Scotch the Wonder Dog

Correction - 
First off, I need to make a correction to my dorm/apartment history at Ohio State University.  When I originally transferred out of the dorms and off campus, I did move into the Castle (See post - OSU Roommates, and Tear Gas).  But I didn't move directly in with Don, Fred and gang.  I was actually invited to move into the apartment one over.  On the end unit of the Castle.  A coworker of mine at the OSU Faculty Club asked me to move in with her and her roommates. 

Yes, I said her and her roommates.  Three co-eds, one other guy, and me.  Deb, Cheryl, Karen, Bill and yours truly.  Later a fourth co-ed moved in.  It was a LARGE apartment.  The Castle was huge.  This was just one of four units that the original, turn of the century boarding house had been divided into.

So how did I end up next door with the sociopaths?  (aka Don, Fred and gang.)

We all knew each other from the OSU Faculty Club.  Where we worked.  We'd work all evening then head out to the strip of bars (that's 'strip-of-bars' NOT strip-bars (although sometimes the distinction wasn't so clear!)) along High Street.

                                               (OSU Faculty Club, front view from Oval)

The High Street Bars at OSU:
 
Back in the 80's and early 90's at OSU, High Street, which fronted campus, was home to a dozen or so college dive-bars.  Back then, the drinking age was 18, Just Say No was Just Say Yes, and AIDs was still a distant concern.  Things could get pretty crazy at these "establishments" and often did.

Some of the better known bars were Papa Joe's, The Oar House, Marco Polo's, Mean Mr. Mustards, The Travel Agency, South Heidelberg and Jousters.  Along with the bars, there were dollar gyro shops (Apollo's), head shops, grunge clothing stores (back then they called it Goodwill) and a bunch of other post hippie crap.

Papa Joe's
Papa Joe's was one of the more notorious dives.  It was one of the larger more crowded bars.  PJ's had a lower level and an upper balcony that overlooked a fair sized dance floor.  The whole place was built out of wood which was stained dark by rivers of spilled beer.  It smelled and was always crowded.  Every weekend, someone in the balcony would either puke or would spill/deliberately dump beer down onto the dance floor below.  It was a great place.

And they served beer by the bucket.  Yah, the bucket.

We drank there often.  That is until one night I saw something that turned my stomach.  And that's saying something.  I was there with the gang and an old high school acquaintance.  We were drinking buckets of watered down Old Milwaukee (or some other cheap swill) when I noticed my high school buddy hadn't got up to go to the bathroom.  Very unusual.  Especially when you're drinking those volumes of suds.

So I said, "Hey John (not his real name), don't you have to piss?"

John replied, "Yah, I am.  I just go in the empty buckets."

With a raised eyebrow, I looked under the table and sure enough. He'd put an empty Papa Joe's beer bucket at his feet and filled  the bottom with urine.  I gagged a little.  Then I turned positively green when he picked it up and placed the bucket on the bar for the barkeep.

The barkeep grabbed the bucket and without a glance dumped the toxic contents into a deep sink, rinsed it out with a quick dash of water, then filled it back up for the next customer.  I never drank there again.

We usually went straight out to the bars from the Faculty Club.  On nights when we weren't working, Don and Fred had to come over and get me.  Every now and then they'd knock on the door like normal people.  But most of the time, they'd crawl over the lower level roof to my room and bang on the window.  Or just pound on the wall as loud as they could.

Not surprisingly, this tended to piss off my roommates.

One night, after heavy drinking, Don and Fred decided this was too much work.  And crawling over was too much of a hassle.  So they hit on a plan.  They decided to punch a hole through the wall from their apartment directly into my bedroom.  That way they could yell over at me anytime they wanted.

They grabbed and iron crowbar and proceeded to start bashing it into the cinder block firewall separating our units.  I think they got about half way through before my roommates threatened to call the police.

After that, I figured it would be simpler and more peaceful for everyone if I just moved next door!


Scotch the Wonder Dog:
 But back to (or start on as the case may be) the main story -

Early that Fall quarter with Deb and the rest, there was a house meeting to decide on whether to get a puppy.  A vote was taken.  The vote went four "ayes" and one "nay".

I was the single 'nay' vote.

So the rest of the house went down to the pound and picked out Scotch, aka "Scotch the Wonder Dog".  A dog that would become famous on campus in record time.

Scotch was a mutt mix.  He looked to be part Golden Lab, maybe a little Shepard, with some Terrier thrown in for good measure (later I'd wonder if he wasn't all blood hound).  He was a fair sized puppy with a light butterscotch colored coat....hence the name.  To be honest, he looked a hell of a lot like the dog Petey off of The Three Rascals.  Minus the black circle around the eye.

However, the other guy in the house, Bill, would grab dark mascara from one of the girls, hold Scotch down and actually paint a black circle around his eye.  Then he'd put a bandanna on him and take him out to the Oval on campus to meet girls.  Shockingly, it worked on a number of occasions.

As the lone roommate who voted against getting a dog, I vowed not to take part in his care.  I had enough on my plate.  I didn't need taking care of a pet added to it.  I chose to ignore the dog and let my roommates care for and enjoy him.


So who does the dog decide to follow EVERYWHERE?  Yah, yours truly.  Everywhere I went that hound would follow.  Right underfoot.  Like I gave birth to it.  Fortunately, over time it wore off.  I didn't feed him and eventually his heart followed his stomach.




Wander Lust:
I have to admit Scotch was a decent dog.  Other than the occasional puppy teething and chewing on everything, he was well tempered and playful.  But he had a problem...

He liked to roam.


Any chance he got, and there were lots of them with five people coming and going to classes, he'd bolt out the door and be gone.  He had a collar with our number on it and we'd get calls from all over campus.


He wound up in apartments, dorms, classrooms.  You name it.  The other roommates would then have to go get him.  On one occasion we got a call form a co-ed dorm on the 18th floor of Morrill tower.  The mutt had somehow gotten up the elevator and was running around the dorm.  Bill usually volunteered to go get him.  I think it gave him more opportunities to meet co-eds.




The Scotch Bar:
One night, Scotch outdid himself.

