I gulped, swallowing hard, wondering if my uniform was starched enough, my boots shined enough, my hair short enough. Slowly, unsure, I walked into his office, reporting to my superior officer in traditional military fashion. ‘Riley’; LTC Williamson said with a smile: ‘This is Major Tedesco, he’s our new executive officer.’ ‘Sir’: I responded with a polite nod. Major Tedesco reminded me a little of Groucho Marx with his mustache and cigar, he nodded back. ‘Riley’; the Colonel continued: ‘We just fought like hell to keep you...’ He looked at Tedesco: ‘And I think we will win!’ Then, he told me how he watched me at Key West, how he was impressed with me as a soldier. If his office had been any bigger, I would have turned around to look for someone else. He told me that I was being assigned as the Battalion Public Affairs (Public Relations) N.C.O., and that I would also be the Battalion Human Relations / Equal Opportunity N.C.O.
Because of the second assignment, I would report directly to him. He wanted me to keep tabs on unit morale too, he explained. He talked about getting our troops acquainted with El Paso through some kind of tours. He wanted me to generate stories about our unit and our soldiers for the local press, the post paper, and the 11th A.D.A. Group paper as well. ‘Even if that means you have to spend the whole day in the snack bar to make the guys feel comfortable about talking with you’; he admonished. I could do these things! This was work that I would like! I lucked-out again!
It turned out that LTC. Williamson and MAJ. Tedesco were forward thinking and very concerned with their soldiers. They were professional officers of the highest caliber at all times and great examples to us all. And because of this our troops benefited.
I was kept busy. We had the tours of El Paso, which I expanded to include a tour of an Indian reservation. We even got the local NBC television affiliate to go with us on one of these tours! I had to stay in touch with all the commanders to verify that our Battalion punishments (Article 15’s) didn’t even appear to be directed unfairly against any one group, minority, or sex.
There were steak nights, holiday meals, ethnic festivities, and more as I got to coordinate with the Battalion Dining Facility. There were monthly awards ceremonies in which we even included the local Marines who were being trained by the Army. Even the 11th A.D.A. Group used me and my friend and photographer, SP/4 Morgan.
A good friend, SP/4 Mosely, the Battalion medic, would often volunteer to be my driver. On the way back from the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico, we’d detour up into the mountains around El Paso. We went up roads that seemed too narrow, even for our old Army jeep! The trails were glazed by ice and dusted by snow! We were terrified, we were having fun...we were too young to fear anything!
Another good friend of mine in El Paso was Sgt. Brenner. He helped me to understand a lot about Judaism and even took me to temple with him. Monique was Jewish, and although she knew a lot about Catholicism (even having Advent calendars in her house for the girls every year), I wanted to learn what I could about her heritage.
Next to El Paso was Ciudad Juarez on the Mexican side of the border. I went there by myself, with Mitch, and Hank, and even ran in an international 10k run through both cities/countries. We sometimes had problems with G.I.s being arrested there, but I usually had some good times there. Once, the police surrounded us...when I was with Sgt. Brenner. But, that was only because he had a pocket knife on his belt, and, I guess in Mexico, you can have a concealed weapon, but not an exposed one! They told him to put it away, he did, and the problem was over. No-one went to jail, no-one paid a bribe, no problem.
My favorite place to eat in Juarez was a place called the Seven Keys. It was the cleanest restaurant I had seen in Mexico. They were constantly cleaning. The service was good, the prices were cheap, and the food was tasty, delicious, and spicy!!!
Now, even though I had gone to school at Pasadena City College, the University of Maryland (in Germany), Florida Keys Community College and Saint Leo's College in Florida, it wasn't until I took a test for one required course in Texas, that I got my Associate of Arts degree. With little time left in the service, I applied to the University of Southern California (USC). LTC. Williamson wrote a letter of recommendation for me. I read it, and my jaw dropped! My commander, it turned out, had been a professor at Harvard. Harvard for God sake! When I was accepted at U.S.C., I think he was happier than I was.
During my last months, a Lt. Smith came to the unit. He was in the medical services corps. Not a doctor or a medic, he was more of an administrator. He worked with me and Hank and Morgan. He was a great guy, and because he made the most, drinks and dinner were often on him!
Then, one day...tragedy struck! Two of our M.P.s guarding a lot full of sand in a deserted, empty, distant part of Fort Bliss were bored. They started playing quick draw with their semi-automatic pistols. 'POW!' A round went off, and one M.P. was killed. The other M.P., about 19-20 years old was nearly destroyed! LTC. Williamson showed a great deal of compassion, especially when a lesser man wouldn't have wanted to deal with the controversy. This M.P. also came to work in the commander's office.
