Confessions of a Drunken Coastie, Part 9
Editor’s Note: From 1988 until 1991, Crash Barry — then known as “Egg” — served as a sailor in the U.S. Coast Guard aboard a 210-foot-long ship that patrolled from the Gulf of Maine to the Caribbean. This is the ninth of his true stories about fighting the War on Drugs and the War on Haitian Refugees.
“We’ll be spending Thanksgiving weekend in the Dominican Republic,” the First Lieutenant announced with a flourish, then waited for the cheers to subside before continuing. We’d been underway for 16 days and the holiday was still another week away. “Since we’re taking on fuel and supplies, plus making several personnel transfers, we’ll be in Puerto Plata for six days. According to the yeoman, this will be the Tumultuous’ longest patrol break ever!”
•••
“You guys need a fella to show you around?” asked Jimmy, a 20-year-old Dominican wearing a Red Sox hat and shirt. He spoke English with a Brooklyn accent and stood at the head of the pier, making his sales pitch to me and three of my best pals. “I know all the good-time places. Best prices for beer and food and …” he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, “for the ladies.”
“We want beer,” Staples drawled. “We’re doggone dry, dry, dry.”
“Yeah,” D-Man said. “Been out to sea for 23 goddamn days without a break. We wanna get FUCKED UP!”
“Say no more.” Jimmy put up his hands. “You need to change your money first?”
“Yes,” I said. For the first time in my life, I was rich. Two paychecks had been directly deposited into my bank account while we were at sea. Now, thanks to trades with married comrades who preferred to take time off when we reached home port, I had five consecutive days before I’d have to report back to the ship. “What’s the exchange rate?”
“Today,” Jimmy said, “six pesos for a dollar.”
“How many pesos for a beer?” Staples asked.
“At a nice place?” Jimmy squinted. “Six pesos for a liter of el Presidente.”
“How much you reckon at a not-so-nice place?” said Staples.
“Two pesos. Maybe three.”
“Well then,” D-Man said. “Let’s start at a nice place near the beach.”
•••
Jimmy’s idea of a nice place was a clean brothel. We weren’t looking for prostitutes, but the views were great. By the time we’d downed our first beer and shot, the bar was a quarter full, mostly with whoremongers from our ship and a small U.S. Navy vessel also making a port call. I needed to escape. Didn’t want to spend my time in a foreign land consorting with hordes of American sailors. That would undoubtedly lead to trouble.
I found a pamphlet promoting the town of Sosúa, 20 miles further along the north shore. A little resort spot with nice beaches and restaurants, the flyer said, and only a local bus ride away. It was also likely to be free of Coasties, which was crucial, because I wanted to score weed and chill on the beach with the others in my pot-friendly posse.
“Hey, Jimmy. Can you bring us to Sosúa?” I asked when I got back to our table. “I hear there’s nice beaches.” I turned to my friends. “Restaurants and nightclubs. And cheap!”
“Sosúa? Yes, very nice. Very nice. My cousins live in Sosúa.” Then he frowned. “Too far to go for just a day. Bus takes an hour. Maybe more.”
“What if we went for three days? Or maybe four? And I’ll pay you to come with us,” I said.
“How much pay?”
“How about a hundred bucks?”
“Lemmie call my wife.”
•••
The bus dropped us off in front of a seaside motel with bright, cheerful rooms. Twenty-five bucks a night, complete with private beach and varnished giant-tortoise shells hanging like paintings on the walls. I bunked with Chamberlain and our tour guide. Staples and D-Man were in the room next door. After a long shower, I popped a half dozen pink amphetamine microdots, chased with swigs of Presidente, and Jimmy called his cousins to score ganja.
The rest of the night was a blur. I do know we started with a hamburger feed at a tourista restaurant with a big patio, then went dancing. The speed, mixed with booze and marijuana, made for a good time, but the dancehalls were packed with Canadians, none of whom wanted anything to do with drunken Coasties on shore leave.
The next day was Thanksgiving. In the morning, after some speed and a spliff for breakfast, Jimmy and I swam in the warm sea, then hooked up with D-Man and Chamberlain and walked through town. We ended up at the same restaurant we’d been the night before. After burgers and beer, we kicked back on the empty patio, drinking like we owned the place, and watched the world wander by.