Don and Fred had climbed over the roof and kidnapped me to come out to the bars on a weekend night.  So we gathered up the rest of the gang and proceeded the two blocks down West 10th Avenue towards the watering holes on High Street.


We wound up in the back patio of the Oar House.  We sat down at a picnic table, bought a couple pitchers of cheap beer, and then started to shoot the shit while enjoying the 'scenic' view of the adjacent Wonder Bread factory's second floor.  We'd been there almost an hour when I got the shock of my life.


I was sitting at the table with the gang and a co-ed from the Faculty Club, sipping a beer, minding my own business when something wet hit my leg and went up and down it.  I jumped straight out of my seat and screamed.


Which scared the crap out of Scotch the wonder dog.


He'd tracked me the length of West 10th.  Then down High Street to the Oar House where he got past the bouncer at the front door and made it back to the patio and our table.  Like I said, that dog followed me everywhere!


I picked him up and carried him back to the Castle. On the way back, two co-eds stopped me on 10th and said, "Hey, I know that dog."




Mirror Lake:
Scotch's crowning moment came one day at Mirror Lake on campus.


Mirror Lake is a small pond on campus that's about three feet deep with a fountain in the center.  It has an amphitheater next to it and ducks swim on its surface.  The ducks were there year round.  The university took care of them and their wings were clipped to keep them put for the scenic ambiance....

Scotch got loose again one afternoon. We got a call a couple hours later from a highly irate OSU trustee.  Highly irate.  Scotch went straight to Mirror Lake.  Then had a field day hunting down stranded, clipped winged ducks.  Literally, ducks in a barrel.  Albeit a really big barrel.  He killed or maimed a half dozen of them before alarmed students and staff corralled him.  Thus ending the slaughter...and Scotch's fun.


The very next day, Scotch's picture was on the front page of the OSU Lantern, school newspaper.  The article, 'Dog Terrorizes Ducks at Mirror Lake!'  The university removed the ducks after the incident.  It would be almost 10 years later before they put ducks back.


I was on that campus for four years and never once even got my name in the paper.   Scotch made the front page, with photo, inside of his first quarter.  Wonder dog indeed.

Messing with the Mob

Where:
This story takes place at a Middle Eastern café in Central Ohio.  The café is a favorite date night destination for my wife and me.  We dine there several times each year.  It’s small and cozy.  The décor is (not surprisingly) Middle Eastern with arched supports, ornate pillars, oriental rugs and braziers.

The staff is warm and friendly.   Most hail from the Middle East and Balkans.  The waiters tend to be males and there’s always a stunning hostess to greet patrons as they enter.

The menu specializes in Turkish foods, kabobs in particular.  When we go, we usually order a beef kabob along with a shrimp plate in cream sauce.  The trick is to take the steak off the kabob and then pour the shrimp’s cream sauce over the beef.  Fantastic!  Then wash it all down with a Turkish coffee.


What:
This story focuses on a winter’s evening dinner at the café.

My mother-in-law (see previous post) was over kid watching and my wife and I were out for dinner and movie.

We decided on the café since it was also close to the theatre.  So we set out in our trusty, old, and paid off 1998 Honda Civic (I hate car payments!  I’ll drive that thing till the wheels come off).  A few minutes later we arrived at the mall where the café is, found a parking spot, and fast walked out of the cold to front door.

Inside a tall blonde dressed in a white jump suit greeted us.  Every time we go there’s a new hostess up front.  Apparently all picked from Turkish supermodels.  Almost like they’re running a human trafficking ring for high priced call girls.

There was a table open along the wall and we were seated immediately.

[Quick aside – the café is adjacent to a Mongolian Barbecue joint.  The line for the Mongolian All-You-Can-Stuff-in-Your-Face Barbecue is always out the door.  I’ve never understood this.  For literally as little as two clamshells more you can walk next door, sit down without waiting, and be served a meal that puts Mongol meat to shame.]

We knew what we wanted and as soon as our waiter came for our drinks we placed our order.  Our waiter was one of the long-timers and I suspect a part owner.  An older gentlemen with a heavy Balkan accent.

With the order placed, we settled in and started discussing the night’s agenda.  Probably a cheesy action/sci-fi movie followed by some drinks.  Yeah, my wife actually likes those flicks.  One of the reasons I married her!  Then it happened.

The mob walked in.

Specifically, three gentlemen came through the front door.  Two older men.  One in a full length black leather coat with slicked back salt and pepper hair offset with a Mephisto goatee.  The other a little heavier set with a full length brown leather coat.  The third guy was huge.  A young guy, probably late 20’s, around 6’1” or 6’2” and well over 300 pounds of not-so-handsome.  Admittedly a lot of it was fat but still an imposing figure.

The guy in the black coat was obviously in charge – no doubts.  The other old guy hung on his elbow and whispered to him while the ‘kid’ stood to one side intently studying his i-phone.

As soon as our waiter (owner) caught site of them, he rushed over and grabbed the head mofioso’s hand and kissed the guy on both cheeks.  He doesn’t even look at the other two.  He’s now profusely shaking the guys hand and walking them to a table.  The owner walks them over a sits them down at the table right next to us.  

The night just got a little more interesting…

My wife is actually sitting on the same wall bench that ‘Mephistopholes’ has his butt planted on.  She’s about two and a half feet away.  She has also not picked up on this turn of events. Sometimes she can be a bit oblivious to her immediate surroundings (not unlike her mother) but thank god not to the same degree.  

(I actively work on her situational awareness.  Stay alert, Stay alive! … There have been times, well Ok one time, when driving on vacation, late at night, the van loaded with kids, when she pulled off the freeway for gas.  One gas station on the right, well lit, well travelled and another on the left.  Dark and empty except for the hookers coming to and from the no-tell-motel next to it and some guys exchanging cash for small items by the pumps.  But the one on the left is selling gas for 2 cents cheaper.  One guess which station she pulled into.)

But back to the story…the owner sits them next to us.  Mephistopholes right by my wife.  His lackey sitting next to him.  And across the table, blocking them off from the rest of the café the 300 pound mountain gorilla.  The owner stands by their table and proceeds to chew the ear off Mephisto for the next 20 minutes straight.  The guy is waiting half the tables in the café but ignores them completely.  Thank god we’d got our order in.

