Confessions of a Drunken Coastie, Part 18
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 Gulf of Mexico. This is the eighteenth of his true stories about fighting the War on Drugs and the War on Haitian Refugees.
When the opening notes of Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine”rang from the outdoor café speakers in the shadow of an ancient fort in Old San Juan, I drunkenly pointed at Lumpy and warned him: “Dude, do not tell the Axl Rose story again. If you do, I promise to beat you to a pulp.”
Ignoring me, Lumpy turned to the new guy and pointed at his gray, jewel-speckled snakeskin boots. “Hey, Nick, see these babies? Axl Rose gave ’em to me.” He grinned and nodded. “Back when I was a civilian in Idaho, G. N’ R.’s tour bus stopped at the diner where I was chef. After the meal, the waitress comes back into the kitchen saying Axl was drunk and wanted to see the guy who made the mashed potatoes. So I go out there” — he paused and smiled broadly at the memory — “and the man himself was grinning ear-to-ear. We shook hands and he told me that they’d just eaten the best meal of the whole tour. And they’d been to some real four-star places, too. Then he asked me what size boot I wore. ‘Ten,’ I answered. ‘Why?’”
At this point in the tale, the rest of us collectively groaned. It was a little after one in the afternoon and the six of us had the café to ourselves — which was lucky, since we’d been patrolling the Caribbean for a month without making a single bust or rescue, so we were bound to become drunk and unruly.
“Let me guess,” D-Man said. “The world-famous rock star pulled off those boots and said, ‘Lumpy, you are an amazing culinary genius. I hereby present you with my boots.’” D-Man sneered and shook his head, then drained his bottle of beer. “That’s the stupidest fake story I ever…”
“It’s true, I’m telling you.” Lumpy slapped the table loudly. “You can ask my wife.”
“Was she there?” Red asked. “Did she witness the scene at the diner?”
“No.” Lumpy sighed. “She was not at the diner.”
“Were you guys even married then?” I turned to my shipmates. “I betcha if we asked Mrs. Lumpy, she’d be embarrassed by the question.”
“Screw you, Egg.” Lumpy was pissed. “My wife knows the truth.”
“Truth is, you’re a friggin’ liar,” I said, standing. Drunk and mean, I wasn’t gonna let this drop. “So why don’t you admit it, you friggin’ liar?”
“Leave me alone. I gotta take a leak.” Lumpy pushed his chair back and stood. “Besides, why should you even care?”
“Hey, Egg,” D-Man said. “Didn’t you threaten to kick the Lumpster’s ass if he told that tall tale again?”
“Yeah,” I growled. “One last chance, boy. Renounce the story or you’ll pay the piper.”
“Screw you,” he said. “Axl Rose gave…”
In an instant, I had Lumpy’s arm bent behind his back.
“Lemme go,” he yelped. “Owwwwwwww.”
The rest of the guys laughed as I twisted a little further.
“LET ME GO!” he cried, struggling to break free.
“The more you fight, the more it’s gonna hurt!” I grunted and tightened my grasp “C’mon. Admit that you’re a liar.”
“No,” he whimpered. “I swear it’s…”
“LIAR,” I roared, and kicked his feet out from under him. Suddenly he was on his stomach, with my knee in his back and his right arm firmly under my control. “Tell the friggin’ truth.”
“C’mon, man, please.” Lumpy wasn’t crying, but he was close to it. “Lemme go. Please.”
“Admit your story was a lie.” I gave his wrist a little twist. “And I’ll stop.”
“OK,” he whined. “It’s a lie.”
•••
Five minutes later, Lumpy sullenly returned from the bathroom, carrying a couple shot glasses, and sat as far from me as possible. After downing both tequilas, he belched and pointed in my direction. “I’ll have you know,” he said. “That when I said the boot story was a lie, I was lying. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
At that moment, the waitress returned with the round of drinks I’d bought for the table.
“To Lumpy,” D-Man said, raising his beer mug.
“TO LUMPY!” toasted the rest of the drunken sailors.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Red said to the waitress. “Bring us another round. Fellas,” he burped, “this one’s on me.”
Soon we were wicked drunk and getting drunker. Then Lumpy fell asleep and dozed deeply in his patio chair.
“Oh damn,” Red said. “We better not get thrown out of here because of him passing out.”
“It’s time for our pal Lumpy to pay the piper.” D-Man picked up Lumpy’s 35mm camera from the table and stood. “We should give his wife some good shots of how he spent his vacation in Puerto Rico.” He removed the lens cover. “OK, guys, gather around your shipmate, drop your shorts and pull out your cocks.”
“Nope.” The Boatswain Mate shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“C’mon, Boats, the shot ain’t gonna have your face in it.” D-Man laughed. “Just from the waist down.”
D-Man quickly positioned us in various poses, creating daring perspectives and shooting at angles to capture one or more phalluses. By the time the waitress and café owner angrily stormed over to our table, D-Man had snapped a dozen pictures.
“ALL OF YOU,” bellowed the owner, “YOU MUST LEAVE!” He turned to our waitress. “How much do they owe?”
The young woman added the check and handed it to the boss.
“Sixty-five dollars, please.” He stared intently at each of us, memorizing our faces. “Plus tip. Take your friend and leave and never come back.”
His tone shamed and sobered us. D-Man quickly collected a hundred bucks and apologized profusely as the café workers watched us gather our belongings.
“C’mon, man, wake up!” Red shook Lumpy by the shoulders. “We gotta get going.”
Lumpy blinked twice, then closed his eyes. “Uhhh,” he mumbled. “Uhhhh.”
“Good job, Lumpster.” D-Man shook his head. “If you hadn’t gotten so wasted, we wouldn’t be getting thrown out of here.”
•••
A month later, back at our home base at the mouth of the Piscataquis River, several of us were chilling in the berthing area after the workday when Lumpy stormed in. Which was unusual, because Lumpy had gone home to his wife a couple hours earlier.
“THIS IS BULLSHIT!” Lumpy screamed. Turned out his wife had all his film from the patrol developed at a local drug store. “BULLSHIT!” he hollered again and threw a stack of photos onto to the table.
“Wow,” Red said, picking through the pile. “Lots of cock shots.”
“Yeah,” D-Man said. “I don’t remember taking so many.”
“She got double-prints made!” Lumpy sputtered. “You sons-of-bitches are real jerks.”
He was right, of course. And he wouldn’t listen to our apologies, either. The violation was too overwhelming to forget, forgive or ignore. Which especially sucked because all of us really liked Lumpy. It was just his habit of telling, and retelling, the Axl Rose story that drove us crazy.
Lumpy had been signed up for a coveted spot at the gunner’s mate school, which meant he was stuck on a waiting list — and the ship — for another year. The following morning, however, he switched career plans. There’s no waiting list to be a storekeeper. In less than a month, he was gone.
Crash Barry will speechifying on September 3, at 6:30 p.m., during a special evening edition of the Brown Bag Lecture Series at the Portland Public Library.
