The man, who called himself Marco, finished his narrative. He leaned back in his chair. “And that’s the story of the strangest character I ever met under the oddest circumstances.” He threw the fellow across from him a self-satisfied, streetwise grin. “Okay, tell us yours?”
Across the table from Marco, the guy who’d given his name as Doug, shifted on his seat. The two strangers were sitting in a little out-of-the-way bar on Ninth Avenue in New York City. Despite its rundown atmosphere, the bar felt cozy and hospitable on a night when a chilly rain pounded the streets hard. Theirs was one of those noncompetitive discussions guys frequently have over drinks where they, nonetheless, try to outdo each other.
Theirs was one of those noncompetitive discussions guys often have over drinks where they, nonetheless, try to outdo each other.
A small group of the bar’s patrons stood around the table, listening to the banter, nodding and mumbling every so often. Doug, the older of the two men, took a long slug of his double scotch as he eyed the man who’d just finished speaking. Marco was of medium size with sleek black hair, brooding eyes, and a cleft chin. Leaning forward and resting on his elbows, Doug smiled vaguely. “I guess mine was an encounter that happened a number of years ago and was some distance from here.”
He paused in reverie for a second. “After a nasty divorce, hurt and anger filled my days. I set out to blow whatever money I’d escaped from the split with at the dog tracks around the Sunshine State and on to those on the Alabama coast. What I couldn’t lose at the races, I was doing my best to drink away. As I drove along the Florida Panhandle on a road that paralleled the beaches, a mean-assed hurricane mirrored my route. Can’t recall which one, but it was before they started giving them male names.
“Somewhere on the panhandle, the storm caught up with me, finally making landfall. It overtook me around the time I entered one of those little isolated villages you find on the coast. You know, the ones where you can’t for the life of you figure out what the inhabitants do for a living or what keeps them there. Although it was a little past mid-afternoon, the sky was inky and foreboding. The wind was vicious. For the last two hours of my drive, no people were in view. I saw no lights anywhere. Obviously, the power was out everywhere. From what I could get on the car’s radio, the hurricane stalled, at least momentarily, when it came ashore. Instead of weakening, the tempest appeared to gather fresh force.
“My situation was getting desperate. I was fighting the storm surge flooding the road and dodging debris flying or floating across my path. My windshield wipers were losing their battle to keep up with the torrential rainfall. Finally, I determined I could not continue my trek and decided to find shelter.
“As a gust of wind tried to lift my old car off the ground, I saw lights farther along my route. They were coming from the small windows of a squat building just ahead and inland of the highway. You know how heavy rain combined with worn windshield wipers can distort an image?” The stoic Marco simply stared at the other man, finished his drink, and said nothing. Doug didn’t wait for an answer. He sipped his scotch and ordered another round for them. By this time, several more people had clustered around the pair’s table, listening to their conversation. A couple of them nodded in answer to his question.
Doug glanced at the small group. He returned his gaze to Marco and continued, “Though the building had no sign or other indication of its purpose or use, I moved toward it. I was desperate to hide from exposure to the hurricane’s fury. Anyway, as they say, ‘any port in a storm.’ So, I pulled to the leeward side of the structure. There were no cars anywhere around the place, despite its being occupied.” A few of those gathered murmured conjectures regarding the building the speaker was approaching in the storm. A faint smile lifted the corners of Doug’s mouth.
“I pushed out of the car and fought my way back toward the building’s front door. The wind was like nothing I’d ever experienced and howled fiercely. As I battled the elements along the side of the cinder block building, I realized a faded beer advertisement covered it. My thought was that the business was a rudimentary convenience store. As I reached the door, it flew open and someone shouted, ‘Get in quick!’
“As I reached the door, it flew open and someone shouted, ‘Get in quick!’”
“I did so, half under my power and half flung by the force of the wind. Regaining my senses, I joined the guy working to push the door closed again. Together, we succeeded in sealing off the elements. After smiling my gratitude to the man at the entrance, I took in the interior of my refuge. The structure held a small bar.” This revelation brought another series of indistinct murmurs from the small crowd listening to Doug’s tale.
Doug shrugged faintly. “The bar was nothing fancy, mind you. But it apparently served the needs of the locals adequately. Besides the usual beachcomber trappings one might expect in such a place, a griddle, under an old vent hood, took up a portion of the space behind the counter. That explained the heavy, grease-laden atmosphere of the joint. On the wall on either side of the vent hung two fish with deeply forked tails. I didn’t recognize them.