The colonel actually drove me around in his car as I signed-out at this station and that. Filling out a form here, dropping off some gear there...processing out. But, Major Tedesco had one surprise left for me. While I was out-processing, I got one last assignment...they made me go to the field! They dragged me out to the desert sand! But, when I got there, they billeted me in an officer's tent with everything short of room service! We all had a good laugh, and that was it...early in the next morning, they drove me back to the base where I finished signing out of the Army.
The mess hall steward, or N.C.O.I.C. was also getting out. He was retiring from the service. We talked about my plans to go up to Toronto to stay with Monique for a while..."I'm driving up to Michigan, if you want to go with me"; he offered. I accepted, thinking that a cross country drive would be a great experience!
April 1st, at or about 12:01AM, I signed out of the unit for the last time. The former mess hall N.C.O.I.C. and I drove off the base and on to the open rode, heading straight north towards his home in Detroit and my rendezvous with Monique in Canada. We had a citizens band (CB) radio in the car and we talked with truckers to make sure we avoided the dangerous Smokey Bears (highway patrol) of several states...on the prowl for speedsters like us! The tough Sergeant’s ‘handle (radio name)?’ ‘Sugar bear!’ Were we tough, or what?
We stopped off in small towns along the way, sampling the local fare at small, unadvertised eateries. Once, we had to stop to get a new tire...and, although my friend was black, and I'm white, we ran into no noticeable racism or prejudice against us. Everyone we met seemed nice and fair and most of all, 'American.'
Finally, after several days on the road, we pulled-up past or through Cincinnati and into 'motor city,' 'Motown,' Detroit, Michigan! We drove past the downtown area and into a little bit of a run down, poor area...an inner-city ghetto. For three days, the only other white people I saw were on the television set. Although my friend's family really made me feel at home...for the first time in my life, I was the minority here. We even joked about it!
I was genuinely sorry to leave my pal and his family when they drove me across the border, into Canada. We all promised to stay in touch, just like military personnel around the globe, sadly...we haven't, just like military personnel around the globe.
I rode across the province (Ontario) in a bus, knowing that I was getting close when we drove past the Eaton Center. Seeing Monique again was such a great experience...after all of those long months of just talking by phone!
She took me to all my favorite haunts, Ginsberg and Wongs, Mr. Greenjeans, and to a few new places too! We went to see a movie and a play. And, it wasn't until the Second City cast made repeated references to how Canadians say 'Aye' at the end of all their sentences that I realized I was starting to say Aye at the end of all my sentences. Could it be? Was I, was I really...becoming Canadian?
The cast poked fun at a regional television cook. Monique had to explain to me who she was, like a lot of other things. But, then I got it and they were great.
Then we met Peter and his wife again. We had some great conversations. But, what I loved mostly were the times Monique and I were alone and just talked. Monique was and is, one of the most intelligent women I have ever met! World history, current events, politics, you name it, she was my equal, my teacher, my counselor.
She tried to interest me in finishing school in Canada. Possibly York University. I tried to interest her in moving to California. We were both too patriotic, too stubborn, too...whatever. Then there were our religious differences. I couldn't change, after-all, I'd have to give-up Christ, my Savior. I tried to explain, I tried to reason, all she'd have to do is accept Him.
By the time I left, again flying through Chicago where I'd meet my dad__I guess we both knew. Okay, I knew, and I shed some tears on the plane. We just weren't going to be able to change.
This time, I stayed with my parents for a little while. But, there wasn't much to do and I was anxious to get back to California, to start my life and my classes at U.S.C. I stopped by LuAnn's house. We were friendly, but everything else was over already. She wished me well and if nothing else, we made-up as friends...at least.
I flew off, this time without much fanfare. My mother cried as usual at these events. Before I knew it, I landed at L.A.X. (Los Angeles International Airport) and went to Pasadena where I spent my first night 'home.'
I called Mike, another former soldier from the 1/65th ADA (IHAWK) BN in Texas. He had asked me to call when I got back...and when I did, I found out that he had a job lined-up for me in a place called Long Beach, California. It wasn't much, but it was something. I would be a cashier at a ARCO A.M./P.M. Mini Market. Mike told me that his boss was a guy named Van, and that I could have the 11:00P.M. to 7:00A.M. shift, if I wanted it. I said: "Sure!" The next night, I was working.
