Chapter 1

“Dad the truck is my property. Both legally and ethically. Doug signed over the title almost three years ago. Your never put a fucking dime into maintenance, have been using the fuck out of it for several months. Shit, you pulled it out of storage, that’s technically grand theft.”

“Watch your language, son.”

“Fuck you. You’re nothing but a greedy old thief. What ever happened to that 9800 dollars in my bank account? Where’s Doug’s investments? Where’s the probate papers? That’s not only grand fucking theft, its fraud. Want me to call the cops? I have the docs. They’d throw your ass in the slammer in less than a heart beat.”

Yep, Dad fucks me again. Been waiting two years to retrieve the truck, only to find that my father had fraudently pulled it out of pre-paid storage to give it to my over-indulged brat of a sister. I was certain that the privelaged bitch would turn out just as bent as my parents.

I shrugged, thinking mission accomplished, as the old man stomped off, retreating in defeat. I pointedly ignored my sister upon her approach, also sending the advance of her skinny ass into retrograde. Another mission accomplished.

I loved that 1973 F100 with a burning passion. It had been my older brother’s truck, and it was all I had left of him. We had good times in that machine. It was beautiful. Jet black with XLT trim.

After pushing my motorcycle up the ramp and running straps over my gear, what had been my teenage fantasy crossed the street. Mabs had been a decent friend, and her parents had been good neighbors. I looked into her dimpled smiling face as she walked up the driveway.

“I just got back, Mark. Now you’re leaving. You out of the Marines?”

“Yep. Gonna go to school.”

“Yeah? That’s good. Where?”

“Cal State Fullerton. Have to check in about nine days. What you been doin, Mabs?”

“Have been working for Tesoro for a while. Jimmy and me are thinkin about mud-loggin on wildcats in the Permian. The independents are really screaming for contract ‘godes’.

“How’s Jimmy doin?”

“He’s okay. He’s been travelin a lot. I really miss the three of us.”

I sure as shit did not miss the ‘three of us’. I could never compare to her spouse. Jimmy was was Mister Perfect. He is scary smart and an accomplished jock; and arrogant as all fuck; the difference being is that he was not a pissant, and had earned his arrogance. The smart-ass jock had done well.He went from high school to a PhD in geophysics in less than six years, apparently writing a seminal discertation. But it was now my turn to attend a House of Big Words. Childhood fantasies notwithstanding, it was time for me to permamently sever ties with this fucked up town. Whatever.

Mable flashed me one her signature dimpled smiles.

“Wanna have dinner with mom and dad? She’s doin pork chops.”

I was in a foul mood, but mostly I was simply no longer was affected by her feminine wiles. But I did have a pavlonian response to the thought of Mrs Banderas’ chow. I think that Mab’s mother cooked more chow for me than my mother had ever done.

“No can do, Mabs. Leavin now. Tell mister and missus ‘B’ that I’m sorry I never visited. But only had a few days to get Doug’s truck ready. And say ‘hi’ to Jimmy.”

I emphasized my statements as I threw my seabag behind the bench seat. As I stepped back to say goodbye, Mabs rushed up, throwing her arms around me, crushing her soft tits, almost leaving imprints on my sweaty t-shirt.”

“You take care of yourself, Mark. You have my number, and mom knows where I am if we head west.”

“See ya, Mabs. Take care.”

Extracting myself from her embrace, I was surprised to see wet eyes and a streak of dampness on her cheek. I had no idea what the basis was for that level of emotionality, as we had hardly talked since I enlisted just before Mabs and Jimmy went to off to college. They were now viable taxpayers, participating members of the American workforce, living the American dream. I was but an aspiring student. Whatever.

I was not religous or superstitious, but I liked to imagine that Doug was still with ‘his’ truck and was making the trip back to California with me.

My fourth semester of college was marked by the constant threat of termination of my VA benefits, for varied and arbitrary reasons. The VA in the 1970s and 80s was characterized, by design, as having an adverserial relationship with vets. The VA was on a mission to pay out minimal benefits during this era, which reflected the prevailing American attitude towards former and current military members; we were all baby-killers.

Determined to continue with my education, I was surviving the semester on my meager savings, several part time jobs that included tech work at a defense contractor, as a math tutor to (mostly) jocks, supporting campus science labs. Other facets of my fidicuary survival strategy included selling my motorcycle and living out of my truck. And with a current parking permit on my vehicular home, campus security generally ignored my truck.

As former military, the school did not require any PE credits to matriculate. But PE enabled my access to a gym locker and to the showers, and to the weight room.

