In the mid-80s, when I first started working for the Navy, I used to travel a bit to the ship building and repair facilities around the country. One Summer, we went to Charleston, South Carolina. The first night, a huge group of us went through the Historic District of Charleston. After sight-seeing, we went to an interesting restaurant. I don't remember the name, but it was very antebellum, and came recommended by one of the local workers.
The area around the restaurant probably wouldn't have made the town's tourism brochure, but it didn't look too dangerous. One of the people with us had been to a gypsy fortune teller nearby, years earlier, and was interested in going back. She couldn't remember exactly where it was, and it didn't have the customary fortune teller eyeball sign or anything like that. She used a pay phone (remember them) to call a friend to get directions. It turns out the place was almost directly across the road from the restaurant. It had a wooden sign with painted red flowers, the name Lady Mirela, and absolutely no lighting.
The seven of us, five dudes and three chicks, hoofed it across the street to the Gypsy lady. At 25, I was the youngest. I was, at least, eight years younger than any other dude, and three years younger than the youngest lady. I believe I've made it clear that in my younger days I was amazingly obnoxious, and the witty remarks that now endear me to the world tended to irritate the general population back then. I can't swear to it, but I believe my lack of impulse control when it came to winging one-liners at the palm reading and tarot card thing might have pissed off Lady Mirela. When it came my turn, she made some mundane prognostications about my monetary and romantic futures, and then dropped a bomb on me.
She had, of course, refused to be very specific with the others; I assume because they were more respectful than I. However, she made a sad and startled production of informing me how I would meet my eventual end. I would be killed by my bastard son, Remo, while playing cards. She didn't tell me when, just how. As of today, I can account for all my partners and their progeny, save one.
A year before the trip to South Carolina, we went to the commercial shipyard in Pascagoula, Mississippi. The team I went with that time consisted of older people with no taste for the night life. About the third evening we were in Mississippi, we made a trek over to Slidell, Louisiana, to a well-recommended steak restaurant named Young's. At that time, I was too young to rent a car, but I could drive it...I don't remember why, or even if you can still do this. I drove to and from Young's, and dropped my stodgy co-workers off at the hotel front desk, as it was 9:15 and they were turning into pumpkins. I told them I was going to park the car and go back to my room. After the door closed behind them, I hit the nearest evening hot spot, Thunder's Tavern.
I made the acquaintance of a young lady named Lisa. She, of course, had an excellent ass, a curvy body, and a butter face. That's not exactly fair; she wasn't ugly; she just wasn't pretty. She made the point of telling me she was an octoroon within the first five minutes of our conversation. I was familiar with the term, but I had no idea that even as far back as the 80s people still used terms like that. She drank more than I did, which could hint at who among the two of us might actually have possessed the butter face.
About 1:00, I took her home. She lived in a trailer, spitting distance from the road, and twenty minutes from the hotel. We wasted little time with any pleasantries, and opted for the sex. I had no condoms, and neither did she. I was young and drunk, and so was she. So, we both figured it would be a great idea to have unprotected sex with a person we just met three hours ago.
At 6:00, my digital watch alarm played Stars and Stripes Forever. It usually played Dixie, but I changed it before I fell sleep because I wasn't sure if it would offend someone who was one-eighth black. I rolled out of bed, and quickly got dressed. I had the impression that Lisa knew I was awake, but wanted to avoid awkwardness and pretended to still be asleep. For some unknown reason, I decided since I was NEVER going to see her again, I should kiss her good-bye on the cheek. Thankfully, she never moved.
As I left her bedroom, I was terrified to see a large woman sitting in a wheel chair at the kitchen table. She was smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. Through the pain in my head, I recalled the night before Lisa had mentioned to me that she lived with her mother, who was disabled. I began a very short walk of shame from the bedroom to the front door. Mrs. Lisa's-Momma said, "Hello." Trying to convey, I'm really not the asshole I seem to be, I replied "Morning." It was n't convincing, and I very nearly threw up on my way out the door. Due to my inebriation, I really didn't think I was porn-level, but Lisa was really appreciative of the effort in the form of being very loud. Mrs. Lisa's-Momma had to have heard the game in progress. It all seemed a bit weird. As I went out the door, sure enough, steps to the right, and wooden wheel chair ramp to the left. In the dark, drunk and horny, I missed it.
I managed to get back to the hotel in time to shower, and meet my co-workers at 7:30 for a breakfast I eventually couldn't keep down.
To make a long story short, I never tried to find Lisa again before I flew back to Maryland, and have never been back to Mississippi since. I sweated out the fear of a social disease thing for a few months and nothing ever happened. I was able to maintain a sense of denial that children could result from this ill-conceived coupling, poor choice of words right? I didn't tell Lisa my last name, or even my first name. Keith is my middle name, and that's always what everybody has called me. I was doing great till stupid Lady Mirela pointed out the Sword of Damocles over my head. I guess, right about now, if he exists, Remo would be 24-years old. The same age I was when I visited his mother and I discharged him "like a bullet in the gun of Robert Ford." I made stupid decisions at 24, which is why I avoid playing cards, today.