Finally, the owner takes his leave.  After which, every single waiter in the café comes over.  One guy at a time.  Introduces himself to the head grease ball and then proceeds to give a five minute oration on where they’re from back in the motherland and brief life history.  

This is great.  Dinner AND a show.

While the waiters are paying their respects, food starts to show up at their table.  Food is arriving even though they haven’t ordered.  And the food that’s coming is NOT on the menu.

My wife looks over and sees a bread platter that’s not on the menu.  Then she gives me an aneurism when she pokes Mephisto on the shoulder and says, “Hey what’s that dish?”

All conversation at their table stops.  The gorilla looks up from his i-phone for the first time that night and stares at my wife.  The owner catches sight and scurries over.  He inserts himself between my wife and the un-holy trinity next to us.  

And I’ve got to give the owner credit.  He covered nicely. 

All smiles, he went on for a few minutes about the traditional bread plate.  Had a sample brought to our table and told my wife to flag him down the next time we were in and he’d fix us up.  

With things smoothed over, the waiter introductions continued. I’ve now completely tuned out my wife and am listening 100 percent to our neighbor’s conversations.  From one of the waiter’s treatises I figure out our gangsters are Armenian mob.  Armenia is a small exceptionally poor country just to the East of Turkey.  It’s bordered on the North by Georgia, the East by Azerbaijan, the South by Iran and of course Turkey on the West.

The Armenian mob is rather well known in law enforcement circles.  At one point in my career I took part in multiple raids on Armenian residences in Glendale, CA (heavily Armenian) …. but that’s another story.

So back to ours.  Finally, the waiters finish paying their respects and dinner at both tables proceeds.  The gorilla never looks up from his phone or his plate.  And never says a word.  Not one word.  He just sits there.  While Mephistopholes and his chief lieutenant, Beelzebub, confer in low tones.

Fortunately, they’re right next to us.  I can hear everything.  

But the conversation is mostly in Armenian.  It’s actually flowing in and out of English and Armenian.  Even within the same sentence.  Part of the sentence in English and part Armenian.

However…Uncle Sam (at great expense) rammed Russian down my throat for six hours a day, five days a week, for one year straight….with hours of homework at night.  It was so much Russian I started having dreams in Russian.  Nightmares to be accurate.  One recurring nightmare to be precise.  Which was, I’d be sitting in my Russian classroom all alone except for my teacher.  Just me and my Russian born defector turned U.S government slave driver, er teacher.  He would fire off a Russian grammar question at me and just when I thought of the answer, he’d yell “Too Late!” then fire another question at me.  In the waking world, my Russian teacher was quite a character.  He had a favorite saying which I now routinely use on my kids.  Whenever anyone would complain about the pace he would pause, look up at the ceiling and say in a heavy accent, “Mmmm how you Amerikans say?  Ah yes, this is not for you to like … it’s for you to do.”  It was an intense school and full of stress.  If you failed out then you were, as the Navy liked to phrase it, “Haze gray and underway”.  That’s not a good thing.  But it did teach me Russian and Russian is pretty damn close to Armenian.

I could follow most of what they were saying.  Not all of it but most of it.  The two head guys were talking intently about sports cars and expensive real-estate properties.  Nothing juicy.  No chopped up bodies or anything like that.  Just their mortgage fraud schemes and what cars they were going to buy with the profits.

While they were talking I had leaned over and discretely clued in my wife as to the nature of our neighbors.  Our own conversation then came back to movies and the usual fare.  My wife had actually had a brief exchange with Mephisto about the bread and I’m sure they heard us talking in our distinct American mid-west dialect.  They pegged us for run-of-the-mill white folk out for a night’s diversion.

We finished our dinner and paid our bill.  Then we got up and started walking for the door.

But I couldn’t resist.  Just as I was passing the mountain gorilla, I turned and to the two headmen I said, in perfect unaccented Russian, “Have a good evening gentlemen.”

Their conversation stopped.  The two chiefs looked up and their eyes were the size of saucers.  Even Mr. 300+ turned around from his i-phone and stared.

We covered the remaining distance to the door at a half-trot.  Once outside, my wife turned to me and said, “You know, that was pretty stupid.  Let’s get out of here.”  

Yep it was pretty dumb.  But damn it felt good!

The Helo-Dunker from Hell

Where:

This story takes place at the Naval Air Station – Pensacola, Florida.  Yes, the same one made famous in the Richard Gere movie, ‘Officer and a Gentlemen’.  Except I wasn’t there for Naval Flight Officer School.  I was there for the enlisted version, Naval Aircrewman Candidate School. (little side note, the Richard Gere movie was actually filmed in Washington State.  They wouldn’t let them on the base.  That’s why the whole movie has that gloomy vs sunny look)

I won’t lie, NAS Pensacola was a great base to train on.  It’s located in the panhandle of Florida, has pristine white-sand beaches, blue surf, and tan women.  It rocked.  It was also the main location for Naval flight officer training and enlisted aircrew training.  For the officers it was like a second boot camp.  Discipline was strict and they got hazed mercilessly by the instructors. 

For us enlisted it was a lot better.  We weren’t boots.  We were free to do what we liked when the training day was over and we had weekends off.  That’s not to say the training was easy.  It wasn’t.  But the base was small and quiet, the weather was great, and did I mention the beaches?

What:

I was there for Naval Aircrewman Candidate School.  A school designed to give Aircrew volunteers (they only took volunteers) the basic skills needed to operate in and around Naval aircraft.  It was a demanding school with long hot runs up and down the sea wall, obstacle courses, pool training and of course the infamous helo dunker.

The Helo Dunker;

The subject of this story, the dunker, was a long, large metal tube (about fifteen feet in length) designed to mimic the inside of a CH-46 troop transport helicopter.  Inside were about eight rows of seats facing forward.  Each row had a window next to it and there was an open main door on the right side of the tube.  The whole thing was suspended by cables from the ceiling of a giant indoor pool.  Steps from poolside lead up to a platform from which you could enter the dunker.  Its purpose was to teach aircrew how to escape from a helicopter which had ditched or crashed into the ocean.

