But I lived it and so did the crowd I ran around with. We cheered each other on as we outdid each others stunts, be it from barstool or at large in the community. Obviously, back then things were different; Dr. Phil and Oprah hadn’t been invented yet and the only advice you could get from the media was Pete the Weatherman. Being outrageous could mark you negatively of course, but there were deeds that could elevate one’s standing within the gang I was in with. It depended on how it turned out in the end and it was ultimayely judged by how you stood up to the trial. And alcoholism? Just a word in the dictionary used by people who didn’t drink.

   So, it was that magical week between Christmas and New Years when the Christian world was celebrating the rites of consumerism in the usual fashion except me. I was working daily on the boat, getting ready for opening day of herring season after the first of the new year.  I was also freshly divorced, alone, depressed and getting a real independent attitude about this whole Christmas season as a result of it all. It sounded something like….

  “Screw it. I don’t need this. I am just not buying into it.”

  I was pitiful: Mothers pitied me, girls avoided me, Rotarians, Lions and Toastmasters knew this would eventually happen to unaffiliated losers like me, worldwide.

    I worked on the boat or the gear every day, I just did this regardless of any circumstance, but I proceeded with increased energy now. There was something about it, some quality to it that was unobtainable in the rest of my life. I could actually get this fishing/boat thing right; I could make it shine a bit in contrast to the other parts of life. It all functioned properly and predictably, it was socially acceptable and it began to define who I was more and more. Through this activity and accomplishment I was accepted into my gang of dockside peers. It was way more than was healthy and way out of balance for any one person but I truly loved it. It was rapidly becoming my way of life and the money faded in importance accordingly. All fishermen that I knew rode this same crest with the same gusto.

   So on this warm winter afternoon of long shadows, I drove off the dock and was headed for home when I noticed a suspicious gathering of trucks in front of the Harbor Bar. I was elated to see the impromptu meeting of friends, a ‘meeting of the mindless’ as my friend ‘LP’ would call it. It was just what my lonesome young soul needed. Instinctively, I turned left into the lot and parked, got out of the truck and walked through the swinging doors of the waterfront bar. The room was wood from floor to ceiling, smokey and pictures of fishing boats dotted the walls. The music was good, the faces were familiar and the bartender accommodating. It had booths and I liked the privacy they afforded. On the other side of interior swinging doors was a small restaurant. It was possible to see anybody in town if you just sat there long enough and some did. It also had a back door that occasionally came in handy for escape or reefer.

    The first person I saw was ‘Lips’ on the corner stool. This was his usual spot. His real name was Robert and he was a real success story, no longer haunting the bars downtown and picking fights, the waterfront was his home now. He had almost completely severed ties with the local sociopaths . Lips was a rising star in the ‘Z Squad’, the name taken by our little gaggle of friends. Lips and I were roughly the same age; I had him by a couple of years.            

    In the off-season or when the weather was bad he could be found on this corner stool, chatting up everyone about everything they wanted to talk about. He charmed the ladies and worked it. As he liked to point out he  ‘always had the gear in the water and was pulling straight bait.” With his shirt open, chest hairs curling, easy smile, and his Terry Thomas gap in his pearly grill framed with pouty Marlon Brando lips (on steroids), this guy was a triple threat in mating competition. You couldn’t beat his time and you sure couldn’t low-crawl. He wasn’t flashy but just likable and non-threatening, that was his MO. It was also his habit to play practical jokes. As he jabbered away from the corner stool, a trail of toilet paper ran from the back of his trousers, down to the floor and disappeared under the door of the Men’s Room. I laughed every time I saw this, I couldn’t help it. Lips shot a look at me.

  “What are you laugh’n at?” He questioned.

  “The toilet paper” I said.

  “What toilet paper” Said Robert, aka Lips with a wink and he turned back to the bartendress Marie and continued the conversation. He was talking about roses of all things. I turned toward the gang in the booth and scooted them over for my landing on the smooth wooden bench.

  “DE. What’s happening boy? Growled the senior member Ed, aka, ‘Dago.” He looked like a working class version of Dean Martin. DE was my nickname.

  “Getting ready to run up to the city for herring. It opens on Sunday night.” I answered.

