I was 21, freshly booted from the United States Navy, my “thank you for your service” coming in the form of a bad conduct discharge. Honorable men got medals; I got a boot to the ass. That was fine. I found myself in the shipyards, ripping out asbestos, breathing in all the particles they told us would kill us, but what the hell—something was gonna kill me eventually. The hours were long, but they started cutting back shifts, which meant I had time for dating.
Tijuana had lost its charm. When you’re 18, it’s an adventure. When you’re 21, you start noticing the stains on the bar stools, the stench of desperation mixed with cheap tequila. I wasn’t in the numbers anymore. I wanted something different—something that smelled less like regret and bad decisions. Something “quality,” whatever the hell that meant.
And that’s how I ended up in Santee, California.
Santee is what happens when you run out of money before you hit a good neighborhood. It’s the kind of place where people name their dogs after NASCAR drivers and everyone’s got a cousin they’re “real close” with. It was a Budweiser-and-shotgun-shells kind of town, where the Taco Bell probably had its own neighborhood watch to guard against outsiders. If there was ever a place to make a man question his life choices, Santee was it.
I was meeting the parents. That’s what she said. “You need to meet my folks.”
I pulled up to the house, past an old AM radio tower that probably sterilized half the county with its radiation, past chain-link fences sagging under the weight of bad decisions. In the driveway sat an RV, a Trans Am with a missing hood, and the unmistakable scent of dog piss wafting through the air like a welcoming committee.
Inside, it was a goddamn circus. Her mother, all nervous energy and wide, unblinking enthusiasm, thought it was adorable to let every dog inside at the same time. Thirty of them. Cockapoos, cockerspaniels, cocker-something-or-others, racing around, pissing in streaks across the floor like they were signing the guest book. She watched, beaming, as if I should be impressed.
I stood there, boots sinking into the damp carpet, calculating how much of my life had led to this moment. Then I saw it—on the wall. A triangle-folded American flag, medals, commendations. And then the pictures. A young man in uniform. A master chief. The USS Kitty Hawk. The USS Ranger.
And then, right there, VS-33. My old squadron.
What the hell?
I stepped closer, scanning the photos. An S-3 Viking with the squadron’s emblem—the screw with the woodpecker. The same squadron that took me in, the same one that kicked my sorry ass out. And then I heard footsteps behind me.
Master Chief Christie.
My future father-in-law.
He walked out of the hallway, and I swear I could hear the universe laughing at me. The same man who welcomed me into my squadron, who had been part of the machine that eventually spit me out, was now standing in front of me, smiling. Of course, he didn’t remember me. I was just another dumb kid in a long line of dumb kids he had to babysit.
Years passed. I married his daughter. He became my father-in-law. And despite it all, I liked the man. He was a good one—one of the rare breed.
Cancer came for him, courtesy of a lifetime of chain-smoking and whatever god-awful chemicals the Navy had pumped into his lungs. They took half of one out, gave him a disability check, and sent him on his way. But he wasn’t done.
We bonded over cars. He had an old classic in the garage, the kind every man swears he’ll restore someday. I had my BMW, a white pickup truck, and a desperate need for guidance I didn’t know how to ask for. We’d work on them together, and every time I picked up a wrench, I’d notice the initials VS-33 scratched onto his tools. We might not have served together, but we had grease, busted knuckles, and bullshit stories. That was enough.
But a good man can only bend so much before he breaks.
His wife decided that instead of seeing the world, instead of traveling and enjoying what life he had left, they’d raise dogs. And not just have dogs—become dogs. He became the kennel boy, the fence builder, the handyman for a pet grooming empire that didn’t exist.
He’d wanted to restore that car. She took his garage for her dog grooming business.
He wanted to travel. She had him scooping shit instead.
“If you really loved me, you’d sell the car.”
“If you really cared, you’d build another kennel.”
“If you really—”
Thirty years in the Navy. A master chief. A goddamn warhorse of a man, and this is what it came to.
One day, I sat in their living room and listened to her bark orders at him like he was some lazy bum who needed motivation. He sat there, eyes dull, nodding along like a man who had lost the will to fight. I wanted to shake him. I wanted to yell. But what the hell did I know? Maybe love was just a slow, suffocating surrender.
Instead of divorcing her, he got a job. A secret escape.
He took the trolley into San Diego, signed up as a bartender at the convention center Marriott, and found his new place in life—mixing Bloody Marys for hungover tourists. It was the happiest I’d seen him. He showed me around one day, beaming with pride. Introduced me to the other bartenders, pointed out the door with the little window they had installed—his shrine to my old insulation job, still holding up after all these years.
He had adapted. He had adjusted. He had chosen survival over escape.
But survival only lasts so long.
He never saw the country. Never traveled. Never made it to Colorado or any of the places he swore he’d see when he retired. He was always busy, always stuck in something, always working, even after a lifetime of service.
Then came pneumonia. Just another cough. Just a cold. That’s what they thought. By the time they realized what it really was, it was too late. The cancer had come back, dragging him down with it.
He lay there, in that mechanical bed, tubes down his throat, morphine dripping in slow, measured doses.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip goes a good man.