The helo dunker is not to be confused with the dilbert dunker, again made famous in ‘Officer and a Gentlemen’.  The dilbert dunker simulated a fighter jet cockpit, which crashed into the sea.  It was a single seat inside of a cut down cockpit.  The whole thing is on a track that leads straight down into the pool.  The track then turns the dilbert dunker  upside down while underwater. 

It sounds bad.  But it isn’t.  There’s only one way out of the dilbert and once you’re out you just follow the rail to the surface.  You can’t screw it up.  Despite what you see in the movie, the worst thing that can happen in the dilbert is water shoots straight up your nose.  That’s it.  I know because I went through the dilbert at a different base for a special project.

The helo dunker was a different animal completely.  It was a device straight from hell. 

The helo dunker was dropped into the deep end of the pool where it would submerge completely.  Then as it sank, it could be rotated, via the cables, to the right or left or upside down.  Once submerged and rotated, all the trainees inside had to extract themselves and find their way to the surface.

To exit the dunker you had two options.  The first was to exit out the window next to your seat.  The other option was to work your way to and out the main door. 

The window was by far the easier of the two, (unless you got the seat right next to the door).  Otherwise if you were going out the door you would have to fight your way over about eight other guys all trying desperately to get out as well.  Kicks to the head were common.

To complicate matters, you were not doing this dressed in a bathing suit.  Oh, no.  They had you completely geared up.  You went in wearing a full flight suit, gloves, mid-calf leather boots with steel toes, a flight helmet and an SV-2 survival vest.

[A note on the SV-2.  The first day we got to the pool to start drown proofing courses the instructors showed us the vests.  They sat the class down on metal bleachers in front of the pool.  The SV-2 vests were all hanging on hooks on a wall to our right.

An instructor came out and pulled one off the wall and carried it in front of us.  “Class!” he said. 

“This is the SV-2 survival vest which you will be wearing during your training.” 

“All of the survival gear has been removed and replaced with wooden blocks in each of the vests’ cargo pockets.”

“Now I know all you swinging dicks have heard that these wood blocks are saturated with water and don’t float.  I’m here to tell you that’s BULLSHIT.”

“These vests float!  And I’m going to prove it to you!”

He then threw the vest into the pool.  It sat there on the surface for all of about, oh… one second …then went straight to the bottom like a rock.  The instructor stood there, legs braced, hands on hips staring into the pool.

He then turned around and yelled, “Well all the other ones float.  Now go grab one and get in!” … Classic.       (To this day I don’t know if they were playing a joke or if he really thought it would float.)]

 

My Turn in the Barrel;

After about a week of drown proofing it was time to take our test in the helo dunker.

The test consisted of four evolutions. 

Round One;

In the first evolution the trainees filled the dunker, took a seat, and rode it down.  Once it stopped, everyone went out the window closest to them then swam to the surface.  Not bad, hard to screw up.  About the worst thing that could happen was if the safety diver (who was inside with you) gave you a face full of water.  If he saw you trying to take in a huge breath right before you sank under the surface, he’d splash water right in your face so you’d suck it in instead of O2.  They didn’t do it to be cruel.  They expected you to sit there calmly and ride it down.  This was there way of reinforcing that lesson.

Round Two;

Second evolution, was identical to the first except…yup, everyone had to go out the main door instead of the window.  Now things were starting to get dicey.  Eight guys, or thereabouts, all trying to get out one door before their air ran out.  It could get pretty wild. Kicks to the head, shoved this way and that.  A couple guys had trouble making it to the surface before sucking in water.  One guy in particular, a Marine sergeant I’ll call Sgt.-W was really having issues.

Round Three;

Now things got very interesting.  Everybody filed in and took their seats.  The instructions for this evolution were again to go out the window next to you.  Easy, except that you had to do this with the visor on your flight helmet down.  The visor which the instructors had spray painted black!

This was done, again not out of cruelty, but to train you for a night crash.

Once you were out, you still couldn’t see.  You also didn’t know if the dunker was tilted to the left, the right, or upside down when you exited.  In short, you had no idea if you were pointed up, down, or sideways.  You didn’t know which way to swim to the surface.

However, our ever knowledgeable instructors had drilled us on how to solve this puzzle.  You made your body long and rigid then waited.  Your flight boots were leather with steel toes.  Your helmet was foam padding and plastic.  Meaning your feet were a lot heavier than your head.  As you floated in the water, your body would slowly, ever so slowly, orientate itself with your feet down and your head up. 

If you were running short on air when you got out, this could be a torturous wait.  The other disconcerting thing was you didn’t know how far it was to the surface.  If you were claustrophobic or let your fears get the better of you, you were going to have a very bad day.

Even though the windows were right next to us, several trainees got disoriented.  I was watching from the side of the giant pool as I waited my turn.  A couple guys were trying to bash their heads through steel plating that definitely was not a window.  The divers had to pull them out.  Sgt. W was one of them.  He had quite a bit of water in his lungs that he coughed out.

Round Four;

Now for the final round.  You filed in took your seat and strapped in.  The blacked out visor was again down so you couldn’t see.  The safety diver splashed water in your faces as the dunker slowly sunk and rolled over.  You could feel the water rising up over your body and head as you went down and this time it was everyone out the main door.

No window for you.

This sucked.  You had to memorize your position in the dunker.  Place a hand on something, usually the seat in front of you, so you could maintain a mental anchor point.  Then climb over the correct number of seats, which you had counted beforehand, until you were at the door.  Then hands on the door and a big push outside.

At this point you hoped you had enough air left to figure out which way was up.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  If you were out and waiting to point head-up you were lucky.  Because getting to the door with eight other guys all trying to do the same thing, in the blind, was a royal pain in the ass.  People were climbing over you, kicking you with steel toed boots, pulling and pushing you.  If you could keep your head and your orientation with all this going on it was a miracle.  And the farther back you were in the dunker the harder it was.

Again I was watching from the top of the pool.  Surprisingly, most of the guys made it out without tooooo much trouble.  By now you’d had several turns and most guys were getting the hang of it.  Which was the point.  But a few still had problems.  Including Sgt. W.  Once again the divers had to pull him out. Pump his lungs out and stand him up.