“On one end of the tavern, the obligatory sailfish decorated a wall. Below it was a cluster of black-and-white photographs in an assortment of frames. Mismatched stools fronted the small bar. Equally random sets of tables and chairs loosely occupied the floor. Five or six customers, besides the fella at the door, populated the establishment. I correctly assumed that the man who met me when I entered was the proprietor and barkeep. Most of the remaining inhabitants, in various states of sobriety, quietly stared at me as if I had recently disembarked from a UFO. But none stirred.
“The owner patted my shoulder in a friendly way, laughed, and said he’d seen my headlights as I approached. He figured I’d ducked my car around back. So he watched for me to pass one of the small front windows before opening the door. Again, I thanked him as I licked the rain from my upper lip and tried to shake it from the ball cap and windbreaker I had been wearing. I glanced at the bar’s lights and threw a questioning look at the place’s owner.
“He smiled, telling me he had a generator with enough fuel out back for just such emergencies. In the howling wind, I guessed I’d not heard its roar. Then he added they’d put the building together like a blockhouse. The place served as a refuge for a few locals when the authorities ordered an evacuation in the face of a hurricane. Again, he snickered as he remarked that the sheriff who enforced the order had long ago given up trying to get this motley crowd to leave. So, they’d ride out a storm with power and plenty of food and beverages to tide them over.
“Then he added they’d put the building together like a blockhouse. The place served as a refuge for a few locals when the authorities ordered an evacuation in the face of a hurricane.”
“Before he moved away to the bar, I explained I hadn’t seen a sign and, before I came in, had no idea what type of business he was running. His easy laugh showed itself once more. As an explanation, the proprietor said he’d once read a story about Yogi Berra, the Yankee great. Yogi’d owned a bowling alley somewhere in New Jersey. A sportswriter scheduled an interview with the catcher at his establishment. The reporter had trouble locating the place because it had no sign out front. When he mentioned the fact to the ballplayer, Yogi smiled. He told the newsman it didn’t need a sign. Everybody in town knew what and where it was.”
A few of the old-timers gathered around Doug and Marco chuckled and mumbled their approval of the anecdote regarding the beloved Yankee catcher. Doug went on, “The bar owner claimed it was the same thing there. It wasn’t a tourist town, and everybody thereabouts knew what and where Pompano Pete’s place was. He introduced himself as Pete. Pompano! Suddenly, I realized what the two mystery fish were.
“As he returned to his spot behind the bar, the proprietor asked if I wanted something to drink. I explored my pockets and found what money I had on me. I ordered a scotch and bought a round for the house. Then I wearily took a seat at a vacant table. When he delivered my drink, the owner nodded toward an overhead light. He joked I’d missed the excitement an hour earlier. It seemed he’d forgotten to refuel the generator. So they’d lost power for the twenty minutes he’d needed to get it running again. He chuckled that, during the outage, the place was as black as Bunker C, and it stirred the reprobates present a bit.
“I sat there accepting the mumbled thanks of those gathered for my generosity and nodding in return. As I did, a grizzled elderly man stood and sidled up to me. The guy was big, you know, powerfully built in his earlier days. Now, his movements were measured and with a slight limp. There was something of a stoop to his walk, though he still looked hard around the edges. He eased slowly into the chair opposite me, the way older, ailing people often do.
“The man’s weather-beaten face revealed a gray film curtaining one of his large blue eyes. The condition caused him to turn his head slightly as he spoke, so his good eye, which held a mischievous twinkle, faced me more than it might have normally. Although understandable, it was disconcerting.
“The condition caused him to turn his head slightly as he spoke, so his good eye, which held a mischievous twinkle, faced me more than it might have normally.”
“He extended his knobby, battered hand and said everybody called him Tank. The old man thanked me ‘kindly’ for the glass of rum he was holding. As was my habit when shaking hands with an older person, I didn’t use a firm grasp for fear of causing pain to arthritic joints. Instead, I received a forceful grip from the man such that it startled me somewhat.” Doug smiled, “Afterward, I winced and wriggled my freed fingers.” The narrator acted out the gesture to the approving chortles of the gathering crowd of patrons in the New York bar.
“I gave Tank my name and told him to think nothing of the drink. When I admitted I was glad for the shelter and added I hoped I wasn’t imposing on any party, he laughed and scanned the small bar woodenly. I followed his gaze before he turned back to me.
“In a voice sounding like a snow shovel scraping a sidewalk, the old fellow described those gathered as locals who assembled there to ride out ‘heavy weather’ such as this. He explained they were not a group to spend five hours on a road in a line of evacuees’ cars only to get thirty miles farther inland. Besides, Tank advised me, the little bar had the endurance of a battleship and, in its fifty-year history, had come through many storms. Here, he raised his glass and proclaimed the place had all the comforts of home. As an afterthought, he added with a chuckle that the joint sold food, too.
