Retired Gunny Goodall Meets Cracker

Oceanside, California September 15, 1955

     Gunnery Sergeant John A. Goodall walked down the sidewalk on air. He grinned at a skinny guy who kept his eyes down and nearly fell off the curb trying to give him as much leeway as possible. People tended to give a man all the room he needed when he carried 300 plus pounds and his crew cut boulder of a skull, crisscrossed with scars, sat square on his neck. He had separated from the Marines after 20 and thought he’d go lift a few to celebrate his new civilian life.

     He entered the Brigand Tavern in Oceanside, California. Brigand’s fried onion, beer and sawdust odor made his nose flare in delight and he stood still for a long ten seconds. His eyes swiveled back and forth in their sockets and found an empty room, save the bartender and a cocktail waitress. He told the bar tender he wanted a cold one as he went to a table. The cocktail waitress brought it to him and then rushed back behind the bar. As he reached for his cold beer, his upper arms strained against his rolled up shirt sleeves. He ignored the handle and grasped the beer by the mug, his hand dwarfing it, took a long pull, and then set it back down, returning his hand flat on the table top.

     A hard looking greaser guy came in. John’s adrenaline surged a bit as he sized the guy up.  If John had to guess, he’d say the guy ran about 210, give or take, and stood six feet tall. The guy wore his hair greased up in a long duck’s ass, and dark glasses which he did not remove when he entered the darkened tavern, covered his eyes. Over his jacket was a denim vest that had motorcycle club colors on the back, his jeans were filthy and stiff looking and his engineer’s boots were run down at the heels.

Leather crackled as the greaser eased down into a chair at the table next to John, positioned on the other side of a doorway that led into a pool room. John kept him in his peripheral vision, alert for trouble.  A burst of laughter from the back pool room made them both tense and the bar maid’s eyes kept darting to the doorway.

The rowdy pool players burst through the doorway and swarmed into the room. There were five of them and they had motorcycle club colors on their backs too, except theirs didn’t look the same as the greaser’s. They had grown bored with their game and were up for something new to arouse their interest. The biggest one of the bunch ran close to six feet, 200 pounds and John decided he needed close watching.  

     The big guy slammed his hand on the bar and said, “God damn it, the beer bitch ain’t been back there. What’s a guy got to do to get another fucking beer in this dump?”

A little guy trailed the big one, attached to him like a rash. The other three were milling around, surveying the room. John decided those three didn’t amount to enough to worry about, so he tucked them back in his mind where they could be brought out and beat down if necessary. The smallest one looked like a little underhanded weasel and weasels liked to sucker punch or jump on your back when you were busy, so John kept him in mind more than the other two.

The greaser stiffened and sat up straight. John, already tensed for action, edged up even more, but he still kept his mouth shut and minded his own business. 

The weasel darted his eyes around the room to see what it offered in the way of amusement. His eyes passed over John and wavered, but kept going. He passed over the greaser and did a double take, then locked eyes with him. He grinned ear to ear and elbowed the big one. “Clyde, look.”

Clyde, occupied with trying to get the beers he had demanded, ignored the weasel.

The weasel gripped Clyde on the arm this time and shook. “Clyde.”

     Clyde shrugged the weasel’s grip off his arm, but this time the weasel wouldn’t give up. “Clyde,” he hissed and elbowed him a sharp one.

Clyde whirled around. “God damn you Whitey what the fuck you keep elbowing me for? I’m gonna kick your little ass.”

Whitey pointed to the greaser guy. “Uh, look Clyde, look.”

Clyde eased himself around and looked over where the greaser sat, and then he grinned. “I’ll be God damned if this ain’t our lucky day. Look what we got ourselves here.”

He paused and looked around the tavern, then talking to the room as if it were his audience, said, “A low life piece of shit Deacon - sittin down big as he pleases, breathin the same air as us.”

He grinned wider so all of his teeth showed, ear to ear now, and then looked into the greaser’s eyes. “You piece of shit Deacon. I’m feeling real nice today. And what that means is, I’m gonna let you leave here without bustin you all to pieces. All you gotta do is give me your colors so I can take em outside and piss on em - easy as pie, hand em over.”

“Fuck you, Clyde,” said the greaser quiet-like. “You ain’t gettin shit.”

Clyde scowled. “What’d you say? I could barely hear you, you douche bag.”

“I said fuck you Clyde. You got shit in yer ears?”

Clyde’s grin went away. “You a pretty big talkin piece of shit Deacon for bein all by your lonesome.”

“Like I said before, Clyde, fuck you – you ain’t gettin shit.”

Clyde moved away from the bar and started toward the table where the greaser sat. “We’re all gonna fuck you up now Deacon Boy.”

The greaser shoved back his table, knocking over chairs and John saw him suck in his breath. He stood with his legs outspread for balance and let loose an earsplitting holler of, “Semper Fi you motherfuckers. Come and get it. I love to crack heads.”

At the Semper Fi cry, John’s Marine nature kicked in and he jumped up to help a fellow warrior kick ass. “OOH-RAH,” bellowed John as he kicked over his own table and shoved it aside. The advancing bikers were too single-minded with their plan to strip the greaser of his colors, so they didn’t pay enough attention to his newfound Marine buddy.

Clyde started toward the greaser and the others spread like a pack of wolves to surround him as they came across the room from the bar. Whitey broke to the greaser’s left flank to get around behind his back and Clyde went head-on to meet him.

None of them were paying enough attention to John, figuring nobody would be stupid enough to get involved, so he stepped up to way-lay the three who had cut to their left, trying to outflank the greaser’s right side.

With his left arm stretched out rigid and muscles popping, Gunny Goodall stepped left and clothes-lined all three at their necks. One fell back on his butt, choking, but the other two grabbed hold of his arm as if to move it out of their way, to find they couldn’t budge the stiff arm of the large retired Gunny John Goodall.

John put his boots to the guy on the floor without even looking down and using his outstretched arm, swung the two bikers around and down to their knees over his overturned table, which forced their foreheads into the wall. They slumped over the table, knees on the floor and none of them moved.  

He looked over at the one he’d booted and thought he might still be moving. For good measure, he picked him up by his jacket front and punched him in the side of the head. This all took less than one minute and when he turned to help out the greaser, Clyde and Whitey were on their backs.

John looked over at the greaser. “That was almost as fun as bustin the heads of a crew of swabbies in a Hong Kong whore house. Too bad it didn’t last longer; I only just got warmed up.”

The greaser grinned and put his hand out to John. “Jim Cornwall, call me Cracker. I owe ya one, buddy.” His knuckles were cut and bleeding where he had knocked Clyde and Whitey in the mouth. He shook his fist back and forth. “It would’ve taken me a bit longer to bust all five o their heads alone – not sure my knuckles would’ve held up, though.”

“Retired Gunny John A. Goodall here and feelin fine.”

Before Cracker could say anything, the cocktail waitress ran over and said, “Jesus Christ, Rick called the cops. He said to tell you to get out of here before they get here.”

Cracker looked at John and then smiled at the waitress. “Don’t have to tell me twice sweet cheeks, we’re out o here. Hey Gunny, let’s go have a drink of somethin better’n the beer I never got here. We’ll go on out to my home away from home.”

“Hell yeah, I’m up for that,” said John.

Cracker walked out of the tavern and John followed him to where his bike had been backed in next to the curb.

Peace to you all whatever you may choose.

Nancy Frye-Swope

The Retired Biker Housewife

Nancy Frye-Swope 2010 © All Rights Reserved