Then it was my turn.  I got lucky.  I was only one seat back from the door.  They dropped the dunker and it started to sink.  I popped my seat belt and held myself in the seat till the dunker stopped.  One seat over and out.  Big push.  Feet sank down and up I swam.  Piece of cake and I was done!

Or so I thought.

We all climbed out.  Then the instructors called out the failed seat numbers.  They called mine with the comment, “early release”.  What the?!?!  Ok, I kept my mouth shut and lined up for a re-test.  My whole military training strategy to date could be summed up in three words.  ‘Under-the-Radar’.  Keep your mouth shut.  Do what your asked as fast and as well as you could and DON’T attract attention.  So I did just that.

I lined up with the others for scenario four again.  Sgt. W was with us.  He was visibly shaking at this point.  And who could blame him.  The dude had just had his lungs pumped out three times.

They called out our seat assignments.  I hit the jackpot.  I had the seat right next to the door.  Yes, oh yes there is a God.

We filed in sat down, strapped in and rode that bitch down.  I popped the safety harness as we sank then clamped my hands down on the seat to hold my ass firmly in.  The dunker sank, rolled and stopped.  I still didn’t let go.  I kept my ass glued to the seat for a good five count.  Guys were climbing over me but it didn’t matter.  I knew right where I was and I was going to make the most of this gift.  Yeah, I dare you to call ‘early release’ on me this time.

So out I went.  Feet down, head up.  Swim to the surface and I’m gold.  I climbed out and the instructor looked at me called my number and said, “Early release, fail.”     MOTHER FUCKER!!!

Calming myself, I asked, “Excuse me sir but what do you mean?”

“You popped your seatbelt early again recruit.”

Oh shit.

“Get back in line for a final retest.”

This was it.  Do or die.  There would be no more chances and I’d just blown my golden ticket.  Also in line with me were a couple other guys and, you guessed it, Sgt.  W. 

Sgt.  W had again become disorientated in the dunker.  He’d lost his anchor point then lost track of where the door was.  The divers pulled him out as he tried to ram a hole through the metal skin of the dunker with his head.  Pump out lungs, prop him up and back you go.

Sgt. W was in front of me in line.  They ordered us to ascend the platform and take our seats.  And I’d got a seat in the back.

The Sgt. was shaking violently at this point and was so weak he had to use his arms to lift his legs up each step.  But he was a Marine and a tough one.  He never complained.  He never bitched.  He just sucked it up and forced himself up the platform.

Sgt. W had just reached the top when a voice came over the loud speaker.  It said, “Gentlemen, the cables on the dunker are not working properly.  We have to shut it down for the day.”

The look of relief on the Sgt.’s face was visible as he sank to the ground.  The dead men walking had been given a reprieve.  And they passed us all without having to retest.

To this day I believe there was nothing wrong with the dunker.  I think they liked Sgt. W’s ‘Charlie Mike’ attitude (that’s Continue Mission for you civilians) and didn’t want to lose a good Marine.

That night, Pat, Jay and I went to the Enlisted Club on base.  Sgt. W was already there.  He was sitting at the bar and had at least eight shots of whiskey lined up in front of him.  We slapped him on the back and he grinned up at us.

[Pat, Jay and I all enlisted on the same day, April 1^st.  Yes April Fool’s Day.  But Pat was from Boston.  Jay was from North Carolina and none of us knew each other prior to boot camp.  Not only did we enlist on the same day but we’d all signed up for the exact same training pipeline.  Boot camp in San Diego, Russian Language in Monterey, Crypto in Texas, then on to Aircrew Training at Pensacola.  Not surprisingly, we were shipmates and pretty tight by the time we got to NAS Pensacola.  After Pensacola we went to Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape, or SERE, training in the mountains outside San Diego.  But that’s another story….]

Post Script:

Today’s dunker;  I went looking for a photo of the dunker to include with this story.  I found many but since I went through they’ve changed it.  It’s now a kinder gentler George Bush style dunker.

It’s now about half the size, the windows are huge, it has bench seats facing in, and the door is right in the middle.  Also the entire back half is open, instead of closed in, making for easier extracts.  Somebody probably almost drowned in the old beast and forced some changes for the new guys. ... lucky SOBs!

OSU, Roommates and Tear Gas;

Where:

The Ohio State University

The Ohio State University in the early 80’s was still a sprawling metropolis.  It’s currently the third largest university in the U.S. (I believe its main campus may actually be the largest single campus with an undergrad population of around 50,000).

The Castle - West 10^th and Highland

At the time of this story I actually lived off campus in an apartment with five other guys.  Don, Fred, Mike, Wags and Mike no 2 (aka The Wheel).  We lived in a sprawling former, turn of the century, boarding house which had been divided into four apartments.  Each apartment had three upper floors along with a basement.  The corner apartments actually had tower like structures which gave it its nickname, The Castle.

Don and Fred were the ring leaders at the Castle.  Don was the brains and Fred was the muscle.

The Wheel also figures prominently in this story so I’ll give a little background.  Wheel had already graduated once from OSU with a degree in Arabic studies through the Army ROTC program.  However, pre-911, finding a job with an Arabic degree was a wee bit difficult.  So he was back working on an engineering degree while also employed as a Lieutenant in the Army Reserve.  In his reservist role, he worked as the base supply officer.  In that capacity he’d been given permission/designated to use or dispose of as he saw fit various small items which were expired or no longer of use.  Such as out dated/expired C-Rations and other perishable things.  Some of this stuff, like the C-rats wound up in our basement.  Every now and then, when the Wheel was short on money, he’d bring up an expired C-rat and have it for dinner.  It was kind of like playing Russian roulette with botchalism but if you were hungry…  If you ever find old C-rats the chicken ala king is pretty good but steer clear of the pork patty.

A little dorm history is also appropriate to the story:

Morrill Tower

I started off in Morril Tower at OSU.  Morril Tower was 23 stories of disaster.  When I moved in my Freshmen year, the 1st floor was maintenance, the 2nd floor was the dining hall, the third floor was administrative offices and floors 4 through 23 were student living spaces.  That’s right, 19 floors of first quarter freshmen students all stacked on top of each other.  And it gets worse.