“It appeared we’d be together for a while. Because he seemed friendly enough, I felt obliged to ask the man about himself. When I inquired, Tank leaned closer and, despite his harsh appearance and rough manner, showed himself a master of the waning art of conversation. He began by informing me he’d attended the Federal Merchant Marine Academy somewhere on Long Island years earlier.” Here, several of the New York bar’s regulars voiced recognition of the nearby college. “My companion explained he spent one of his four years at the school, as did everyone who went to the Academy, working on freighters and tankers in the merchant marine. His ‘home port,’ as he called it, was New Orleans. Tank referred to the time aboard ships as ‘sea year.’
“He laughed hard as he swore it had been the best year of his life in many ways. He described how he had ‘worked his ass off’ on the ships while gaining practical experience in the engine rooms. But, he elaborated with a sly grin, he had spent his shore leave in various ports ‘sowing wild oats and praying for crop failure.’ My visitor guffawed heartily at the recollection. Then the old sailor paused. His good eye looked off into the distance as if his mind were returning to happier times.”
“He laughed hard as he swore it had been the best year of his life in many ways.”
Doug sipped his drink, then continued, “Just as quickly, he snapped back to my presence and our conversation. ‘Been in over forty countries around the globe. So long ago,’ he declared, ‘a few of the places are no longer on a world map with the names they had then. Seen a lot–the good and the not so good. And when you work the cargo vessels, you don’t see the world found in those slick brochures the travel agents put out for you,’ he asserted earnestly. ‘No sir! Saw the poverty, the sadness, the anger of the folks. Heard their laughter and saw their tears, too.’ I nodded as he went on, ‘But I had some crazy times, anyway. The wild and foolish things we did as nineteen-, twenty-, twenty-one-year-old heathens in the late fifties, early sixties, I know the Academy wouldn’t have approved of.’
“He’d piqued my curiosity, and the storm wasn’t letting up. So, I asked the old mariner to tell me about his experiences. When he paused and looked longingly at his near-empty glass, I signaled Pete for another round for the two of us. That’s all it took to get Tank in a talking mood again. He began by telling how he had been studying the engineering side of vessel operations. A snipe, he called himself, and those like him.
“For the next hour or so, he regaled me with stories of his year at sea. The old man spoke of the characters he’d encountered and the places he’d seen. He talked of spending most of a week drinking and carousing around Genoa, Italy, with an Air France stewardess named Gina. Tank laughed as he told me how several cars almost hit him as he tried to cross six lanes of heavy traffic on a thoroughfare along the Naples waterfront. He’d been trying to get to a voluptuous woman he thought was beckoning him. The merchant seaman then learned she’d seen him ogling her across the roadway and merely waved at him in passing. The Italian wave, he explained, consisted of the same motions as one we often use, with bent fingers closing on the palm. But the Italians wave with the palm turned up, which appeared to him to be a summons.
“He reminisced about his time aboard an old freighter nicknamed ‘The African Queen’ owing to its repeated runs from New Orleans to the west coast of Africa. His coworkers from the engine room of his ship ‘gave’ him a slightly older French woman, named Renee, with whom they were familiar. Her ‘favors’ were to be a ‘present’ to him on the night of his twenty-first birthday. He stopped speaking for a minute, as he smiled to himself. Then he explained the entire thing had been a gag on him because the girl only had one leg. When she removed her artificial limb in the bedroom of her apartment, he said, his inebriation, as well as a more ‘personal item,’ faded.
“Then, I noticed a long, severe scar running from under the sleeve on his upper arm to the tip of the middle finger of his left hand. When I asked, he brushed it aside. He told me, earlier that year, he’d been ashore on the African coast when he happened upon a group of Scandinavians who were on the continent for some project or other. They were surfing on a beach there. So, he requested to borrow one of their surfboards to try the sport himself.
“Tank said he was fine until the last minute when he wiped out and a powerful undertow caught him. As the thing pulled him under the water’s surface and out to sea, he flailed for anything to save himself. He’d grabbed a coral formation and received a horrible gash for his effort. Somehow, he said, he ended up on the beach and eventually made his way to his ship. The mariner depicted the entire incident as inconsequential, insisting the later tryst with Renee on the trip had been a better escapade.