  “Shit. You can have it, you and Grrrr-Roy.” Ed apparently had an opinion. Grrr-Roy and I fished herring and Dago did not.

  “It’s good money, what do they say, ‘save your money while you’re young?” I intoned.

  “Hah, That’s a joke! Have fun when you’re young- work when you’re old!” The Dago spoke and the crowd laughed.

  “You oughta know you old bastard, you haven’t started working yet!” Mike, the leader of this gang, saved me. He looked like James Caan and people mistook us for brothers.

  “Oogah’s going with me, I got a good partner.” I finished it. Oogah Don was an interesting guy my age exactly. He was a Vietnam vet who never talked about flying a helo over the Asian jungles or any other part of his tour. After discharge, he lived in a cardboard and tin shack in LA and had a hard time of it. You wouldn’t know it now; he was the funniest and best natured guy in town. He lit up a room when he joined in and put stars in the girls’ eyes when he talked.

   I sat there listening and joining in for about an hour or so and got a pretty good buzz on. I found this out while wobbling my way to the Men’s Room. I wasn’t as good as the rest in the drinking department, just an amateur. When I came out my brother John had taken a place at the table. He smiled broadly as I sat back down.

  “Hey kid, what’s doin’?” His greeting.

  “Getting ready to go. Fishing I mean. Starts on Sunday.” I replied.

  “What’re you doing Saturday night?” He asked. Saturday was New Years Eve.

  “Nothing, you know ‘amateur night’ and all that” I replied.

  “C’mon over for dinner. The Tiger Woman is gonna be there, then we’ll go up to the Distillery. Her band is playing there.” He said.

  “I don’t know, Theresa and me?” I was actually frightened of her but I couldn’t say that here right now. Quickly adding 2 plus 2, I knew at that moment that John’s wife Beverly was determined to fix me up with Theresa her best friend. I better think fast because the gang was starting to whoop with the announcement of ‘Tiger Woman’. I relented and rallied a little enthusiasm, because upon further consideration, this could be big fun. I hadn’t had sex in a month or more and now the Tiger Woman? Possibilities were endless.

  “That sounds good”, I replied, “I’ll call her”.

    Probably the funniest woman I knew, Theresa was a practicing eccentric. She was way ahead of her time, before the army of comediennes that was to come our way. She had dark eyes, was attractive, Hispanic and she could sing. She was tall and always dressed to make a fashion statement. Her everyday favorite outfit?  Like for going to the post office and just knocking around town?  It was the skin tight, tiger-skin leotard with a skin tight black top. Some would say she wasn’t my type, but she was definitely a ‘type’. But then again, my record with women was so sketchy that a “type” really hadn’t had time to establish itself; it was all a work in progress and most recently a train wreck in slow motion-type progress. I had a few days before the date and I called her. It went well enough with her leading the charge with wisecracks. I wasn’t charming and convincing but I didn’t have to be; it was obvious enough that the “fix” was in from both sides: This date was going to happen even if I went into convulsions, my head spun around and I projected split-pea soup, ala Linda Blair.

   So on New Years Eve I picked her up and we had dinner at the club were she was singing instead of my brothers house. I had soldiered bravely in the afternoon in prep and anticipation, but now I was into it. A date with a Latin singer was no minor fantasy lodged in my tortured post-adolescent mind. Of course, I didn’t know how to behave myself in public and while she was onstage, I was grooving on the dance floor with other women and drinking.  But Theresa knew the score and we would connect and carry on in between her sets. I was holding that much together and she was determined.

   Well this is where the story begins to get a little fuzzy. The clock moved toward midnight and Theresa called off the seconds from the bandstand. In the hour leading up to this peak moment and in my abandon driven by drink and music, I walked up to the bar for a recharge of my cocktail and approached a young woman who I had never spoken to, but who I had often seen in our little community. She was sitting at the bar between four men her own age. I walked up to the bar and spoke.

    “I have often admired your exotic beauty, but only from a distance because I was too shy to talk to you.” I just stood there and recited this, I didn’t say hello or anything else. I really surprised myself. It was like one of those out of body experiences that other people have, only mine was in a bar and I was trapped in the same awkward body. Unfortunately, all the guys with her were in their bodies also and they all heard me. But fortunately, none of them knocked me down where I stood as they properly should have.

