge had apparently made another arrangement with one of the pastel pistolerros at the other end of the bar and was anxious to get everyone out of the bar so He could close up and go home. Fats and I walked out in front and sat down on the curb.

Fats punched me in the arm. "What in hell do we do now R.L., I think we been had. I'll bet the farm they're married and their husbands won't let them back out. Why else would they make us wait here?"

"Your probably right." I looked around the area. "I'm not that excited about the neighborhood either, I feel like I'm on Mars. Have you noticed how everyone looks at us like we're aliens."

Fats opened a quart of Budweiser, took a big swig and handed me the bottle. At least we wouldn't be thirsty.

I looked around for a phone booth thinking maybe we could call a cab. I suddenly recalled we were broke, "Shit, we don't even have enough money for a cab. We're going to have to find a subway or a bus."

Fats agreed, "Yeah, we sure as hell aren't going to hitch-hike around here." He looked around. "I don't even see anyone we can ask where a subway is." All the pastel fairies had floated away somewhere and Jorge was long gone.

Just as we were about to open another quart of Budweiser, our old cab pulled up and honked. What a relief! Our long lost Ladies were back. We were going to get laid after all. We jumped in the back seat, and somewhere between hugging, grabbing, groping and guzzling beer, we began to cruise around looking for a hotel.

The law required couples to be married to get a hotel room and they were tough about it. About an hour later and after four or five turn downs, we decided we had to try something else. Fats and I came up with a plan. The next hotel we tried, the girls would go in alone and register. A half hour later, Fats and I would register and then we would meet the girls on the forth floor near the elevator. It seemed foolproof.

Our target was the Astoria Hotel. It was the same as all the other hotels in this part of town. Seven or eight stories high, run down red brick and a blinking vacancy sign. We parked out of view of the front desk. The girls paid the cabby, gave us about thirty bucks to register and proceeded into the hotel.

The cabby was a real nice guy. It turned out He had been in the Navy in the second world war and had a soft spot in his heart for sailors. His name was Pete and He appeared to be about forty years old. He knew what was going on. He said He was curious and would stick around to see if things worked out.

Exactly one half hour later, Fats and I took what was left of our bag of beer and went in to register. Pete said He would wait a few minutes in case the plan didn't work. It didn't. The old fart at the desk had been around and had seen it all. He was on us like a dog on a bone. He asked us who we thought we were fooling and politely told us to leave. We were in and out of there in less then two minutes.

Back in the cab, Fats and me frantically tried to figure out how we could either get to the girls or get them out of the hotel. We were just getting ready to start searching for the hotel fire escape when the hotel door opened and out walked Naomi and Oletta. Apparently, the desk clerk called them right after He threw us out and told them they would have to leave. Fortunately, He gave them their money back.

By this time it was near four in the morning and I was getting woozy and at the point where I didn't give a damn if I got laid or not. Pete said that He was going to go home and that we were welcome to spend what remained of the night in his cab if we wanted to and that He would take us to the subway in the morning. Considering the situation, It seemed like a pretty good deal to Fats and me. Naomi and Oletta reluctantly agreed and we headed for Pete's house somewhere in Queens.

About halfway there I got sicker than hell. Pete pulled over, stopped the cab and I got out and puked my guts out. Shit, I couldn't believe it. I had the heaves and all I wanted to do was crawl in a hole somewhere and die. We had to make four more stops before we got to Pete's place. After the second stop, Fats and the girls made me sit in the front seat because I stunk and they were afraid I would puke on them. Pete wasn't all that excited about it either. Gratefully, I finally passed out.

The next thing I knew, It was seven thirty in the morning and Pete was pounding on the Cab window. I was alone in the front seat and Fats was asleep in back snuggled between Naomi and Oletta with a big smile on his face.

Somehow the girls didn't seem as entrancing as they were the night before. It's amazing what sunlight, bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara can do to a woman's appearance. Oletta seemed more than a little on the plump side and Naomi looked about fifteen years older.

Pete, true to his word, drove us to a subway station near his home with instructions on how to get back to the Brooklyn Navy yard. We dutifully kissed the girls and waved goodbye as Pete and the girls drove away.

On the way back to the ship Fats told me that because of my unfortunate infirmity, He had no choice but to service both Naomi and Oletta. He said that they were entitled, having paid for the cab and all, and that it was the least He could do. He insisted that He had repeatedly tried to wake me up with no success.

I believed him. I was dead to the world and I really couldn't hold it against Fats. I probably would have done the same thing in similar circumstances. It was the honorable thing to do. After all, what were shipmates for?

We never saw Naomi or Oletta again even though we spent many subsequent nights at the Silver Dollar. Our toothy waiter could only tell us that He hadn't seen the girls before that night and He hadn't seen them since. There were other interesting nights after that, but they were nothing like our first liberty in New York City.

Fats never did go back to the El Mucho Macho as far as I know....

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Last Updated: December 8, 1996