Each floor consisted of four suites.  Each suite held 8 students in four tiny cubicles off of the main (windowless) lounge area.  Two students per cubicle.  There was a common bathroom for each suite and each floor had a laundry room.  (a little known fact, Jeffrey Dahmer, the serial killing cannibal, actually resided in Morrill Tower for a brief time)

And it gets worse.

This meant there were 32 students per floor in very tight spaces.  But to make it even more of a zoo, a large number of the floors were co-ed.  Yah, 16 first quarter freshmen guys jammed in like sardines next to 16 first quarter freshmen girls.  The place was a ZOO.  Its nickname was Immoral Tower.  I’d have loved to have sat in on the planning committee meeting where they decided 32 students per floor was a good idea.   (I think Jimmy Page and Keith Richards were the planning chairmen)  There was also an identical tower next to Morrill called Lincoln.  Together the two were usually referred to as Sodom and Gomorrah.  In the 90’s, they cut back the occupancy to four students per suite reducing the population (and madness) by half.

On any given Sunday morning, after a weekend of student partying, you could find smashed lounge furniture in the elevators and/or fresh blood stains on the elevator floor.  On one occasion, one of my suite mates opened the elevator to find a student tied to a chair, covered in shaving cream, with every button on the elevator pushed.  On various occasion in Morrill Tower I witnessed: a guy who would drink his beers by biting the can in half, usually lacerating his lips; a guy who could put his glasses on the tip of his nose then push them back into place with his tongue; a suite which decorated one entire wall from floor to ceiling in beer cans (some of them not quite empty – which then stunk to high heaven) and various other acts of idiocy.

I transferred out at my earliest opportunity.

Steeb Hall

I moved from Morrill Tower to Steeb hall on South Campus.  An older but much roomier, less crowded building.  Unfortunately my two roommates were:  A kid whose stated goal was to offend every single person on campus before he graduated, and he gave it the proverbial college try; and a French exchange student who lived up to the haughty French stereotype.

I transferred to off-campus housing at my earliest opportunity.

Before I’d moved to Steeb, I’d started working at the OSU Faculty Club.  A members’ only club/restaurant for Faculty located on the Oval in the center of campus.  All the waiters, waitresses, busboys and expediters were OSU students.  It was a great place to work.  Like a giant co-ed fraternity.  It was at the faculty club where I met Don and Fred and they asked me to move in with them at the Castle.  I jumped at the opportunity.

The Event:

Which brings us to our story. 

First let me say that even though I served five years in the Navy’s 7^th Fleet and have spent over 15 years in law enforcement dealing with cops of every variety, Don and Fred are hands down the craziest, non-committed or incarcerated individuals I’ve ever come across.  Amazingly, both are highly successful professionals in the business world.  But you spend time with them at your own risk.

The typical weekend at the Castle consisted of the three ‘B’s, Books, Basketball and Beer.  Not necessarily in that order.  Also, it was tradition that every weekend we gathered up the gang, frequented establishments along High Street and attempted to meet co-eds (sadly, our attempts to meet co-eds almost always ended in failure).

 Which gave rise to the relevant scenario.

Mike no-2, The Wheel, had an engineering exam on Monday morning.  He therefore refused to come out with the gang on Saturday night for the usual escapades.  This was unacceptable, especially for Don and Fred.  So they came up with a plan.

One of them distracted the Wheel while the other took his engineering books.  They then knocked a slot sized hole in the drywall on the first floor, near the ceiling and stuffed his books back behind the drywall.  The Wheel was furious but couldn’t figure out a way to get his books back which didn’t involve major destruction of the apartment.  He reluctantly went out with the gang.

Sunday morning rolled around and as usual we started getting prepared for the school week.  It was a gorgeous day with blue sky and warm temps.  I remember sitting at my desk with my books (I don’t recall what subject) studying for an exam of some sort.  I was in my room on the second floor, head in my books when I started to feel not quite right…

My eyes started itching a little, then my nose started to itch.  I began sneezing and thought ‘man, am I catching a cold?’  But I shook it off and kept at the books.  For about 30 more seconds.

Because after 30 more seconds my world fell in.  My eyes went blood shot, teared up, itched like hell and started to swell shut.  At the same time, snot started streaming out of my nose and face.  I couldn’t breathe either.  I collapsed to the floor convinced I been stricken with plague.  Yes, that’s actually the thought that went through my head.

The exact thought that went through my head was, “Oh my God, I’ve come down with Black Plague and I’m going to die”.

I started crawling on my hands and knees for the hallway.  Willing myself one hand and knee forward at a time towards the phone and a 9-1-1 call.  I was almost to the doorway when a sound cut through my misery and into my consciousness.

It was a shout of what sounded like a war cry or yell of triumph.  But with a muffled or blurred tone to it. ‘What the hell?’....  Then I looked up and saw The Wheel walking up the steps.  With clenched fists raised over his head triumphantly.  Screaming “YAH – THAT’S RIGHT – YESSS!!!!”.   Wearing a gas mask.

A wave of relief washed over me.  “Ok, I’m not dying.  Wheel just tear gassed us.”

Along with the C-rations, Wheel also had a large mason jar filled with tear gas crystals.  The base had ordered him to dispose of these expired crystals and not knowing what to do with them, they wound up in our basement.

Mike, in a well planned revenge, donned a military gas mask, opened the jar, and removed several crystals.  He then dropped them into the vent ducts and turned on the furnace fan.  Fumigating the apartment.  The bastard!  Victory was his.

Post Script:

- Being given a jar of tear gas and ordered to dispose of it is not as unusual as it sounds.  As my agency’s Defensive Tactics Instructor I’m responsible for disposing of our agents’ outdated, military grade, OC spray canisters.  No instructions, no assistance, just told to get rid of them in a safe effective manner.  I had to go online (God bless Al Gore) and find a solution.  The best way to do it is don elbow length rubber gloves and submerge the canister in a bucket of water.  Then expel the entire contents in the water.  You have to be careful though.  If it’s a windy day a breeze can catch the bubbles popping up and blow them in your face.  You really don’t want that to happen.