   I stood before her, feeling amazement at what I had just done. She had curly brown hair that formed a halo around an angels face centered with perfect lips below a petite upturned nose. She was truly beautiful in that classic high-cheeked, European fashion. She was way out of my league. She turned from me to her purse, took out a pen and wrote down her phone number and handed it to me. The first and last words she ever spoke to me that night were:

   “I’m not going home with you tonight”

   Those words probably saved my skin from a pummeling. A glow descended upon me because that pronouncement and that little scrap of paper was like receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor. Bubbles appeared at the corners of my mouth, I bowed and scraped and exited, unable to put three intelligent words in a sequence. I lost that piece of paper before the moon set that night but the number on it was one digit different than my own phone number and I could not forget it. It is true that God watches over children and fools.  

   I don’t remember a lot of details about what was said or what happened with Theresa that night save for this: I drove her back to my apartment where she ripped my fancy shirt down the middle and the buttons popped like peas from a pod. Then, she took hold of my tank top T-shirt, grabbed it by the shoulder straps and peeled it down to my waist like a banana skin. She pressed her big red lips to my face and jerked me up to her bosom by my bunched up shirt. You can imagine the rest, it got wild and prolonged by alcohol impotency. We did everything I had been dreaming of for the past two months- numerous times. Then, amidst the passionate smacking of wet skin on skin came the sound of snoring; The Tiger Woman passed out cold.

    I took her pulse, she might be dead, but no; her hot Latin blood was still coursing through her veins. I was suddenly quite alone. My Diva was done; her turbocharged engine of desire and lust had conked out near the finish line and she was now snoring like a grandma.

   Days afterwards, Beverly had to have all the details. I dutifully recounted the evening, omitting all things true and produced a B movie-like version of a romantic evening. I also had to ask this;

  “What did Theresa say? Did she say anything about me”? Unsure whether I really wanted to hear.

   Beverly started to chuckle. She answered candidly that when asked how “I was” Theresa answered with the following.

  “He was great! All my men are great! I make them great! She reportedly said this with a flourish and a sweeping hand gesture as if she were in a Shakespearean play and she was aware of her comedic extravagance. That’s funny; she never said anything like that to me and I know exactly why. She was sheepish the next morning; I don’t think she remembered a darn thing.

   No matter and all for the best, I sat in the Harbor Bar on New Years Day alone, horribly hung over and awaiting Oogah. We had places to go and stories to tell, fish to catch and chapters to put in the big book. I must have looked bad; Oogah winced and laughed when he looked at me. Oogah was a pro, I was the amateur. He sat down in the booth across the table from me. He was giggling for God’s sake.

   “That bad?” I asked.

   He laughed. “Where were you last night?”

   “D’still’ry- on a date” I replied. “Theresa”. These were the first words I had spoken in public and they made my stomach queasy. I wasn’t breathing right either. I quietly wondered if anyone had ever died from a hangover.

   “Oooooh, Tiger Woman. Did she hurt you?” Ooogah was having too much fun with this, making little cat ears on his head with his fingers.

   “Well I am hurtin’. For certain, but it was fun.” Thinking further I added, “ I tangled with the Tiger and drank her to a draw.” Then, “I think I met someone else last night, someone with the same phone number as me, someone beautiful even.” I rambled. “What a heat on.”

   The waitress came over to Oogah and got his order and left. He turned back to me and continued, “We still going up today?”

   “Oh yeah. We gotta be in position for the opener, that’s gotta happen.  Tides’ at 6, let’s leave at 4, I’ll be fine”. I replied.

   “Rodger-Dodger” Oogah acknowledged.

    We fished, we did good. It was quick and dirty and we got about 30 tons. The quota was reached in a week and by the very next weekend we were back with the boat- done and dusted. We had stories to tell, cash to spend, fish-glory and all that. And I had one more thing: I had a promise in the form of a phone number etched in my brain by daily recitation during the week: 726 3815.

    And it wasn’t the Tiger Woman I’d be calling, I’ll tell you that.