A short time later, Staples appeared, wheeling his rental bicycle down the road, surrounded by a small crowd of cheerful street urchins. We hollered and waved and he came over. Staples always made fast friends with strangers and it was no different in Sosúa. His new buddies gathered around him, smiling and laughing.
“Howdy, fellas,” Staples said. “Me and my gang are hungry and need something to eat.”
“Bring ’em in,” I said, opening the patio gate. “I’ll buy lunch for the little fellas.”
“No! No! No!” our waiter exclaimed when he saw Staples usher the boys in. “I’m sorry. No! No! No!” He put his hands up. “They … they are not allowed in here.”
“Oh c’mon,” I said. “We’re buying them burgers and fries.”
“No, señor.” The waiter crossed his arms. “They are not allowed.”
“Listen, sir. We’ve spent a hundred bucks here already. And we’re gonna be in town for another week,” I lied. “You want us to keep coming back and leaving nice tips? Then let these boys eat some burgers. C’mon, it’s Thanksgiving, after all.”
“Yeah, it’s friggin’ Thanksgiving,” Staples added. “And I promise the kids will behave.”
“We’ll give you a hundred bucks American,” D-Man said, “to pay for their meal, in advance. Egg, pay the gentleman.”
I pulled a c-note from my wallet and offered the bill to the waiter. He wouldn’t take the money, so I put it on the table.
“Not him. Or him,” he said, pointing at two of the boys. “Ladrón! They steal.”
“Give ’im another 20 bucks, Egg.” D-Man clapped his hands. “So all the little guys can eat.”
I placed a twenty next to the hundred. The waiter sighed and looked around. Then Jimmy stood and said something in Spanish to the boys. The waiter listened, then grabbed the cash.
“Gracias, Señor,” Staples said. “Muchas gracias.” He turned to his new friends. “You rascals want hamburgers or cheeseburgers?”
“Yay!” The little crowd went wild. “Hamburgahs!”
“And Pepsi!” one of the kids squealed. “Pepsi Cola!”
Drunk, and done with good deeds, I put my foot down. “No Pepsi,” I said to my shipmates. “That shit is bad for them.” I turned to the waiter. “Milk, for everyone, please.”
“No milks,” said one of the taller boys. “Pepsi.”
“I’m buying milk,” I said, pointing at him. “Milk all around,” I said to the waiter. “Except for us. We want more beer.”
“And rum!” Staples said. “A bottle of rum!”
I turned to Jimmy. “What did you say to them?”
“I told them you were generous men and, if they didn’t behave, that I was gonna kick their asses.”
The boys chatted and laughed as the drinks were delivered. The milk, however, went untouched by all but two little boys sitting at the end of the table, next to Staples, who drank their glasses quickly. Fifteen minutes later, the waiter returned with a stack of plates and a platter piled high with burgers. Another waiter followed with three baskets of fries. D-Man and Staples distributed the food, making sure each kid had a full plate.
“Drink your milk!” I barked. “Milk is good for you.”
No one paid attention to me. Aside from the sound of chewing, occasionally interrupted by giggles, the table was quiet. Then one of the two milk-drinkers started frantically tugging on Staples’ shirt. “Mistah! Mistah!” he said, and turned and puked all over an empty café chair.
“Eeeewwww!” all the boys moaned. “Eeeeewwww!”
The other milk-drinker also had a sour expression on his face. “Uh-oh,” Staples said. “Looks like we’re gonna have another spewing.” The second boy heaved on the floor.
“Oh, man.” Chamberlain’s face went pale. “I feel like I’m gonna be sick.” He stood and rushed for the bathroom.
“It’s all your fault, Egg.” D-Man pointed at me. “You and your stupid milk. Waiter!” he called out. “Waiter, a round of Pepsi for the boys. Pepsi for everyone!”
“Yah!” the crowd cheered. “Pepsi Cola! Pepsi Cola! Pepsi Cola!” they chanted, even the boys who’d just puked.
The waiter came back bearing a tray of Pepsis and the boys cheered again. They washed down their burgers and fries while Staples and I cleaned up the two milky messes.
When the food was all gone, the boys thanked us. So did the waiter, though he asked that we not bring the boys back. Out on the street, the flock followed as we meandered to the motel. Drunk and tired, all I wanted was a nap before another night of partying. When we reached our rooms, one of the taller boys approached me.
“Looking for a good time, mister?” he asked. “Wanna meet my sister? She real nice.”
