Chunky Bottom Joe, still the "Sailors' advocate" even after he'd retired.
I always love my Sailors. I mean, I gave the Navy 28 years of my life, starting off an E1, and finishing as a master chief (an E9, the senior most rank of an enlisted member of the armed forces), so I had to. Jemma, my wife at the time and a former Sailor herself, met me in the second half of my career when I made chief petty officer (E7 paygrade) at a base in Lemoore, California, and over time she'd separate from service and we forged a plan where she thought I would retire and move us out of Lemoore, back to the east coast where we both were from (she Florida, me New Jersey).
"Babe, they're offering me big money at the command, doing the same shit I did, but with less hassle," I told her in year 27, when I was starting the transition phase of my career.
At first she was against it, but then when she heard how much I'd be making, to go with the regular working hours, she jumped onboard.
"Honey, you should stick it out for a bit," she told me, but then I found she was cheating on the side with some dude who would fuck her while I was out at work during the day.
I cut the gold-digging, tramp bitch loose by buying her a one-way ticket to Florida, and became a bachelor again, allowing me to tend to the job more, but also be a mentor to junior Sailors despite the beard, long hair, belly, and butt I acquired from not having to do anymore physical training (and eating what I want).
It was tough at first, for I wanted to be there for the young kids, but also had to be careful not to cross any bounds, as I saw what the uniformed leadership lacked at the command, but also had to realize my terms of employment no longer allowed for me to "chime in" on being an advocate for Sailors. This was especially true for this one E5, whom we'll call "Cherry," as the muscular, black kid from Virginia was a pain in the command's side.
"Joe, man, I tell you, I'm this close to filing a complaint on this dirty ass command," he told me once in my office.
Cherry was stacked at six foot three, maybe 250, 260 lbs., for the kid worked out as if played professional football. We grew close as he recognized me from some years back when we happened to deploy together on an east coast aircraft carrier, with him being attached to one embarked squadron, and I with another.
"How the fuck did we end up in Lemoore? I'd kill to go back to Virginia," he said one day while we sat in the command's smoke pit just chatting.
Cherry was a slight hot head, an eclectic type that spoke his mind with no fail, but could back it up with qualifications that dwarfed many that were senior to him. Even the command master chief didn't really care for Cherry, but when the kid needed to vent and grasp understanding, I made sure I was always available. He spilled the beans to me on why he was on the verge of filing a complaint, so I made sure to chat with him outside of work, inviting him for a burger and beer at my place on a Saturday, to clear his head, and really dig into the reason for what he was doing.
"At this point, I could care less about my career," he told me the morning of our meet.
We ate, drank, laughed and listened to music in my backyard later that evening as the night was actually pleasant temperature wise, both of us enjoying some chill right before we got into specifics.
"Kid, you must understand the blow back this could have if you go through with this," I advised him.
