Jackson.
His first patrol, which began in the middle of August, was a disaster. Submerged for sixty-eight straight days, he was subjected
to the endless criticism of a neurotic engineer, packed into a steel fortress without an inch of privacy or a ray of sunshine,
forced to breathe fetid air, unable to sleep, worried everymoment about fire or leakage or worse, and scared to the point of constant nausea about living cheek-to-jowl with a formidable
nuclear arsenal. He returned to Bangor at the end of October with a gastric disorder and a sickly pallor, twelve pounds lighter
and ten years older.
“I think I know what hell is,” he told his roommate, who already had two patrols under his belt.
The roommate laughed. “There’s only one cure,” he replied. “Go out and get laid.”
There were a few girls who had wandered through Corey’s life during the last several years; fine young women from good families
with whom he spent pleasant evenings that never progressed past the preliminary fondling stage. The church in which Corey
had been raised considered intercourse inappropriate outside of marriage. His parents had both been virgins on their wedding
night, at the age of twenty-two, as had their two daughters when they married, one at nineteen, the other at twenty. And their
son was without experience at the age of twenty-four.
His roommate, Zach Miller, took him to Seattle, on a series of bar-hopping excursions through Belltown, a section of the city
frequented by yuppie singles. He met three girls in rapid succession, each of them pretty, each of them available, each of
whom invited him to come in when he escorted her home. In all three cases, he bought them dinner, took them to the movies
or to a concert or to a sporting event, and said good night at the door. A girl who thought so little of herself that she
was willing to go to bed with him on the first date was not what he was looking for.
“What’s the matter?” his roommate asked.
“Nothing, I hope,” he replied.
Zach was usually in bed with at least half a dozen different girls during the months between his patrols. But as far as Corey
was concerned, what his roommate was doing was like drinkingout of a paper cup that was discarded soon after it was used. There was no way he could explain that he was looking for just
one cup—clean, reusable, and made of the finest porcelain.
“I intend to test the product before I buy,” Zach told him. “After all, a lifetime is an awfully long trip to take with someone
incompatible in bed.”
But for Corey, sex without love was much like a church without God. He knew how long a lifetime was, and he was in no hurry.
Three weeks later, he met Elise Ethridge, and his world turned upside down.
“Hi,” she said, sliding up beside him at the bar of a fashionable Belltown watering hole, all tall, and slender, and golden.
“What’s a nice guy like you doing in a dump like this?”
“Gosh,” he said before he could stop himself, “I didn’t think anyone ever said that for real.”
She laughed a deep, husky laugh. “Well, I saw your uniform and I just couldn’t resist. My name’s Elise.”
“I’m Corey,” he replied a little breathlessly, because someone had squeezed in on the other side of her and pushed her against
him, and he could feel her warmth down the length of his body.
Elise reached into her handbag for a cigarette and stood waiting for a light. But Corey didn’t smoke, and had no lighter.
He glanced around in a near panic until he spied a pack of matches lying on the bar and grabbed at them. It then took him
three tries to strike one up. She wrapped her hand around his to cup the flame, or perhaps to prevent his hand from shaking
too much for the match and the Marlboro to meet. Green eyes looked at him through a lazy stream of smoke and he tried his
best not to choke. Her perfume was intoxicating. He invited her back to his table.
Long before the end
His first patrol, which began in the middle of August, was a disaster. Submerged for sixty-eight straight days, he was subjected
to the endless criticism of a neurotic engineer, packed into a steel fortress without an inch of privacy or a ray of sunshine,
forced to breathe fetid air, unable to sleep, worried everymoment about fire or leakage or worse, and scared to the point of constant nausea about living cheek-to-jowl with a formidable
nuclear arsenal. He returned to Bangor at the end of October with a gastric disorder and a sickly pallor, twelve pounds lighter
and ten years older.
“I think I know what hell is,” he told his roommate, who already had two patrols under his belt.
The roommate laughed. “There’s only one cure,” he replied. “Go out and get laid.”
There were a few girls who had wandered through Corey’s life during the last several years; fine young women from good families
with whom he spent pleasant evenings that never progressed past the preliminary fondling stage. The church in which Corey
had been raised considered intercourse inappropriate outside of marriage. His parents had both been virgins on their wedding
night, at the age of twenty-two, as had their two daughters when they married, one at nineteen, the other at twenty. And their
son was without experience at the age of twenty-four.
His roommate, Zach Miller, took him to Seattle, on a series of bar-hopping excursions through Belltown, a section of the city
frequented by yuppie singles. He met three girls in rapid succession, each of them pretty, each of them available, each of
whom invited him to come in when he escorted her home. In all three cases, he bought them dinner, took them to the movies
or to a concert or to a sporting event, and said good night at the door. A girl who thought so little of herself that she
was willing to go to bed with him on the first date was not what he was looking for.
“What’s the matter?” his roommate asked.
“Nothing, I hope,” he replied.
Zach was usually in bed with at least half a dozen different girls during the months between his patrols. But as far as Corey
was concerned, what his roommate was doing was like drinkingout of a paper cup that was discarded soon after it was used. There was no way he could explain that he was looking for just
one cup—clean, reusable, and made of the finest porcelain.
“I intend to test the product before I buy,” Zach told him. “After all, a lifetime is an awfully long trip to take with someone
incompatible in bed.”
But for Corey, sex without love was much like a church without God. He knew how long a lifetime was, and he was in no hurry.
Three weeks later, he met Elise Ethridge, and his world turned upside down.
“Hi,” she said, sliding up beside him at the bar of a fashionable Belltown watering hole, all tall, and slender, and golden.
“What’s a nice guy like you doing in a dump like this?”
“Gosh,” he said before he could stop himself, “I didn’t think anyone ever said that for real.”
She laughed a deep, husky laugh. “Well, I saw your uniform and I just couldn’t resist. My name’s Elise.”
“I’m Corey,” he replied a little breathlessly, because someone had squeezed in on the other side of her and pushed her against
him, and he could feel her warmth down the length of his body.
Elise reached into her handbag for a cigarette and stood waiting for a light. But Corey didn’t smoke, and had no lighter.
He glanced around in a near panic until he spied a pack of matches lying on the bar and grabbed at them. It then took him
three tries to strike one up. She wrapped her hand around his to cup the flame, or perhaps to prevent his hand from shaking
too much for the match and the Marlboro to meet. Green eyes looked at him through a lazy stream of smoke and he tried his
best not to choke. Her perfume was intoxicating. He invited her back to his table.
Long before the end
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