The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Two Toke and I were taking the sun at the picnic tables outside the Pilot Lounge the other day, one of the only warm days of the so-called summer, a fine opportunity to thumb our noses at melanoma and global warming.  There was a warm breeze , the squabbling of seagulls and the gentle lullaby of Port Susan lapping at the dock.  Two beers in, we decided life was good, the world could manage without us and gee, why not order another elixir.

About that time we were joined by a small group of rowdies, evidently fresh off the back 9 up at the Camaloch links, who parked a table away and proceeded to whittle away at our heretofore sunny mood with commentary on the Jan. 6^th congressional hearings, mostly to the effect that they were a scam.  Two Toke and I are old politicos, addicts to the news, veterans of Watergate and more than a bit cynical in our old age.  Me, I try to avoid confrontation of a political sort, figuring, I guess, that debate is a complete waste of time.  T.T., well, let’s just say Tom is a live-and-let live sort of hombre … until his space is violated.  And these golfing yahoos, loud as a megaphone in the hands of the Proud Boys, definitely intruded on his personal boundaries.

“You two locals?”, one of the group asked and his compatriot chimed in, “or just Locos?”  which caused the group to erupt in belligerent laughter.  Before the bile could rise to our throats, another asked what we thought of that bullshit kangaroo court the Democrats were holding on the January 6^th protests.  “You’ve heard of them, right?”

“Gentlemen,” I said, “we’re just doing our part to keep the economy of the island humming, having a quiet beer, not really looking for a debate with you Proud Boys.”

“Who you calling a Proud …?” one of the militia asked but Two Toke interrupted him with a firm, “You. We’re calling you one, you hard of hearing?”  Holy insurrection, I thought, Tom’s looking for a skirmish if not an outright assault here at the Pilot Lounge, one look in his direction and I could see things were going to go south asap.  One of the golfers was up out of his deck chair and another was gripping his Budweiser like a potential club.

“Gentlemen,” I practically shouted, “let’s not ruin a perfectly good day with a political debate.  My friend here is a bit volatile on the subject and I’m sure you meant no disrespect calling us locos, just a friendly icebreaker but a serious faux pas, nevertheless.  Why don’t we all settle down, make a little toast to the gods of summer and drink our drinks in peace?”

Well, the South End is not known for its barroom brawls.  Arguments, sure, disagreements, you bet, but fistfights, not so much.  Two Toke is a Viet Nam Vet, no stranger to sudden violence, I knew, but I had never seen this side of him.  It was like seeing a Zen Buddhist priest swerve into a white knuckled rampage over some perceived slight, maybe taking umbrage over someone clapping with one hand while he was meditating.  The golf boys must have noticed, even slightly inebriated, that things had gone from clubhouse jeers to full blown Danger.  The locals, obviously, might actually be loco.

Reluctantly they removed themselves back to the safety of the Lounge’s interior, tossing a few snide obscenities as they retreated.  “Well, that was ….” I said, not quite coming up with the what it was part.  T.T. shrugged.  “I fought in Nam, not my fight, not my war, just a drafted guy too young to know better, but dammit, I won’t have morons in my face who think the country I fought for is a joke.  Kangaroo my ass.  You still want that beer,” he muttered, “I’ll buy.”  When he got up and started for the bar, I motioned for him to sit back down.  “I’ll buy, not you, maybe save a life or two.  You already served your duty, guess it’s my turn.”

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