- This wouldn’t be the last time I was tear gassed.  I also got gassed at boot camp.  They marched us into the gas chamber, had us remove our masks then recite our general orders.  I’ve also received several face fulls of OC spray at various law enforcement training. … BTW, if anyone ever plays ‘Would You Rather’ and asks, “Would you rather get a face full of tear gas or a face full of OC spray?”  Go with the tear gas.  It’ll incapacitate you but doesn’t hurt one tenth as bad as the OC.  That shit BURNS.  And its effects last for hours.

The JTTF and Radioactive Marbles:

These next two vignettes are Mother-In-Law stories.

But first a word about my MIL.  My MIL is one of the most generous people I’ve encountered when it comes to her time and her money.  If it wasn’t for my mother in law, my wife and I would never get out on date nights.  She’s constantly asking when she can come over and kid watch.   She’s always available to come at a moment’s notice when work issues pop up.  She buys expensive gifts and gives generously of her time.  In fact while I type this, she’s out with my middle child paying for a girl’s spa treatment.  We’re lucky to have her.

However, she also has no filter and more importantly (for these stories at least) she has no barriers, defenses, walls, or warning bells when it comes to strangers.  If a stranger walked up to her on the street and said “I’m a Nigerian prince and I’d like to transfer some money into your bank account”, she’d be pulling out her check book.  She assumes everyone is telling the truth until proven otherwise. 

To her credit, if everyone in the world operated on this basis it would be a much better place.  But unfortunately it doesn’t.  Thus this attribute of hers has given rise to two knock-down drag-out all-out fights.  Usually during a holiday party in front of the entire family forum.  Sometimes in front of multiple family clans.

For instance, there’s the Thanksgiving when I had to report her to the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force.  Or JTTF for short.  Nope.  I’m not kidding…

The JTTF Affair:

What is the JTTF?  After 911, the FBI established the Joint Terrorism Task Forces to increase communication between Federal, State and local law enforcement agencies.  With the idea being that with increased communication they could prevent another 911.

The FBI opened space in their offices around the country to bring in local, State and Federal officers to work together and pool their resources.  FBI personnel were also assigned to the Task Forces, some full time and some part time.

The FBI agent I was doing most of my work with then was a member.  I’ll call him Q.  He’s since retired.  I worked closely with Q for a number of years until his retirement.  Q made his mark at the bureau by teaming with us on our cases.  It was good paring for Q and the bureau.  There was just too much money involved for the bureau to pass up.  At his retirement party, Q’s boss got up and let it be known he was the top producing agent for the FBI that year for the entire State of Ohio, as measured in terms of indictments, convictions and monies recovered.  Q was great to work with.  He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty and was always asking what he could do to assist.

The story:

It was Thanksgiving about five or six years ago.  We were hosting at our house.  In attendance were: my elderly parents; my sister and her husband; my sister’s son and his girlfriend; my brother his wife and their kids; and my mother in law and her husband (my wife’s step-dad).

Dinner was served, honey roasted ham with stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and little butterball turkeys on the side.  (I can remember the menu because that’s pretty much what we always do).

So Thanksgiving was on the plates and everyone was happily stuffing their faces when my mother in law began to relate tales of her recent trip to Egypt.  My mother in law (M) is semi-retired and lives to travel.

She had gone to Egypt on a group tour and began to relate the usual tales about the pyramids and the other main tourist attractions.   But then she digressed.  She started in about a bus trip for the group to an outdoor bazaar.  The tour operators loaded the group up and took them into downtown Cairo.  To an outdoor bazaar for an Egyptian shopping experience.  With kickbacks from the vendors to the tour operators I suspect.

She went on to say that as she was walking through the bazaar, she came on a pharmacy.  Intrigued as to how an Egyptian pharmacy stacked up against the US variety she went in.  Once in, she struck up a conversation with the owner and pharmacist, “John”.

At this point my ears picked up.  “John” would be a very unusual name for an Egyptian.  MIL then stated “John” was a local Coptic Christian who was looking to emigrate to the U.S in order to flee oppression.  “John” is correct on that account.   Coptic Christians are targeted in Egypt and generally exist there as distinct second class citizens. 

Which didn’t jive with the setting.

Although not impossible, it was very unlikely a Coptic Christian named John would be a pharmacist running a pharmacy that was lucky enough to be on the tour circuit’s regular itinerary.  It sounded damn fishy.  She had my full attention at this point.

M then beamed, a giant smile came over her face, and her body was almost perceptibly glowing as she announced she was going to sponsor “John’s” Visa application to bring him to the U.S.  The table stilled notably.  In the pause I interjected, “M are you sure you want to do that?  You don’t know this person at all.”

“Oh, I know him very well.  He invited me to dinner and we got thoroughly acquainted.”

“M, just because you had dinner with him, doesn’t mean you know him.”

“I’m a good judge of people.  He just wants to escape the oppression in Egypt and come to the U.S. where he can make a good living.  But to come over he needs a sponsor.  So I agreed.   When we got back I photocopied my passport and my husband’s passport and Fedexed them to him.”

Dead silence. 

At this point the relative positioning of the dinner guests became uppermost on my mind.  Specifically, how close was my sister in relation to M.  My sister is a card carrying  member of the John Birch society and her political viewpoints run somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun.  There was one seat in between her and M.  Good, I’d have a couple seconds warning if she stood up with a steak knife.

I started to lose my cool a bit.  I said, “M you need to call tomorrow and cancel both your passports.  You also need to notify the State Department about what happened.”  M then lost her cool and a shouting match ensued.  Mind you, the Iraq war is still pretty much in full swing (the insurgency) and many of Al Qaeda’s top members are/were Egyptian.  The movement has deep roots there.

She wouldn’t back down and I was determined to convince her of the need to cancel her passports.  She insisted I was being overly suspicious and that she knew “John’s” character.  The dinner ended shortly after without either of us budging.

The next work day I called Q.  I got a hold of Q and told him I had a problem.  He concurred and urged me to have M cancel her passports.  If she refused, I asked Q if he would come speak with her in person.  Q agreed.  He also ran “John” through the JTTF database.  There were no hits but that assumed that “John” had given his real name.  Which I doubted.

