Freakin’ out Ginger

So I was just trying to freak him out. I think he took me seriously. Ginger Rodgers wasn’t his real name – like a lot of guys I met in the Navy, the moniker was a pseudonym and he was just called Ginger because his last name was Rodgers. To this day, I have no fucking clue what his first name was.

But Ginger and I got along. We used to log into the local BBS in Saratoga Springs, NY (this was back in 1993, before the WWW was even available – I’m like totally old skool with a K, kiddies). He used to send me porn but I have my own particular tastes with porn and his didn’t quite match mine. Okay, they didn’t match at all. But up popped the window in the BBS that Ginger was sending me more porn.

I would have been worried if he was sending me suggestive gay porn, but he wasn’t. This was straight meat ‘n potatoes stuff that would have gone over well in Lucy and Ricky’s bedroom. Come on, they had 2 beds, but then had a kid. Are the baby boomers really that fucking retarded? We know Lucy was givin’ up the booty to her Latin lover.

So, anyway, in the off-hull support area of S8G in Ballston Spa (you can see it on Google Maps – funny, though, they kept it fuzzy instead of showing details: http://maps.google.com/maps?oe=utf-8&client=firefox-a&ie=UTF-8&q=kapl+ballston+spa&fb=1&split=1&gl=us&dtab=7&cid=8179916615552586579&li=lmd&z=14&t=m), there was a really high tower. There was one of the civilians climbing it. Ginger and I were headed up to the off-hull offices, which were about 30 feet or so up. He was a mechanic and I was an ELT, I was headed off to the ELT shack and he to the Mechanics’ office.

Ginger turns to me and says, “What would you do if that guy fell from up there?” He was leaning against the railing, ballcap on Jimmy Dean style, grinning, thinking he got me on something. I don’t know what, but something.

I was on to his game. I was quick to up the ante. “I hope he DOES fall,” I checked to gauge his shock factor. “I’ve always wanted to see someone die.”

Ginger was looking down over the railing and laughing pretty hard. “You’re fucked up, Husted, you know that?” He laughed as he said it, adjusted the brim of his ballcap, and wiped a tear from behind his glasses.

“I’d go over to him and stare at him. I want to see him take his last breath. Maybe kick him a coupla times to make sure he’s really dead.” I was doing my best deadpan, which, I must admit, is pretty fucking good. I can be a great stoic when needed.

Ginger laughed some more. “No, you REALLY are fucked in the head. Seriously. You got a smoke?”

I bummed the skinny, pockmark-faced bastard a smoke and we made our way outside, just foreward of the foreward-end compartment of S8G, outside, in the snow, and met Chief (Ed) Bitner out there, and had a good chat about Ed fucking 2 free black hookers one time in Orlando. But that’s another story, kiddies – I need another Jack and Coke. Besides, “Jihad” from Slayer just came on and I need to rock the fuck out.