Above him a large black and white photo of a battleship-not his- churns forward through white foam. The photo is stationed in a curved silver embellished frame. One of the few curved things there; most- the desk, leather chair,pressed uniform and clock have an elegant yet Spartan quality- straight, angular, hollow but sharp. Like the sounds of sailors' footsteps against metal ladders.
The smells, the sounds- all is gray.
In relief your attention is drawn to features that contrast; a large gold ring on his right middle finger emblazoned with a star, piercing blue eyes, silver hair at the temples set astride an aquiline nose. An open pack of Lucky Strikes lies on the desk near a picture of him shaking hands with Hoover. He is squared off the to president, his face is open, jaw chiseled- Hollywood.
The admiral is sitting at the desk studying strategic plans, or he is at the bookshelf reading a week-old New York Post, or he is sitting just off to the side journaling private thoughts while sipping bourbon.
The phone rings twice before he picks it up. The voice on the other end is nervous, twitchy, "Sir, one of the officer's wives was raped last night. A submariner, Massie".
(Spotlight on the admiral, everything else fades to black)
He stands, a bent mountain, knuckles to the desk. His face is troubled.
He looks to the right where light filters through an opaque window; a vision:
yellow lace and white floorboards
the sparrow-like titter of young women playing bridge and drinking tea on the porch
slender fingers balancing fragile porcelain cups to pale lips and rows of pearly teeth
He looks over his shoulder to the left; another vision:
her legs flay open
the green silk slides over the garter drawn up by brown hands as cold and hard as the moon
her breath comes in short staccato pink petals- bruised and wet
knees lock to the inside of hers as a breath is pushed an inch away from her mound of wiry black hair
their breaths in unison now, deafening
her neck stiffens
He closes his eyes, face down.
A dog is heard howling outside the window.
The admiral kicks the door to his office open slamming it to the wall, knocking the picture of Hoover to the floor as the battleship tilts to a downward dive.
"Get me to the governor." He has the language of ordering, the tone of gutting a pig.
A 1930 2-door navy blue Ford with an American flag streaming from the back cab pulls up. We see his face as he lowers to get in: his eyes are bright, lips sealed together.
The admiral steps out in front of the governor's office; Iolani Palace (the theme song from Fistful of Dollars, "Titoli" begins to play). The air is warm and humid. He turns to face the palace. He is wearing a blue work shirt, dusty and streaked, with guns holstered on the crests of his hips. The guns and holster are worn, smooth brown handles and fitted leather.
Evenly, flatly, we hear his last words "Not in my America"
He takes long strides toward the palace as dust kicks up and obscures the view.