I met several officers, two, Ron and Ed worked for the Long Beach Police Department. The store was a franchise owned by Van, who was a former reserve cop or some such thing...anyway, he'd give them coffee, popcorn, stuff like that. 'A pop and stop'; he explained to me in police jargon, was what they called it. It was good for them, good for a store like this that was open all night, and good for me to have the police stopping by during the night to see that everything was okay.
Van was right, and I certainly appreciated the company on this 'graveyard shift.' Ron and Ed were funny and entertaining as they'd relate stories about things that happened to them on patrol. They'd talk about serious and interesting cases, they'd talk about traffic stops where women would hike up their skirts and flirt, until they realized they were getting a ticket anyway...Another policeman, this one from the University across the street (C.S.U. Long Beach) would also stop by and share some stories over a hot cup of coffee.
Another 'regular,' but this time an actual paying customer (of all things) was also named Ed. He was a security guard at a local apartment complex and we became close pals. After I moved out of a local hotel to a small apartment, we'd go out and party at the local discos or just share some good wine...we even went to see the musical: 'EVITA' performed in Century City.
Van and his wife, Diane were very nice people to work for. But, in truth...this job was going nowhere fast! It was time to look for something else.
So, in the fall of 1980, I applied for a job with the U.S. Postal Service as a letter carrier (I was having problems coming-up with the funds to pay my tuition at U.S.C.). In about a week, I took the exam, in about two weeks I took the physical...and I had a new job, in West Los Angeles!
I gave Van my notice, but agreed to finish out the week...and so it was, about two days (or should I be saying nights?) before I was to leave that a stocky, muscular man came by for gas.
Now, late at night, if we didn't know you, the policy was that you had to come in to pay before I could turn the gas pump on. Anyway, he was playing with the pump, banging the nozzle against his car or something. It was enough to get my attention. So, very politely, I got on the microphone that we had in the store and told the man: "Ah, I'm sorry sir, you'll have to pay before you can get any gas." I went back to reading some magazine or another that we sold, but the man kept fiddling with the pump, still trying to get some gas...
"Ah sir"; I said: "You'll have to pay before you can get any gas." This time I watched, and the man looked around as if he had just heard the voice of God Almighty! I went back to my magazine, barely noticing when the man came inside. He was drunk, he was angry, and he said: "Like hell, I have to pay first!" I responded: "Well, then like hell you have to get any gas!" He came closer and threatened: "Maybe I ought to just kick your butt!" "Sir"; I said, exasperated: "I'll just have to call the cops." This was usually sufficient to send the drunks out the front door, but this man was different. He approached and yelled: "Good, call them!" "I'll kick their butts too!"
I dialed the number, sure he would leave...but he approached the open end of the counter. The dispatcher (who also got free popcorn) answered, the man lunged at me, I pulled out a night stick and shouted in to the phone: "Yeah, this is Jim, and I'm being attacked!" I dropped the phone, it hung-up! The man flew at me, I took the black stick and jumped up in the air coming down on this creep with all my force! "Swoosh, CRACK!!!" I was afraid, did I kill him, knock him out? He just looked up at me and his face grew angrier!!! Fear grabbed my heart as I quickly reasoned, if that didn't phase him, what would he do to me?
We rolled around the store, knocking down shelves and displays! Every now and then I could get a good blow in, pow...his head! POW! POW! POW! Blow after powerful blow, and it didn't seem to matter. He struggled and wrestled and tried to get the night stick out of my hands!
Then, locked in battle, wrestling for what I thought was my very life...I saw two other pairs of legs. "Oh God"; I thought: "His friends, they must have been in the car!" My life flashed before my eyes. I thought about my parents, my friends, I started to pray...suddenly the brute was pulled off, knocking over a candy display! The jean clad legs I saw were students from the campus of the California State University at Long Beach! The prayers I said were answered, my life was spared!
By now the police started to arrive! It was the middle of the night, so half the squad cars from the Long Beach Police Department came, their sirens screaming, their light bars flashing bolts of blue and red light, into the tiny lot on the corner of Bellflower and Atherton! This drunk ran to his car and tried to escape! The police gave chase, so many it was like a film! The University campus police joined in pursuit! Soon, the culprit was captured. Van and Diane were called by somebody and they came to relieve me...sending me home to recuperate.
