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But the lady must have concluded that the well-maintained sixty-eight–foot–tall, steel, wood and glass structure was nothing more than a derelict washed ashore in a, coincidentally, upright position because, looking away from the tower, the lady brought her face full forward into the sun, and…

Letting his breath out, swinging his gaze to the ocean, noting that the closest boat was far enough away not to see the lady, bringing the glasses back…

“Holy shit!” He held his breath again because, as he watched…

Lifting her body, the lady pulled her bathing suit off her hips, down her buttocks, thighs, calves and ankles, and…

“Holy shit!”

Rolling the bathing suit, using it as a pillow, the lady’s breasts flattening and laying to her sides, she lay back altogether naked: wonderfully, beautifully, altogether exposed, and…

“Oh, lady!” Thinking, For an old lady you are B-U-tee-full! The binoculars moving from her breasts to the… Said softly, under his breath, “Oh, God,” the binoculars moved to the hairy, black tri-section of her thighs and crotch… then, back up to her head, and—the lady’s hair was light blond—smiling, licking his lips, “Only you and your fighting Coast Guard know for sure!” he said aloud, then…

“Uh-oh!” He looked at his watch, 3:07. The fucking clock should’a been hit seven minutes ago....

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U.S.C.G. Rockaway Life Boat Station

Rockaway, New York

Tales From The Tower 1

 .......but if he went onto the catwalk the lady was sure to see him!

The chained key was on the southwest corner of the shack, precisely in the direction she would look if she noticed any movement within her peripheral vision. The door was on east side of the shack. Normally, the watch went out the door, turned to the right and right again, punched the clock and returned the same way, but… It wouldn’t work that way now, so…

The time clock held about his neck by the strap, going through the open doorway on his hands and knees, turning to the left, he crawled to the northeast corner, turned left, went to the northwest corner, dropped to his stomach and, slithering, he was then, from the naked lady’s perspective, on the back side of the southwest corner. Bringing the clock to the dangling key, he shoved it into the slot, clicked it twice, then backtracked, backwards along the steel catwalk, through the door and into the shack.

Standing, not bothering to brush the dirt off his denims, grabbing the binoculars, “Great!” he studied the lady’s flattened breasts, her wonderful, sun- and air-puckered nipples and, “Mmm, God!” her fuzzy, mismatched black crotch… for approximately five seconds, when…

There was a motion just on the fringe of his vision and, grudgingly, he swung the binoculars from the naked lady’s crotch to…

There was a speeding boat with a man standing on the bow, who had binoculars, too, and he, too, was looking towards the rocks—and though Mitchell couldn’t hear him—the man was shouting, “Faster! Faster!”

A thick trough of white wake followed as the boat sped towards shore for a better look.

“Oh, no!” Mitchell whispered. “Schmuck! Stop! She’ll see you!” Now shouting, “Asshole! Fucker! Son of a bitch! As…

Oh, yeah! She did! The lady did hear the roaring of the motor and, sitting up, did see the rapidly closing boat, as…

“Faster! Faster!” the man on the boat shouted. As…

Even faster, the lady pushed her feet, legs, fuzzy mismatched black crotch, and…

Oh, God!

…her moderate-sized but, Oh, yeah, categorically noticeable breasts…

“Faster! Faster!”

…along with her wonderful, sun- and air-puckered brown nipples back into the green and yellow, one-piece bathing suit and, grabbing her towel…

The speeding boat hit an ocean swell, became airborne a moment then, slamming down, the man on the bow lost his balance, did a summersault in the air and fell into the water. As…

…scampering off the rock the no-longer-naked lady ran diagonally across the point of land to the road, and within seconds was out of sight.

Fortunately, the man in the water was wearing a lifejacket and, waving to it, the boat was circling to come back to him.

“X-ray… Baker… Two…” Speaking slowly, enunciating each word clearly, “to X-ray… Baker… Three.” He pushed the receive button on the transmitter.

The patrol boat cruising the bay answered, “X-ray, Baker, Three, to X-ray, Baker Two. Over Baker Two.”

“X-ray, Baker, Three…” speaking at a normal speed, “we’ve a man overboard one hundred yards off shore, south of the point. Over.”

“Roger, Baker, Two. We’re on our way. Out.”

“X-ray, Baker, Two to X-ray, Baker, Three. Belay the last call; the man’s been pulled aboard his vessel, but I advise to detain and issue a citation for reckless water endangerment. X-ray, Baker, Two, over.”

“X-ray, Baker, Three, to X-ray, Baker, Two. I roger that. Will you guide us to him, Baker, Two? Over.”

“X-ray, Baker, Two to X-ray, Baker, Three… Bet your ass!”

Tales From The Tower 2

The Inspection

Answering the telephone, “Tower!”

“Lippy!”

“Yeah, Minnie?”

“I think the old man’s on his way to you!”

“When’d he leave?”

“Beats the shit out’a me. He had a call, and when I paged him he didn’t answer. Only thing I can figure is he’s pulling a surprise inspection on you.”

“Thanks, Minnie.” Slamming the phone down, “Shit!” A surprise visit! Pulling the radio plug, The bastard! Glancing towards the road, throwing the trapdoor back, wrapping the cord around the radio, he bound down the steep flight of steel steps. Could be just around the bend and I’d never see the fucker ’til he’s here. Kneeling on the landing, reaching beneath, taking precious seconds he set the radio between the two sets of upper and lower bolts that formed the unseen compartment, then rushed up the steps and through the hatch just as…

Amid a cloud of sand and dust, the Chevy skidded to a stop.

