Just out of solitary confinement, prisoner 017 was a man at peace—or at least, that’s what he told himself. Routine and discipline had become his crutch, a way to make the days pass in this hellhole. I focused on my body: my arms were chiseled, my chest was solid, and my meals were boiled eggs with the yolks replaced by peanut butter—protein-packed fuel to keep me going. My body was thriving, even if my mind wasn’t.
Around me were the walking wreckage of the Navy’s discarded promises—junkies, troublemakers, and men who had already surrendered to the futility of their situations. Ghosts of what they once were, or maybe never had the chance to be. I told myself I was different, tried to cling to that belief, but it was getting harder. The thought of proving my family wrong—my smug father with his judgmental stare, his ice-cold second wife, and my absent mother—had been the one thing keeping me going. But even that fire was starting to flicker, snuffed out by the weight of this place and the stench of defeat that hung in the air.
Then, one day, while I was mid-workout, a guard called out, “Prisoner 017, step forward!” I stood tall, arms pumped from another grueling workout, and followed his instructions. “Head to the visiting center. Follow the blue line,” he said.
A visitor? Nobody even knew I was here. My parents didn’t know, my grandparents didn’t know, and I sure as hell hadn’t told any friends, hell I didn’t even have any. As I walked, I tried to figure out who it could possibly be. My stomach twisted at the thought of my dad showing up, ready with his smug “I told you so” look. Or worse, my mom, the walking disaster whose DNA seemed to be the blueprint for my current predicament.
The visiting center was a maze of folding tables and mismatched chairs, filled with prisoners and their families. I scanned the room, looking for a familiar face, but there was no one. Just as I was about to turn and leave, I spotted a short woman standing and waving with a grin. It took me a moment, but then I recognized her—the 44 Double D Marine I’d met at the E-club a few months back.
My jaw almost hit the floor. I hadn’t given her any personal details, hadn’t told her where I was or what had happened. I’d chalked our night together up to a one-night stand and figured I’d never see her again. Yet here she was, waving me over like we were old friends. I sat down, still stunned.
“I heard you could use a visitor,” she said, her voice cheerful, almost innocent. She explained that she’d gone to my old barracks to find me, only to hear about my current “situation.” She thought I might need some company. I didn’t know how to react. I wasn’t used to people doing nice things for me, let alone showing up like this.
She asked me what I wanted to do once I got out. “Live on the beach,” I said, not really believing it was possible. She asked about my favorite drink, my favorite smokes. “White Russians,” I said, and, “Djarum cloves.” She smiled, filing away the details like they mattered.
We ended the visit with a brief hug. Her warmth was disarming, but my mind was elsewhere, tangled in the mess of my impending clemency hearing and the uncertainty of what came next. I thanked her for coming, not really knowing what else to say.
Weeks passed. My clemency hearing came and went, and I was finally told to pack up my civilian clothes and sea bag. The guard called out, “Prisoner 017, step forward. Follow the yellow line.” With each step, the weight of the last 90 days seemed to lift. When I reached the end of that line, the massive steel doors of Camp Snoopy creaked open, and I stepped out into the world as a free man.
And there she was, waiting for me. The Marine with the 44 Double D’s, standing by her car with a grin that could melt glaciers. I was numb, unable to process what was happening. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m here to take you home,” she replied.
Home? I didn’t have a home. I didn’t even have a plan. But before I could protest, she popped the trunk, tossed my sea bag in, and motioned for me to get in the car.
She drove us to Imperial Beach, where she’d rented a one-bedroom shack right on the water. When we stepped inside, I was floored. There was a jumbo bottle of Kahlúa, an equally massive bottle of vodka, a special ice machine for making my favorite drink, and a carton of Djarum cloves sitting on the counter. She’d even bought me new clothes. Everything we’d talked about in the visiting center, she’d gone out and gotten for me.
I didn’t know how to react. Gratitude felt out of reach. Suspicion crept in, but I was too exhausted to entertain it. She was thrilled to have me there, almost giddy, and I was too broken to do anything but go along with it.
Our arrangement was simple: she worked during the day as a dental hygienist, leaving me $5 each morning. I’d walk the beach with a clove cigarette in hand, hit the liquor store, and flip through the Help Wanted section of the paper. When she came home, she’d light up just seeing me there. It was physical, transactional, and oddly comforting.
I knew I was being kept, like some kind of stray she’d decided to rescue. She was getting more out of it than I was, but I didn’t care. For the first time in months, I wasn’t in survival mode. I wasn’t fighting anyone, running from anything, or trying to prove myself. I was just… existing.
But it couldn’t last. It wasn’t real. I was still a 19-year-old with no skills, no plan, and no future. She was still a woman clinging to a fantasy that I couldn’t deliver. We both knew it, even if we didn’t say it out loud.
I’ll admit, those days on Imperial Beach were the calm after a long, violent storm. For a brief moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning, like I’d found a pocket of peace in the chaos. But deep down, I knew it was temporary. Life doesn’t hand you lemonade without demanding something in return. And when it was time to pay up, I’d be back where I started—lost, broken, and searching for the next step.