The next day, I was back at work...officers Ed and Ron came by and asked how I felt. 'Okay'; I answered. They laughed and questioned: "Jim are you sure it happened the way you said?" They looked at each-other with big grins and added: "Because that guy woke up screaming this morning, they had to take him to the hospital with all those knots in his head!" By now they were cracking-up, they were laughing so much: "...And you don't have a scratch on you!" The laughter was contagious, with macho bravado, I may have even started to embellish the story with my police friends...but the night before, I have to admit it: 'I was scared!'
Soon enough, I reported to my new job in West Los Angeles with the United States Postal Service.
A lot of my new co-workers at the post office told me it took them years to get this job...yet here I was in a short time, in a relatively secure job with good benefits. A great chance to earn some good money and still go to school, I thought.
The job, especially when I was new, took a lot more time than I thought. There was a lot of over-time to work, and not much of a chance to go to school. My boss was a man named Gene Barnes, he seemed very friendly...but because he had been a carrier who went into management, there was a lot of resentment from my co-workers towards him. It was as if his ambition was a betrayal of sorts.
There was my trainer, an old, experienced carrier...a very nice old man who had a long and hard route, but insisted on taking care of his customers in the very best way possible, with the best attitude. "Now don't you go too fast"; he told me when he saw me running: "You'll make the rest of us look bad." He said that with humor, but what he really meant was that by running, you'd be prone to make more mistakes in your deliveries.
Soon, as a part-time (that had to be some kind of joke, we part-timers were working 12 - 14 hours, six days a week!) 'flexible' carrier, I was soon casing and delivering mail on my own! A lot of the routes in West Los Angeles are in nice residential areas where doctors and lawyers and successful business people live. Some film and television stars live there as well...I hated the monotonous casing of the mail (getting it in order for delivery), but the street work was nice!
On hot days, old ladies would greet you with a soda or home-made lemonade! They'd want to talk of course, and you couldn't spend too much time (or you'd fall behind schedule), but after a long day...you could feel some satisfaction in not only your job but the good feelings shared.
Then, one night, exhausted after casing and carrying and delivering a route and a half of mail...I was waiting for the first of two buses that would take me, first into the heart of down town Los Angeles and then on to Long Beach, where I lived in a small studio apartment. She was waiting at the same stop, sheltered in the doorway of a small shop on the corner of Sawtelle and Santa Monica Blvd. An Asian girl__petite, demur, and wide-eyed. We shared the corner silently for a good ten (10) minutes. Then, in an opening that I felt compelled to take, I asked: 'Do you know how long it will before the next bus comes?' From there, we started talking, we continued on the bus, and by the time we approached downtown...I knew her name to be 'Maria.'
Maria was a Filipina, and I briefly thought about the sailors in Key West, I thought about my experiences...but: 'I was born in Hawaii'; she assured me. I thought something was wrong, she had an accent...'but, I was raised in the Philippines'; she said convincingly. I ignored my feelings...we rode on the same bus and I asked her out, we made a 'date.'
The more that I talked with her, the less credible the 'born in Hawaii' story seemed to fit. I ignored that though...and as I approached her apartment, for our first date...I could hear music blaring from the one apartment with an open door. It had to be hers, I told myself walking in this neighborhood in the shadows of downtown skyscrapers. I stepped up to her door and she greeted me. Her place was very clean, more-so than you might expect in such a run-down community.
We called for a taxi_we talked_the taxi cab just didn't seem to be coming_we made love! I called again (by now we were really hungry), and the taxi came. I took Maria to dinner at Little Joe's, an Italian place in the heart of L.A.'s Chinatown district. A hostess came and took our names, she said that it would take a few minutes. I thought I'd make a little joke, so I asked my new lover: 'By the way, you know I have V.D.?' "What's that"; she asked. So, I explained that it meant a sexually transmitted disease___Maria didn't appreciate the 'joke.' She flew into an angry rage! It was our first fight, and we hadn't even had dinner yet!
Our relationship now seems like one fight after another, with 'breaks' to catch our breath. So, naturally, we moved in together. None of my friends could visit. If they did, Maria would make sure they were uncomfortable or there would be some kind of tension in the air. Eventually my friends stopped coming to visit. And Maria, though she had acquaintences...well, Maria had no friends.
I would cook most of our meals, Maria would wash the dishes...but one night, I started to come back into the kitchen when she started the dishes...she threw the rag in the sink angrily murmuring: 'In the Philippines we have maids to do this!' She didn't know I was there.
