"So what's your name again, kid? Demiel? Demetrius," I asked.
"Joe, its Donte," he told me, asking me to call him "Tay."
The guy that moved in across from the street from me was Navy, too and a black kid, early to mid 20s with the nicest Chevy pickup I'd seen as of late.
"It's a 2011 Silverado Custom, but me and my boy gutted out the insides putting in the red leather interior, dropped a new engine, guts, everything," he said.
"Sounded like new money, too," I said jokingly to him.
"Deployment money," he laughed. "And part of my job in the Navy is painting jets, and we have another homie that has a paint shop, so I paid him a grip to use it, and well, here we are."
Tay bragged about his ride he customized prior to moving into the house across from me, as he was an implant to Lemoore from the east coast that bought the three bedroom bungalow as it was on the market for over a year, ironically.
"Yeah, this is my first property. I had to buy Joe, I was tired of renting, losing money. I wanted to invest, and well, where I'm from, it's definitely a step up," he told me, as he mentioned how he grew up in the projects, or barked about living in the barracks or in the berthing on a ship during his time in the more junior paygrades. "That's no way for a first class to be living, I work too hard, Joe."
Tay was a smart guy, single, and handsome as handsome could be in that five foot nine or so, 150 to 160 lb. frame. He was a proud native of Newark, New Jersey, though he mentioned he'd never return, even plotting to get his mother and sisters from out of that city through his diligent efforts.
"I make Chief, and its a wrap Joe. I'm going for broke man, I'll be a master chief in 16 years, or I'll be a commander in less than 20. I want the money train," he said.
I liked his attitude, as he spewed all this confidence one day while I was working in the yard, and he parked in front of my place since his side was full of cars from neighbors. I was giving him shit, and we ended up chatting to where I learned of him, and I would invite him over for some barbecue two weeks later.
"I'm on duty, but you're not gonna say anything, right," he asked.
We were sitting on the back deck, kicking back with a few beers after busting down some of my trademark ribs and chicken, when he made this admission.
"Your ass is on duty, yet you've been drinking," I asked.
Mr. Ambition, who attained the rank of petty officer first class in less than six years, put me in a position to there it was no longer Joe, but now master chief, for I wasn't one to condone anyone drinking on duty, ever.
"I mean, I don't have to report for any watch, or go to the hangar. I should be fine," he said.
I wanted to check him, and admonish him by contacting his current chain of command after a good tongue lashing, but I, too, had a few at this point, and knew that worst case scenario involved me covering for him, somehow.
"You better be lucky I'm retired," I told him, as we drank another beer, now laying back in the lounge chairs as I had rhythm and blues playing.
We mellowed out as the night was perfect with a cool 80 degrees, and an orange sky as the sunset was kicking in. We stopped talking Navy, moving over to life as he asked about me.