Hoping to catch him sleeping or with contraband, pushing the door open, Ewing stepped out just as….

“Hi, Captain!”

Scowling, “Fuck!” Ewing plodded through the sandy earth.

In the tower, grabbing a foul-weather flag, Mitchell dusted the radio-transmitter, telephone and desk. Folding the flag, he replaced it beneath the desk with the other signal flags. Glancing towards the ocean, timing it an hour earlier, he made the same sea swell entry he’d made the hour before.

Thunk. “Lipensky!” Ewing hit the underside of the hatch again. “You’re standing on the god-damned hatch!”

Taking a deep breath, “Sorry, Captain.” Moving off the hatch, grasping the inset brass ring, Mitchell pulled the trapdoor open to a huffing, Floyd Richard Ewing.

As Ewing stepped into the shack, Mitchell let the trapdoor slam shut.

“Thought I saw something out there and got so absorbed I forgot you were heading up.”

“Yeah, sure you did, Lipensky.”

Standing a moment, visually inspecting the shack, he then ran his finger over the transmitter, desk and telephone. Finding no dust, he said nothing. Looking at the day’s log entries, Ewing back-paged two or three days and, seeing nothing amiss, let the pages settle back to the present day.

Surprise inspections were made by Ewing only during daylight hours. First off, at night it was almost impossible to leave the building without the man on the switchboard seeing him and calling ahead. Secondly, no one in his right mind would drive the twisting, bumpy, four miles of Rockaway Beach Boulevard with the headlights turned off. And, if the headlights were turned on, and the watch spotted them, which, unless he was asleep, he most assuredly would, and would have enough time to run downstairs and hide whatever he had, that he shouldn’t have, beneath a rock and be back in the shack before he had the tower in sight. Besides, the thought of walking two hundred yards from the road to the tower in total or near-total darkness, then climbing the fifty-seven steep, steel stairs in the black of night was repugnant to Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing.

Standing behind him, watching as Mitchell scanned the horizon with the binoculars, “Think you’re shittin’ me, Lipensky?”

Lowering the binoculars, looking at Ewing, “Excuse me, Sir?”

“Pretending to be some kind of a perfect Coast Guard Seaman, are you Lipensky?”

Not understanding what he was getting at, “Me, Sir? No, Sir,” he said. “Not at all, Sir.”

“You ain’t got anything hid up here, do you, Lipensky?”

“Of course not, Sir.”

“No one called and told you I was coming, did they, Lipensky?”

“No, Sir. Of course not, Sir.”

“Someday, Lipensky!”

“Why?”

Surprised at the unexpected question, “Why, what?”

The binoculars hanging by its strap, attempting to keep the anger from his voice, knowing full well why, “Why are you always on my back?” Mitchell asked, wanting to hear Ewing say it to his face. “I’ve never done anything wrong. Anything really wrong since I’ve been here. So why are you always on my back,” adding, “Sir?”

“Why, Lipensky? I’ll tell you why!”

He wanted to say: Because you’re a fucking Jew! Because you’re a fucking sheeny! Because you’re a fucking kike!

And… And because… Jesus Christ! Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing thought, I want to suck your cock! That’s why I hate your fucking guts.

But instead, “Because you’re a fuck-up, Lipensky!” Afraid to say more, turning from him, reaching for the ring, pulling the hatch open, taking four steps downward, turning back, he looked at Mitchell.

Their eyes locking, the older man below and younger man above stared at each other until…

The knowledge of Ewing’s prejudice aside, unable to, remotely, comprehend the real reason for Ewing’s hatred of him—or love for him—having no idea why the older man’s dark look chilled him, frightened him, Mitchell’s eyes dropped first.

Still, staring at him… Looking away after another five long seconds, taking two steps down…

Hating this man more than he thought he was capable of hating anyone, as Ewing’s head cleared the hatch… As Ewing’s head barely cleared the hatch, purposely allowing the heavy wooden hatch to slam shut… Actually, putting his weight behind it, Mitchell slammed the hatch shut.

The loudly slamming hatch missing his head—barely—startled him, causing Ewing to almost lose his grip on the handrails.

His stomach quaking at what he’d almost done, what, actually, he had wanted to do, “Sorry, Captain,” Mitchell said through his teeth, “it slipped.”

Jesus, knowing, if I’d been one step higher… But also knowing there was no way he could prove that Mitchell had purposely slammed the hatch. “Yeah, Lipensky,” Ewing said sarcastically, “I’ll bet it did!”

Doing his best not to sound sarcastic, “Yes, Sir, Captain Ewing, Sir!”

Going on a hunch, Mitchell did not retrieve the radio, and sure enough, within a half-hour—still shaken by the near miss of his head by the slamming hatch, having stopped at Pete’s Tavern for two fast ones—the car came roaring around the bend and, its rear wheels locking, shimmied to a stop.

“Captain Ewing, Sir!” Calling through his cupped hands. “Hi!”

Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing stood by the open door of the car looking at the figure on the catwalk of the tower, Fuckin’ kike! who in turn was looking at him through the binoculars. With a gesture of contempt, “Shit!” he said. Dropping back onto the seat, starting the engine, putting the car into gear he drove back to the station.