Dave had been out at sea, running sea trials on the USS Nimitz, prepping for a Westpac deployment, when my legal troubles with the Navy began. By the time he returned, my life had unraveled even further. Somehow, he tracked me down to Imperial Beach, where he found me caged in a small apartment with an older woman. She was more of a captor than a companion. I was broke, trapped, and without any clear direction. Dave took one look at my pathetic situation and decided it was time for a rescue mission.
He invited me out for some “guy time” in Tijuana, the kind of night that had built our friendship. My “hostage-taker” wasn’t thrilled about this plan, but her protests only sped up the inevitable end of that phase of my life. Dave officially adopted me after that.
I moved in with him, sleeping on the floor of his cramped apartment, which he shared with his girlfriend and their toddler son. I wasn’t exactly a model roommate, and I’m pretty sure his girlfriend saw me as a bad influence—a suspicion Dave seemed to exploit for his own amusement. It wasn’t long before their relationship fell apart, and Dave and I found ourselves living the bachelor life together. It was “bro love” in its purest, most chaotic form.
Of course, I still needed money. I didn’t have a job, any skills, or much in the way of prospects. Dave, ever the “creative” problem-solver, came up with a plan for me to “earn my keep.” His Trans Am had a cracked T-top window on the driver’s side, and he wanted a new one. That, he said, would be my payment for staying at his place.
He had already scouted out the perfect replacement at a used car lot. One night, he drove me there, popped the trunk, and handed me a massive screwdriver—about three feet long, a relic from an old boatswain’s trash bin. It was a beast of a tool, and I instantly fell in love with it.
With Charlie (the screwdriver) in hand, I casually walked up to the lot, swung the tool into the driver’s door of the Trans Am, and triggered the alarm. Sticking my hand through the broken window, I unlocked the door, carefully removed the T-top, and walked back to Dave’s car like I owned the place. I placed the T-top and Charlie in the trunk, shut it, and hopped in. We drove off into the night, laughing like idiots.
That screwdriver—Charlie—became my trusty sidekick.
Eventually, Dave’s girlfriend got me a job at the shipyards. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. Every day, I’d wait for Dave to pick me up at the same corner outside the naval base. It was a good arrangement until one night when some random guy in a white car started harassing me.
The first time he drove by, he slowed down, rolled down his window, and said something sexual. I ignored it, assuming it was a one-off. But then he came back, making another pass with more crude comments before speeding off. This happened four or five times, and each time, my anger built.
Finally, on his last pass, I’d had enough. I stormed toward his car, but he hit the gas and sped away before I could get close. I was fuming. Standing there, stewing in my rage, Dave pulled up.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Open the trunk,” I snapped.
Without question, Dave popped the trunk. I grabbed Charlie and climbed into the passenger seat, barking orders. “Follow that car. Let’s go!”
Dave, never one to back down from a bit of chaos, hit the gas. We sped down the industrial road, closing in on the white car. When we pulled alongside him, I waved Charlie wildly, shouting like a lunatic. The guy’s face was a mix of terror and confusion as he realized we weren’t messing around.
The chase intensified. The guy veered off the road, flying over a set of railroad tracks, his car briefly airborne. Dave and I laughed like maniacs, the adrenaline pumping as we pursued him down a dirt road lined with abandoned trailers.
When the guy slowed down to make a turn, Dave decided to show off. He spun the Trans Am into a burnout, the back end swinging around as we came to a stop. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. As the guy’s car passed us, I rolled out of the passenger door, landing on my feet with Charlie in hand.
With one quick motion, I hurled Charlie at his car. The screwdriver smashed through the back window, shattering it into a million pieces. Glass rained down as the guy floored it, disappearing into the night.
I stood there, doubled over with laughter, the adrenaline and absurdity of the situation overwhelming me. My bladder couldn’t keep up—I pissed myself, rolling around in the dirt, laughing until my sides hurt. Dave was cracking up too, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all.
This wasn’t a one-off for us. These kinds of misadventures became a regular occurrence, each one more chaotic than the last. Charlie, the trusty screwdriver, was at the center of many of them.
For all the insanity, there was a strange camaraderie in those moments—a bond forged in shared chaos and reckless abandon. Dave and I were a bad combination, but damn if it didn’t make for some unforgettable stories.
Life was messy, unpredictable, and often dangerous. But with Dave and Charlie by my side, it was never boring.