Another advantage to taking PE was that some shit was fun, and it was generally co-ed. I enrolled in a racquetball course for my fourth semester. Unlike my other courses, the majority of students in the racqetball class were female, athletic females with athletic bodies; athletic females with an adventursome attitude; athletic females wearing little clothing. Did I say the PE classes had many athletic females?

Marie was a frequent racqetball partner. She was of average height and slim build, but of extraordinary stamina. She was also a softball jock on the school’s NCAA Division I team, and one of the students that I helped with math.

Marie was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she understood societal structures and knew that her athletic scholarship was but a tool to an education (and that it made her more independent from her parents) to improve her marginal mental attributes. She was not terminally stupid. She was, though, far from any high level of academic achievement, but she an acute self-awareness that enable her to accept her percieved status as a ‘dumb jock.

Conversely, Marie had somehow gained street smarts, regardless of her privelaged childhood among the elite wealth of Dana Point and Capistrano Beach. But her most endearing attribute was that she hung out with me, an impoverished student, a person that the current society had considered evil due to my military background, a student that was nerdly and without social graces.

Another endearing, at least to me, attribute of Marie was that she played racquetball sans bra. While of a small hooter coefficent, her tits rode high, had always provide a well-defined nipplage. Marie’s tits bounced nicely during the return stroke of her back-swing. I lost many a point to that wonderous back-swing. And she used her backswing without shame, apparently happy to provide an eye-popping visual display.

“Shane’s?”

“Sorry, Marie. Can’t afford it. My meal card is still good. See ya, lady. Thanks for the game. Take it easy.”

I handed the woman her spare racquet and balls, making my way to the showers, not understanding her strange expression and body language as she, uneccesarily, stepped into my personal space to recieve her gear.

My next stop would be a dorm laundry room. I had access via another of my math subjects. Sandy was a quiet, introspective blonde; a bit plump, but pleasantly held with an easy carriage. Her full rubenesque body type allowed a corresponding significant hooter coefficent. Sandy’s visual pleasantness was accentuaded by a warm personality.

Sandy was away from her isolated and sedate life of northern California for the first time. Her wealthy parentage easily afforded her education, but her average scholastic acumen blocked her access to any UC school. I never was able to determine why her rich parents did not simply buy her way into a more prestigious school.

Sandy stood just outside the laundry facility, appearing to be waiting for someone.

“Hey Sandy. How ya doin?”

“Hi, Marky. Are you available this evening?”

I would normally be irratated by the ‘Marky’ appelation, but she was a good egg and and a cutie. Women, in my parochial view, seemed to have it too easy. They could just smile and wiggle their butt, allowing them just about anything. I did not understand until much later, that this was not truly an unfair advantage, but a dangerous product of evolution; a hazard to both to their bodies and to their minds.

“No can do, lady. Gotta work. What ya having problems with?”

“Systems of equations.”

Internally, I shook my head. The subject should have been mastered in 9th or 10th grade. What the fuck was she doing at a four-year college?

“If ya want, sign up on my schedule for tomorrow or the next day. I’m open in the early mornings for the next three days. Ya know that Sarah is available?”

“Oh ... well, I guess. How late do you work?”

“After midnight. Ya still doin laundry?”

“Yeah. Want me to help you?”

“No problemo, Sandy. Just gotta dump this into a machine.”

I shouldered my seabag, half full of dirty clothes as she keyed in the pass-code to the laundry room to allow me access.

“Did I tell you that my dad was in the army?”

“Yeah? What did he do?”

“I’m not certain. He never talks about it.”

“Viet Nam?”

“I think so.”

“Sandy, its not you. Its just the nature of the beast. Vets are not gonna talk about that stuff to most people, even their family. Maybe he just wants to forget about it, ya know?”

“That’s what mom said.”

Sandy put her books on the bench, pulling out her flute from its case, then moving closer to me.

“Want to hear what we’re working on?”

“Sure, really like your flute-playin.”

Sandy paused to offer me, yet another, weird expression with a half-smile. Placing the end piece near her lips, which I should add that they were magnificant full lips, seemingly designed for seriously making out and other such oral ministrations. I was, in both healthy and unhealthy ways, fascinated with Sandy’s lips. I hoped it didn’t show, mostly because the guy she appeared to be dating was a rather large jock. Being magnaminous, I did hope that the big guy enjoyed those lush lips. But back to the subject of music.

Other than rock some C/W listening, I had no musical knowledge. I never learned to play anything, but I had always been impressed with people that could make music. And the music she made sounded wonderful, at least to my untrained ears.