“He then related his travels up and down the African coast on ‘The African Queen’ had been full of unexpected exploits. He described several countries he’d been in as dangerous dictatorships, with high barbed wire-topped fences surrounding the waterfront. Dangerous-looking, uniformed men, armed with automatic weapons, guarded and patrolled the docks. He said it was an intimidating vision to behold. In one such port, the young seaman was walking through the dock area late one night in a driving rainstorm on his way to the ship. A car eased up beside him. The smallish man behind the wheel asked him in English, but with a thick French accent, if he wanted a ride to his vessel. Thinking nothing of it, Tank said yes and scrambled out of the downpour and into the car.
“Dangerous-looking, uniformed men, armed with automatic weapons, guarded and patrolled the docks.”
“As the vehicle crawled along the docks in the general direction of the wharf where they were docked, it became obvious the middle-aged Frenchman was interested in getting more from his passenger than conversation. Eventually, he invited the young sailor to spend the night with him. Panicked somewhat, Tank decided a delaying tactic was in order. He told the man that he had to stand a watch that night, and maybe the next one would be better. The driver agreed and promised to check back with Tank at his ship at lunchtime the following day.
“The old seafarer expressed how relieved he was to get out of the car and aboard his floating ‘home.’ Because the Frenchman was driving around the heavily patrolled area, the young man was certain he held a measure of sway on the waterfront. During the ensuing eight hours, the somewhat reckless Tank formulated a plan to make the circumstances work for him. It resulted from people in his position on the ship being paid a pittance such that spending money was always an issue.
“On his lunch break the next day, the young merchant seaman was standing at the ship’s rail. When he saw a familiar figure drive onto the pier, Tank walked down the gangway to the automobile. He assured the man that he wanted to see him later, but he might not be able to leave the ship that night. Tank lied, explaining he owed a shipmate forty dollars from a poker game. The roughneck had threatened to beat him up that afternoon if he didn’t repay the debt. Tank claimed a lack of funds with which to do so. Initially, as Tank expected, the Frenchman appeared crestfallen at the news. After a reflective moment, the driver happily produced the money in local currency. He told Tank he could now pay the man, thereby freeing him to keep the rendezvous. The young man took the money and suggested the guy return for him at six that afternoon.
“Then I looked at Tank in disbelief; he’d agreed to the ‘date.’ He read my face, laughed coarsely, and admitted they’d scheduled his ship to sail at five o’clock. He knew the ‘get-together’ would never happen. But when the allotted time arrived, the vessel didn’t shove off from the dock as expected. My companion said he more or less panicked as the time dragged on. Finally, at half-past five, the shore-side men cast off the mooring lines, and the old tub crawled away from the pier. Tank again stood at the ship’s rail watching the comings and goings on the wharf. A deck officer, called a mate on ships, was standing next to him.
“During their brief conversation, Tank related to the officer the story of his recent adventure. As he was finishing the tale, the little Frenchman’s car came into view in the distance. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, the young mariner waved it at the man who had emerged from his car and stood with an expression that mixed disappointment and anger. The mate shook his head and told Tank that he was crazy. The young man’s response was that he and the Frenchman got what they wanted. He received fifty dollars from the deal, and the other fella got screwed. The old man threw his head back and laughed long and hard after recounting the tale.”
A severe flash of lightning suddenly lit the bar’s windows facing Ninth Avenue. A deafening crash at once followed the illumination. The jolt caused those gathered to glance in that direction before returning their attention to Doug and the other man seated there.
Doug ordered another scotch before resuming his story. “I asked the elderly man how long he was in the merchant marine after he’d graduated from the Academy. Here, his face darkened gravely. He looked away for a moment. I swear his functioning eye watered. Then a quiet anger crossed his countenance, and his voice lowered as Tank commented harshly that he had never graduated. Before I could ask why, he went on to explain. Toward the end of his sea year, he was back in the Mediterranean aboard a different vessel. He had just missed hooking up with Gina, who was working a flight overseas somewhere, according to a friend Tank had met previously.
“Here, his face darkened gravely. He looked away for a moment. Then a quiet anger crossed his countenance and his voice lowered.”
“He’d become good buddies with another engine room worker, a fellow snipe named Ned. They’d been on a couple of ships together. One evening in the Italian port of Livorno, known to the Americans as Leghorn, the two were out drinking and moving from bar to bar, whooping it up. At one point, a drunken Ned became enraged because Tank danced with a B-girl the former had his eyes on for the night. When the big man thought his friend was joking, he egged him on until the little fellow completely lost it and started causing a row.
“Thinking it was best to take their problem outside and settle it amicably before the Carabinieri got involved, Tank urged his fellow mariner to calm down and go with him. The angry man followed Tank into the alley next to the bar. Although Tank said his aim was to resolve the matter rationally, the other man apparently thought it was a challenge to a fight. His smaller companion made a preemptive strike and blindsided Tank with a large bottle. The thing broke over Tank’s head. Ned then began stabbing the bigger man with the broken bottle.