We watched television together, and during an episode of 'Saturday Night Live' when they mocked the President of the United States (Ronald Reagan), her eyes grew wider than normal and she asked in amazement: 'They can do that here?' 'In the Philippines they disappear tomorrow'; she proclaimed: 'I had a friend, she disappeared one night!' Rather than concern for her friend, there was almost a pride in the power of her dictator Marcos...who her family worked for.
More and more we would fight, always ending with what would become her mantra: "Don't you pity me, don't you pity me?" Once, I forget what started it, but she even chased me with a butcher knife! I ran into the bathroom, slammed the door shut...and she repeatedly stabbed the door! I think she would have killed me!
Finally, it had to happen of course...she got pregnant! The nagging changed to her demands to get married...
By now I knew she lied about being born in Hawaii. One night I brought home a voter's registration form for her to fill out___she saw the perjury clause, paused, and then confessed...she wasn't an American citizen. Ignoring my feelings again, I got the forms for our marriage license and set an appointment at our local church.
The fights didn't stop, but they did seem to slow down a little. I contacted an old friend, Mike, and asked him to be my best man. He agreed.
I finally scraped together enough money to convince a Datsun dealer to help me get a loan for a car. It was as much a gift for Maria as for myself...I surprised her, picking her up from work in our brand new 1982 Datsun 310GX (hatch-back)!
We sat across the desk from a well-intentioned, old priest who spoke in a melodic, Irish brogue. Maria was pregnant, and we were living together in sin...none of which seemed to make him very happy. He looked at me, he looked at her, and then turning back to me he seemed to sense something and blurted out: "Now son, you don't have to be doing this!" I was shocked and I was embarrassed for Maria...but mostly, I was Irish! I argued! With Christ's representative. It was as if God Himself was telling me to get up and run! I knew he was right, but I had to argue!
It was the Christmas season and the priest, reluctantly wed the two of us in a sad ceremony in Saint Columbo's Catholic Church. Everything seemed to go wrong, the guy doing our video work didn't get anything but the first two seconds on tape! But, I slipped the gold band on her finger, I said: 'and with this ring I thee wed'; and I made Maria, 'Mrs. Riley.'
Our reception was musicless, lifeless, and reserved...a hasty dinner at the Hyatt Regency with a few friends and a small cake. There was no honeymoon, no celebration...nothing would change.
In preparation for our child, we bought toys and a bed, clothes and things. We asked to tour one hospital's facilities, the nurse in the maternity ward threw her pen down and exclaimed: "I don't have time for this!" Maria and I got out of there...we went to Saint John's hospital...it was cleaner, more modern, and the staff was really eager and proud to show us around. "This is it, this is where we should have our baby"; I told Maria__she smiled and squeezed my hand. She agreed. Neither of us thinking about the drive from downtown L.A. to Santa Monica.
We went through Lamaze (natural childbirth) classes together so I could be there when the baby was born. The fighting seemed to stop, Maria would even ask me what I wanted, a boy or a girl. Knowing we had no control over it, I would joke and say: "a boy, with blonde hair and blue eyes!" We'd laugh!
I took off from work for two weeks before the baby was due until one week after, this way I was sure not to miss our baby's birth! And, I could help Maria too. Our child though...showing her 'Irish' was stubborn and refused to let us plan that well!
I was already working back at the post office, wondering if our child would ever come out...one morning, the normally hysterical Maria calmly wakes me with a nudge. She almost whispers: "It's time." So, I get up and start getting ready for work. I start putting on my uniform...and she asks: 'What are you doing?' I answered: "It's time, so I'm getting ready." I keep getting dressed and clip my I.D. badge to my collar, looking like the most stupid man in the world! 'No'; she responds calmly: "I mean, it's time." By the time she finishes saying that, I already grab the phone and make the call to her doctor...who answers, and from my report, also thinks it must be a false alarm. We drove out to the hospital, and I told the admissions people, this has to be a false alarm too.
"She's already dilated and the baby's almost crowned"; a nurse gushes after the first examination. I bend over, proud of how she's taking it, and I ask how she's feeling. Maria smiles and slowly reaches up...her little hands grab my hair and beard and nearly rip them out by their roots! I approached with caution after that.
The doctor came in, checked some things (as doctors are prone to do), he shook his head and frowned, then he told us that he might have to do a cesarean section to deliver the baby, because it wasn't coming all the way down, or 'crowning' like it should. He also said that because we optioned to have a natural child birth, it was too late to give Maria drugs for the pain!
'...And then what happened Jim?'
I WANT TO KNOW MORE...(next page)
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Created: August 26, 2000r.
Last Updated: April 1, 2001r.