It turned out not to be necessary.  In the intervening several days, M had spoken with a number of her friends and colleagues about the fight on T-Day.  Looking for support from her network.  She didn’t get it.  Instead she got an earful of what I’d already given her.

I think it slowly sunk in with her that, “hey, maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.”  She did the right thing then.  Called and canceled the passports and applied for new ones.

My blood pressure dropped 30 points when I got the news.  But on the upside, how many son in laws can say they reported their mother in law to the JTTF?!?!

The Radioactive Marble Incident:

You’d think you would have trouble topping a JTTF reporting.  Oh no, she did it.  This is my personal favorite M story of all time.

A little backstop:  My mother in law has a habit of latching onto various hobbies.  Usually one at a time, for about a year at a time (sometimes longer – sometimes shorter).  And when she latches on she really latches on.

At this time, the hobby/obsession was hand crafted marbles.  We are not talking about your grampa’s marbles here.  These are individually hand blown/created marbles.  Fashioned by talented artisans that are works of art.  They range in size from about one inch to around three inches and some of them are spectacular.  Price on these rolling Mona Lisa’s ranges anywhere from $50 bucks up to hundreds of dollars.

M was collecting them and decided we should collect them as well.  To that end, she was purchasing a marble for each of my kids on their birthdays.  She had already bought and given out two of these.  Both were alike.  About two inches around, clear glass, with the first letter of the child’s name blown into the center.  Very nice marbles.

It was now March and my third and youngest’s birthday.

So we had the obligatory party cake, candles, and the rest of the birthday usual.  And lastly, presents.  She opened her presents with a typical five year old’s glee and excitement.  I think we got her a new big wheel that year.  She loved racing big wheels down our sloped driveway then spinning them out. 

Then it was M’s turn for her presents to be opened.

M as usual went overboard with more gifts than she should have.  Then out came the small square box.  We all knew it was the birthday marble.  My daughter opened it up expectantly and wasn’t disappointed when she saw a large glass marble with the first letter of her first name suspended inside.

But this marble was a little different.

Instead of being clear glass with a blown letter inside, this marble had a faint glow to it.  And the letter was made out of a metal.  It looked cool.  Especially the way it was glowing.  I said, “Hey M, that’s a really neat marble you bought there.  I hope it wasn’t too expensive, can I see it?”  My daughter handed it to M who handed it to me.

I placed the marble in my hand and took a closer look.  The metal letter inside was a dull silver in color. As I held the marble in my hand, it bathed my hand in a soft yellowish-green glow.  To be honest, it looked a hell of a lot like the Locknar from the cult-classic animated movie “Heavy Metal”. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about – you’re really missing out).

“Hey M, this is really beautiful.  What makes it glow?”

“Oh, it’s radioactive”.

Again…dead silence.  Circuit breakers are popping inside my head. (What the!!!! Did  she just say Radio-Fing-Active!!!!!).  With a calm that looking back on amazes me, I slowly placed the marble back into its box and closed the lid.

M then filled in the rest of the story.  “I was at the marble convention (yeah, they have those) when I saw these glowing marbles.  The vendor said he could fashion one with a letter inside.  I thought they were fabulous and ordered the marble.  It glows because the letter is made out of depleted Uranium”.

I swear on all that’s holy I’m not making this up.  Freaking depleted Uranium!!!

They only scenario I can come up with that this guy could have got his hands on depleted Uranium, metal alloy would be from the Air Force.  Back in the 80’s the Air Force’s main tank buster aircraft was the A-10 Warthog.  The Warthog’s main armament was a 20mm Vulcan gattling gun mounted right down the center line of the aircraft.  The A-10’s main mission was to fly over columns of armored vehicles and destroy them with the Vulcan gattling gun.  The Vulcan could fire thousands of rounds a minute and to help the rounds penetrate armored vehicles they were enhanced.  The way the Air Force enhanced them was to make the tips out of super dense …you guessed it…depleted Uranium.  I figure this guy went out to an old A-10 firing range and dug up a bunch the rounds.

On a side note, I did a several day survival course out at Eglin Air Force base in Florida.  Eglin also had an A-10 range and while we were in the scrub lands eating insects they conducted firing runs.  The sound an A-10 makes when firing the Vulcan is incredible.  It’s like the world’s loudest burp or a giant, ripping a huge sheet of construction paper.  I would hate to be on the receiving end of this monster.  You can pull up YouTube videos and watch tanks literally lifted into the air from the force of the impact of hundreds of these rounds striking it in seconds.

But back to the story.

I slowly placed the marble back in the box.  Then I told M to get it out of my house and never, under any circumstances, to bring it back.  She was livid. 

The vendor assured her the radiation levels were safe.  She then let on that the vendor asked her to let him know if she discovered otherwise.  Comforting.  M then insisted it was safe and should go on my daughter’s headboard so she could watch it glow at night.  You cannot make this stuff up.

Yeah M, lets put a glowing radioactive item where it will irradiate my developing daughter every single night for 8-10 hours for the next thirteen years.  That sounds like a fing excellent idea.  What grandparent argues to place a radioactive device in their grandchild’s room?  Seriously!

There was no way I was relenting.  The birthday ended shortly after and M stormed out in a huff.  But the story doesn’t end there.  Oh, no. 

The next week she came back with a printout.  She took the marble to an OSU research lab and had it tested with a Geiger counter. (her husband worked at OSU)  She then shoved the results of the Geiger counter reading under my nose and said, “See, it’s not harmful.  The scientist said these levels can’t cause any immediate harm.”  Oh, Ok.  I’ll put it right on the headboard then…..

I took the paper and researched the RAD levels myself on the internet.  The scientist was correct.  You weren’t going to keel over, have anything drop off, or burst into flames from exposure to the marble.  But PROLONGED EXPOSURE could cause cancerous mutations.  And there’s more.  Had you taken the marble into a nuclear power plant, the levels were high enough to trigger the plants RAD detectors and shut the facility down as having a dangerous leak.

Again, you cannot make this stuff up…to this day I still can’t wrap my mind around why anyone would push, argue and go to abnormal lengths in an attempt to place a radioactive marble next to a five year olds head.  But again on the upswing, it does make a good story!

(Locknar)