Sandy finished her piece, leaving me mesmerized with the sounds of the instrument, and the motions of her lips.

“Wow. Just wow. That’s really good. What is it?”

“First part of Mozart’s Flute Concerto Number Two in D major.”

She may as well had told me it was Three Dog Night’s ‘Joy to the World’. I did not know shit about music, but I knew what sounds good, and it sounded damn good.

Sandy, once again, demurred with that weird half smile, in response to my compliment. There were times when I would given my beloved truck for a guide to the meanings of female facial expressions and body language. This was one of those many recurring times.

My poor social acumen, that is, my inability to interpret body language, per my friends, was my signature trait. Tim’s main squeeze said that my social ineptness was endearing. I am so fucking glad that I had endeared myself to the twit. Not.

I may have been older than the vast majority of undergrads, but my social development had been somewhat stunted by my years of 17 to 24 being spent among Marines and sailors, which was preceeded by four years of high school with no close encounters of the female kind.

After almost four semesters among 18 to 20 year old kids, that were not long out of high school, I was just starting to understand that non-military society was largely not within my understanding. In fact, my social skills were probably not much better than the average twelve-year old’s. And being an engineering major, I was unable to care about expending efforts to expand and develop social skills. My mantra for the time was, ‘it is what it is’.

When Sandy stood to lean over me, retrieving her flute case, I got an eyeful of much of her braless tits. I was further gob-smacked and speechless when her tits lightly brushed my arm as she returned to a demure sitting position in the adjacent chair, crossing her legs under her denim skirt. May the gods help me, but I did, and do, have a thing for jean skirts. Short denim dresses were, to my simple mind, the most magnificant piece of clothes engineering to grace the planet.

I wondered if Sandy knew how lucky her jock boyfriend was; as a jock he probably got whatever he wanted with no effort. I did not care, because I knew that life had not been, and would never be fair. As my gunny always said, “Life sucks, then you die”. Whatever.

As I stood to retrieve my clothes to place them in a dryer, Sandy uncrossed her legs, leaning towards me, again revealing a large portion of those wonderous milk-white tits as she placed her books beneath the bench. A whack-off session would certainly be required in my immediate future.

As my clothes were removed from the washer and placed in a dryer, Sandy approached. Looking up from the dryer, we locked eyes as she walked to my location. I had no idea why her expression had turned intense, but I did notice, for the first time, her light-blue eye color. There was an inexplicable softness to her blue eyes. I wondered if her eyes remained open as her jock boy-friend fucked her senseless. My dirty thoughts almost blocked me hearing her question.

“Marky, what did you do in the military?”

Danger Will Robinson. Back the fuck up. My light sexual buzz was abruptly squashed by visions of dark-suited FBI agents paying an unfriendly visit for exposing critical national secrets, such as how to apply a screwdrive to remove the chassis of the mirror drum in the IR sensor, or something equally critical to national security.

“Uh ... I uhhh, worked on F-4s.”

“That’s a fighter jet?”

“Yep.”

“What did you work on?”

“Uh, electronics stuff. Nothing exciting.”

Sandy, appearing satisfied with my answer, hovered nearby in silence as I stuffed my clothes into a dryer. The silence was interrupted with her suddenly serious expression.

“How many students do you tutor?”

“Dunno ... It varies. About twenty this semester.”

“How often for each student?”

I had no idea as to the nature of this line of questions.

“Ya mean regulars? Uh, guess about seven regulars that sign up at least once a week.”

“Who are they?”

“Many are baseball jocks, business majors. You’re the only music major I’ve tutored regularly. Why?”

With a mysterious grin, the blonde cutie softly replied, “No reason, just curious. I do know someone that you could help, and he is a baseball player. I have told him about you.”

Once again, Danger Will Robinson! I did not relish the idea of tutoring a jealous boyfriend.

“Uh, yeah. but my schedule is getting full. Don’t forget there’s Sarah, Linda, and Jose. Those guys are actually post-grad math students. More qualified than me.”

Sandy’s expression turned soft. Too soft. She leaned into me, almost whispering her reply.

“But I think that you are the best tutor. I always understand you.”

Smelling her musty and perfumed fragrance as she leaned in did me no good. No good at all. I almost lost my voice as my reply was composed.

“Uh ... okay ... just have your guy put his name on the schedule. If he’s on athletic scholarship, make sure he puts his number on the sign-up sheet.”

My rescue arrived in the form of Sandy’s roomie. A stuanch libber and political activist. A type that I always made extended efforts to avoid. Retreating behind the row of washing machines, I sat on another bench to await my drying clothes.

