Marsha, Marsha, Marsha
Just a quick, fun little story... I had a couple versions of this rattling around in my mind and decided to go with this one. I know some of the critics will probably go bananas with the direction of the story, but I decided to have a bit of fun with it. Enjoy, and as always, thank you for your comments and feedback.
The drill instructor stood in front of his platoon for the last time on a warm September day in San Diego.
"Platoon! Dis...MISSED," he commanded.
The fifty recruits took a single step backwards and responded, "Sir, platoon dismissed! Aye, aye, sir!"
With an about face and a collective shout of "Oorah," the formation split up and headed off the parade ground for the last time. Most congregated around the drill instructor, shaking his hand before heading out to either find family members or a bus to the airport.
I was no different than the rest. After shaking the staff sergeant's hand, I grabbed my seabag and made my way to the bus heading for the airport.
My name is George Michaels, but on that day in 1974, I was Lance Corporal George Michaels, United States Marine Corps, and all I wanted to do was get back to Texas and my fiance, Marsha Esposito.
It had been a long and grueling six months but I had finally graduated recruit training, had earned the right to wear the Eagle, Globe and Anchor, and was looking forward to the next chapter of my life, which included marrying the girl of my dreams.
You're probably wondering why it took six months, since boot camp is normally about 12 weeks long. That's easy. On the day we finished first phase, my appendix ruptured and I ended up in surgery, followed by several weeks of recovery. Normally, the doctors said, I could have been back on my feet in a few weeks, but I ended up getting an infection that required antibiotics and extra care.
Naturally, training for my original platoon continued and I was held back until the doctors declared me fit for duty. By the time I recovered enough to continue my training without causing any further damage, nearly three extra months had been added to my time at MCRD, San Diego. Yeah, I'm "Hollywood Marine."
Finally, I was assigned to a new platoon and finished the grueling course, graduating as the top recruit. In addition to getting a set of dress blues, something Marines normally had to buy out of their own pocket in those days, I also received a promotion to Lance Corporal and was given the honor of carrying the platoon guidon.
Marsha and I wrote each other as often as we could, and she would frequently send me pictures, although the pictures stopped coming a month or two ago. Some of the photos, however, made their way to what we called the "hog board."
That was a cork board set up in the squad bay where recruits could post photos of their wives or girlfriends, some of which were pretty provocative. Nudes were strictly forbidden, however. Before graduation, the recruits would hold a contest to pick the best photo.
Many of the pictures Marsha sent showed her wearing a short dress or a bathing suit, but some showed a bit more of her flesh. In one picture, she wore only a bath towel which just happened to show off the side of one very shapely leg to a point well above her waist. To top that off, the towel barely covered her crotch. It wasn't pornographic, but it was clear she wore nothing under it. That picture won the contest, making me proud to be engaged to such a sexy girl. I found myself wondering, however, who took that picture, since it wasn't exactly something I could see her brother or father would take and cell phones with cameras and selfie-sticks didn't exist back in the 1970s.
It was also much more skin than she had ever exposed to me. From the very beginning, she made it clear that she was a "good Catholic girl" and would never fully expose herself to her betrothed until her wedding night. Which, of course, meant that we had never had sex. In fact, all we had ever done is kiss. She wouldn't even let me touch her breasts. That would all change on our wedding night, she promised.
None of this surprised me, though. Marsha and I first met in the fifth grade and while she was often flirty, she never came across as "loose" or "easy." In fact, the only way I could describe her at the time was "chaste." So I naturally believed on the day I graduated that she was still a virgin.
This would be a good time to introduce you to my long-time school buddy, Rick Epstein. We had known each other for at least a year before I met Marsha. We did practically everything together -- fish, camp out, even had sleep-overs at each other's homes. As we grew older, though, I noticed that he always seemed to want whatever I had, only he had to "one-up" me if he could. If I got a new fishing pole, he would get a fishing pole with a better or bigger reel, for example.
In high school, he would often try to horn in on Marsha, even though he knew we were what the kids today would call an "item." Marsha would simply wave him off with a smile and walk away.
On the day I left for boot camp, he saw me off at the airport, telling me he would "keep an eye" out for Marsha. I had no reason to distrust her, so I simply shook his hand and said, "thanks."
The airplane finally landed at the small airport near our town and since it was pretty late in the evening, my parents took me back home so I could get a decent night's sleep. The first thing I did was call Marsha.
"I've got a surprise for you," she said, giggling as she so often did.
"I can't wait to see it," I told her. "I'll be over right after I visit the old school."
We ended the call, having spoken sweet nothings to each other for over an hour.
The next day, I wanted to show off two things -- my dress blues and my soon-to-be wife. I put on my uniform, hopped in my pickup and headed to my old high school. After meeting my former principal and some of my teachers, I headed over to Marsha's house.
Marsha opened the door before I even had a chance to knock.
"Surprise!" she exclaimed. "You're going to be a daddy!"
"What?" I asked, shocked by what she said. I instantly noticed that she was starting to show and her breasts were much bigger than I remembered. She was definitely pregnant -- but it wasn't by me. After all, I had been gone for nearly six months and we had never had sex, at HER insistence.
"Are you out of your mind?" I asked. "You DO realize that we've never had sex. Hell, I've never even SEEN you naked. So how in the hell can I be a daddy?"
"Well, we're going to be married. And since I'm the mother, that would make you the daddy," she said.
"WHAT? You really don't expect me to fall for that crap, do you?" I yelled. "Tell me, and I want the truth. Who is the father?"
"You are, I told you," she said. "Once we're married, you'll become the daddy."
My mind was reeling. Surely she wasn't that stupid. I asked her.
