I Write Old Navy Stories in the Voice of My Dead Father Because That’s the Only Way I Can Hear It | Leslie Ylinen

Did I ever tell you how I got that scar tissue on my shoulder? Well, we were on shore leave in Coronado when I ran into a feral dog. I am not one for dogs, but I could tell this one had some hard-running beagle in her. I thought she could help with the ship’s rat problem. 

So I named her Ensign Cindy and brought her back to the ship. Now, a dog on a ship was not a common occurrence, so this was very exciting for the guys. Not for me, though, I’m not really a dog person. The boatswain—Jimmy Culotta was his name—took a particular liking to her. Ensign Cindy knew he was an idiot and wanted nothing to do with him.

Now Jimmy Culotta was seven feet tall if he was one. Dumb as a post and an unrepentant Yankee. I called him “Eleven” because his two skinny legs looked like the number 11. I’d say, “Hey Eleven, what’s it like being an abandoned lighthouse?” You know, because he was so tall and stupid. This would really get him fired up.

Now I should mention that I don’t like dogs, so I only did the absolute bare minimum to keep the mutt alive. She only got half of my bunk, three home cooked meals a day, my entire heart, and hours of daily affection. 

Every morning I’d make Cindy’s breakfast — a pound of ground beef and 3 scrambled eggs folded with bone powder, salmon, cod liver, and coconut oil. These premium ingredients were common on Gearing-class destroyers in the 60’s, and this detail absolutely stands the test of time. 

One morning I slept late after a night of rabble-rousing, merrymaking, and tom foolery. I had a bit of the old Irish flu, which you could still say back then. So what do I see when I get up but Jimmy Culotta making Cindy’s breakfast and hammering that beef into next Tuesday. 

So I said, “Jimmy! This ship already has one broken radio tower, and it doesn’t need another!” I should back up. The ship had a broken radio tower. So I said, “This ship doesn’t need another broken radio tower!” You know, because he was so tall, useless, and bad at cooking. I guess that was the last straw because he picked up that sloppy pile of sizzling beef and hurled it right at me. It seared right into my flesh like napalm. That overcooked beef earned Jimmy a “Big Chicken Dinner” served up hot and fresh by the United States Navy. 

I Googled Jimmy not long ago. He was arrested for breaking into women’s homes and crawling into their beds just to spoon. The newspapers called him the Rhode Island Snuggler. A few times he made himself a sandwich. He just couldn’t stop being a disaster in the kitchen, I guess. So I have to wear a t-shirt at the pool for the rest of my life, and Jimmy did 5 to 10 at the state penn. What were we talking about? Sure, I can help out with rent this month. You can always come to me if you’re in trouble.

Leslie is a humor writer and copywriter living in San Francisco. She will occasionally break free and dabble in other genres. She is a frequent contributor at McSweeney's among several others.