My boss at the night-gig defense contractor job was a former air force tech and a surfer. He was a decent man, but a bit much of a male slut for my sensibilities. Or maybe it was just a case of envy.

“Duder, sign off that last batch?”

I pointed to the swinging double doors to the test lab exit.

“On the cart, Dave. Where’s the production report? Nothing is left on the shelf.”

“Yeah. What a mess. The day-crew stopped production due to a safety stand-down; they were mostly playing it up for the CASDE reps.”

“So what’s next?”

“Not a damn thing. Hear the surf report?”

“Damn straight, man. three to five at twenty five. And not just the south-facing. Ya gonna hit it tommorow?”

“Yeah. You gonna be there?”

“No can do. Got classes and tutoring.”

“Mark ... dude! ... Engineering is bad karma.”

“Well no shit, man. That’s why I’m doing it.”

“Bull. Shit. You don’t do the dark side. Even if you were a jarhead. Admit it, you’re just going to school to chase tail.”

“I wish. Hardly any women in my classes, and the women I tutor got no interest in a broke-dick nerd.”

“Not good for your soul, dude.”

“Know what ya mean, man. Should I punch out now?”

“Fuck no. They don’t pay you close to your worth. I’ll clock you out at one AM.”

“That’s gonna get both of us fired, man.”

“No worries, I used to do it for Jerry all the time.”

“Thanks, man. I’ll sneak out the back. See ya manana.”

Thinking that I could be, in another life, up at zero-dark-thirty, hitting perfect surf, depressed me as I turned north onto I-57 for my return to campus. The trip was quick and fast, even more so for a so-cal freeway, even for 2230. I did wonder about the sanity of pursuing, arguably, the most difficult undergraduate major. Electrical Engineering curricula was replete with well-earned horror stories. But I was too stupid to care about my soul, which would be promptly sold to the highest bidder upon my graduation.

I blanked further thoughts on the futility of my destiny, thinking in more immediate terms - about how I was going to survive the coming summer semester. The summer session would be easy but intense, as I had planned on knocking out the remaining general ed requirements that had not been already tested out. I was determined to graduate before totally destitute. I was determined to not let my father ‘win’.

Turning west on Yorba Linda, then into the campus parking adjacent to the athletic fields, I carfully scanned the area for campus security. Seeing no evidence of the wanna-be cops, I placed my truck under a patch of trees, surrounded by several other vehicles. Settling in for the night, I mentally reviewed my morning schedule, setting my wind-up alarm clock for 0500.

I made it a point to never use the oval track on the campus athletic field, so morning runs were one to ten loops around the urban campus, depending on that day’s schedule. The other delimiter to my morning runs was the amount of trash in the local air that had blown in from LA.

Two years of runinng loops around campus had, for whatever reason, gained the attention of a few members of the college’s coaching staff. After almost four semesters, I had yet to meet an athletic instructor worthy of my time. They reminded me of military officers - careerist assholes that would stab their little sister in the back for any form of advancement. In short, I considered the university’s coaches to be turds, so I ignored them. At least until I could not.

“I want to talk to you, son.”

Looking at the baseball coach driving the golf cart along side me as I ran did nothing to modulate my response.

“I don’t want to talk. I’m running.”

Yes, I was stating the self-evident. But it needed to be said. The concept of ‘I am fucking running’ was emphasized as I turned off of State College Blvd, into the campus, running into the narrow access ways between buildings. I was certainly not interfering with any athletic program at 0555 in the dim morning, so the man was (not so) artfully ignored and evaded.

Trotting back down the middle of campus, I was surprised by the very early morning presence of one of my two favorite Math teachers, a 60ish man with a heavy british-pakistani accent. The older man called out my name, with his peculiur emphasis on the last three letters. I never quite understood his pronouciation of the name ‘Mark’, but I did love to hear him say ‘integral’, with the drawn-out emphasis on the last syllable. I know, simple things excite simple minds. Sue me.

“Hello, my young Mister Mark. Would you please come see myself and Mathi sometime after four thirty this afternoon. We have something that may interest you.”

“Doctor Pitchai is back?”

“Yes, Mark. He arrived yesterday and is anxious to see you.”

“Uh ... Okay, Doctor Basri ... Uh, I haven’t looked at my schedule.”

I should probably worry that Dr Pitchai wants to talk to me, but the attractive Indian girl behind Dr Basri disrupted those thoughts. The girl, dressed in the typical western ‘uniform’ of jeans and t-shirt, had a smooth and serene aura about her. She seemed to be more than her physical beauty, as she had regal carriage.