An Officer, But Not A Gentleman

Have you ever sat down for breakfast with a large, tattooed marine wearing only his boxers, a stained wife beater, a sideways trucker hat, patent leather dress shoes, and dress socks pulled to his knees?  I have, and I did this at a crowded family diner.



My friend Dale is a marine to the fullest extent—he’s actually a full blown officer in the marines.  The most commonly used words in his vocabulary are “Oorah,” “Semper Fi,” “Beer,” and any variation of the F word that pops in his head.  He’s built like a Pit Bull—short, stout, and his muscles bulge from his shirt.  Saying he has a strong personality is like saying that a nuclear bomb is “just a little bang.”  He speaks in a booming, Bostony, profane stream of consciousness.  Dale was born without a filter—whatever is in his head comes barreling out like a Mac Truck.

He’s one of my best friends and one of the funniest and most loyal people I’ve ever met.  He’s great wingman for almost anything—to talk to girls with, to roll to a party with, to play sports with.  But there are certain things you just don’t do with him.  Like take him to a family diner in his skivvys, for instance.

Perry, Craig, Dale and I stopped at the diner for a heavy, greasy breakfast after our school’s formal dance—a swanky ball in a sea side mansion that, for our enjoyment, had been filled to the brink with liquor.  It was the morning after, and we were all a little hungover.  Dale especially so.  Dale’s diner bonanza went like this:



10:30: We get out of Dale’s truck.  He’s wearing boxers, a stained wife beater, a sideways trucker hat, and to top it off, patent leather dress shoes and dress socks to his knees.  We ask him if he is actually entering the diner dressed like this.  “eh, f**k it, all I have is my tux and I don’t want to mess that up, so whatever, we’re going to be sitting in a booth anyways, no one will notice.”

10:35: Apparently Dale forgot about having to walk to the booth, because everyone in the diner cranks their neck to stare as the waitress leads us to our booth in the most populated part of the diner.  Three relatively together looking boys (besides the wild eyes and party hair from the night before) trailing a tattooed United States Marine Corp Officer—190 pounds of solid muscle that torques with each step, covered only by, literally, what was under his tuxedo the night before.  As we pass booths, elderly people shake their head in a “this generation’s screwed” kind of way, while parents shield their kids’ eyes.

10:40: We all order coffee.  Dale’s stream of consciousness instantly ignites—“SHIT MAN LAST NIGHT WAS GOD DAMNED AWESOME.  THERE WERE SO MANY BABES, EVEN CHICKS I USUALLY THINK ARE UGLY WERE HOT.  I WAS TRYING TO HOOK IT UP WITH THAT ONE CHICK, WHAT’S HER NAME? F**K ANYWAYS….” Every customer in the diner can hear Dale.  Everyone is staring at us—it’s a stare of loathing, fear, and disgust—these people literally want to kill us.  Perry, Craig, and I look back and forth at each other awkwardly, each too loyal of friends to tell Dale to tone it down.

10:45: The waitress comes back to take our orders.  Dale pipes up, “UH YA, COULD I GET SOME AHHH, SHIT LEMME THINK, TOAST, TOAST, I JUST WANT TOAST. OORAH.”

10:48: The waitress leaves.  “YO BOYS, I’M GOING TO THE BATHROOM, GOING TO GO THROW UP ALL THAT F**KING JACK I DRANK LAST NIGHT.  OORAH.” Every customer in the diner—good, god-fearing people that have been eating there for the last 20 years—focus in on Dale as he struts to the bathroom—puffing out his massive chest, flexing his tattooed arms, tipping his trucker hat like an arrogant general.  He is completely oblivious to the fact that people may find what he is wearing odd, or that they have heard every word he has said since we sat down.  The three of us still at the table divvy up sections of a newspaper and bury our heads in them, avoiding people's glances at all costs.

10:50: Our food arrives just as Dale gets back, missing his hat.  “OH HELL YA, MY TOAST.  OORAH.”  From then on he is dead silent, focused on his toast like a sniper.  But all good things must end.

11:00: Dale starts back up.  “DUDE, SO WHEN I JUST THREW UP IN THERE, MY F**KIN HAT FELL INTO THE TOILET.  THERE WAS ALL THIS THROW-UP ALL OVER THE DAMN THING.  BUT THAT HAT WAS COOL MAN, SO COOL, I’M NOT THROWING IT AWAY.  SO I FISHED IT OUT, RINSED IT OFF, THEN LASHED IT ON THE HAND DRYER TO DRY.  DON’T LET ME FORGET IT.  OORAH.  SO ANYWAYS, ABOUT THAT FU…” that’s when we cut him off.  People stare at us in horror as we say in unison, “dude, keep it down for god sakes.  There are families here.” “OH, SHIT, SORRY,” he responds, looking back and forth only to realize that every person in the restaurant is watching the Dale show.  Not to mention looking like they want to turn it off with a pitch fork.

11:01: Dale leans in and says, “Boys get the check,” and buries himself into a newspaper.

11:10: As we walk out, thinking we are all about to be followed, beaten, then tar and feathered in front of the local city hall, an old curmudgeon who had been giving us particularly angry looks all breakfast yells out, “hey, marine, you forgot your hat," with a chuckle.

That’s the thing about marines—Dale in particular.  No matter what they do, you’ve got respect and even like them at some level.