When WWII was still raging, a day off from duty was still a day to relax and putter at what ever you choose. Our best friends lived across the street in La Armada, our navy-housing complex. My sailor boy and the one across the street, were in the same squadron and had the same duty hours so on their days off they were often together tinkering on some old car.
Our friend, who was nicknamed Boob, a name that seems rather fitting according to this day’s events, was almost recovered from a broken leg, the result of a football accident, and was still under the doctor’s care.
On this day, he had a motorcycle he was trying to tune up and unfortunately; he was unable to get it started. The natural thing to do was to call upon his buddy across the street to pull him and his motor until he could get it to fire up.
So, the guys hooked the motor to whatever old jalopy we owned that time and they maneuvered their way out to some wide-open space. Then away they went until the motor fired and began to purr and then to pick up speed. That’s when the rider realized he had no brakes. His immediate thought was that he was approaching the rear end of his buddy’s car at an undesirable speed so he quickly swerved and roared pass the tow car. At that moment, their eyes met, and they both realized the unavoidable was only seconds away.
One hit the end of the rope; the other hit his brakes.
Explaining to his fiery Creole wife why there was gravel embedded in the numerous scrapes on the not quiet healed broken leg took considerable creativity and managing to present an open honest face the next day as he told the doctor that he had fallen down the stairs fazed him not at all.
His wife, an excellent housekeeper, was a bit miffed that he had indicated her waxed and polished floor could have held such filth. Boob’s assurances that the doctor could not have believed such an absurd tale, cooled her temper only slightly.
He was in the doghouse for weeks.