“Tank said he remembered nothing until he awoke in the U.S. Naval Hospital in Naples. They’d taken him there because of his connection with a Federal Academy. He’d been injured to the extent of losing an eye in the attack. His shipmate had left him for dead. Tank’s ship had long since departed the port without him. His voice was gruff with emotion. ‘All I’d ever wanted to do,’ he related, ‘from the time I was a small boy and had read my first book, The Cruel Sea, was to go to sea. After the beating,’ he finished mournfully, he ‘lost everything.’ Here, his good eye watered visibly again. The corners of his mouth drooped for a second before he gathered himself. Nonetheless, the aged mariner said he steadfastly refused to tell the authorities who’d attacked him. Instead, he told them that an unknown person had ambushed him.
“To say the least, his attitude in the wake of such a vicious attack stunned me. When I expressed my surprise, Tank’s face grew even darker. As I ordered us another round of drinks, he responded that he’d gotten to know Ned fairly well during their time aboard ships together.
“Tank’s shipmate had spoken freely of his people and where he grew up. Ned had told him they owned a large, thriving produce farm and distribution business in the Florida Panhandle. It had been in the family for generations. The agricultural empire was waiting for his return from his nautical wanderlust to take over as the heir apparent. Tank understood from his telling that it was Ned’s dream to do so.
“After the savage attack, the old guy said he was a lost soul. He drifted from one dead-end job to another, biding his time while his anger grew. He said he’d never forgotten his conversations with Ned during those intervening years. Here, his voice trailed off, and his eye reflected a rage, yet suddenly seeming far away.
“When I expressed surprise that he ended up in this part of Florida also, the old mariner said it was not by accident. He explained that Ned’s family concern was less than twenty miles from where we sat. Before I could respond, Tank added, because he had no remaining relatives and no friends, he eventually made his way to the panhandle and searched and waited. Finally, Ned returned to take over the business. Still, Tank said that he simply bided his time and watched.
“I asked him whether he had ever come face to face with Ned since the attack?”
“‘Oh, yeah,’ Tank mumbled. ‘In fact, we met up again in the last couple of hours.’ When my face showed surprise, he smiled nastily and continued, ‘Yeah. He comes in here all the time. Fortunately for me, Ned was still a hard-drinking man and never got past hanging out in dives. He didn’t recognize me at first, though. That’s him over there,’ he said, nodding toward a solitary table under the sailfish against the far wall.
“I followed Tank’s eyes to the other end of the bar. In an apparent drunken stupor, a nicely dressed man slumped over there. The man’s head lay awkwardly on its surface between his sprawled arms. I chuckled, opining that the man looked to be dead drunk.
“‘Not dead drunk. Just dead,’ Tank grunted grimly.
“In that instant, the owner’s comment concerning the bar’s earlier blackout flooded my mind. Coupled with the man’s vitriolic words, I jumped to the obvious conclusion. Without hesitation, I rushed to the motionless man, pushing tables and upsetting chairs as I ran. My mad dash got the concerned attention of Pompano Pete, who joined me beside the slumped man. We determined that the man was not breathing. We couldn’t find a pulse. Quickly looking at the body, my layman’s assessment was that the fellow had a broken neck. When I turned back to the table Tank and I had shared, the old man was nowhere in sight. Even his drinking glass was missing. In the momentary confusion, neither the bartender nor I had noticed the establishment’s door quietly open and close. But we immediately realized what had happened.
“Without hesitation, I rushed to the motionless man, pushing tables and upsetting chairs as I ran.”
“We ran to the entrance and flung it open. Wind and rain, increased in their savagery since I’d arrived, greeted us. Notwithstanding the elements, we struggled to make our way outside, searching for Tank. He was nowhere in sight. I was uncertain how anyone, especially a stooped, limping, one-eyed old man, could travel on foot in such a storm.
“Later, when I spoke with the bar’s owner, he said he did indeed know Ned. The man had been coming to the bar steadily since he had returned home. When I asked about Tank, he told me he’d never seen him until that day. He figured he was a recent arrival in town and had heard of his place from another local. As far as I know, the authorities never found Tank. And they never completely resolved the case surrounding Ned’s death.”
The men gathered in the New York bar mumbled their varied comments about Doug’s story. A few leaned in and clapped him on the shoulder. When he looked across the table, Marco’s chair was empty. In the distance, Doug saw him making his way through the tavern door into the stormy night. ©