A Likely Story

Charlie walked into the Traveler's Inn at about seven-thirty in the evening. It was late in July and the weather was warm and humid, so he was wearing only a bathing suit. One could tell by his staggering swagger that he had been drinking heavily, but was cocky and his chin wore the shadow of a week's growth of hair. He stood at the bar short,unshaven, somewhat inebriated, clad in black bathing trunks, and his erect posture and protruding gut defied the world.

Addressing Buzz and I he bellowed, "Les go N'York."

But my car is not fit to drive and Buzz and I haven't four dollars between us."

Oh t'hell wi' that...les go N'York," Charlie replied, as he extracted a fifty dollar bill from his scanty attire and commenced waving it before our noses.

We left the little town of Willimantic, Connecticut an hour later. Willimantic was not really a town, it was not a city, it was a way of living. It has been said that it is a good place to grow up in, so you can move away. One commercial buff said that it would bewise to build a fence around it and charge admission.

Buzz was driving, I was drinking some beer we had purchased on the outskirts of Willimantic, and Charlie was sleeping in the back seat. Shortly after we entered the community of New Avon Charlie awoke. He had sobered up some and he wanted to drink. "Stop at the Eastcheap Tavern," Charlie yelled. "Les stop for a drink or two. I got friends there." We tried to talk him out of it because we knew that Eastcheap was the lowliest of the lowly and the rottenist of the rotten, but Charlie was not to be denied.

Shortly after we walked through the entrance a tall husky man with a black patch over his left eye startled everyone by screaming. "Charlie Kelly can't come in here." The man stepped from behind the bar, removing a stiletto from his belt. Although Charlie was still far from being sober, he knew better than to ask for trouble, so the three of us sharply turned about and made an exit. I later understood the reason for the unkind welcome which we received. One story had it that Charlie had once rolled the bartender. Another theory was that Charlie had actually lain with the bartender's wife.

As if things weren't bad enough, when we got back to the car Charlie insisted on driving. We knew that we could not reason with him so we finally agreed, asking that he maintain a reasonable speed. He guided the auto down the highway in a weaving fashion but we knew that he would become very indignant if we called it to his attention. So we offered him additional drinks, hoping he would renege his driving prerogative in order to focus his attention more fully on drinking.

His erratic driving was finally detected by two officers of the law and they pursued us in their cruiser. The flashing light atop their vehicle sent out red and blue beams of light, and their siren was wailing. Charlie accelerated, swerved onto a side road, pulled into some bushes, and turned off our lights. We waited there for a few minutes but the police car did not come. Charlie chuckled at his own cleverness as he turned the car around.

"I've lost more than one cop this way," he said. But we had scarcely gone a dozen car lengths when we heard the siren and saw the flashing light. John Law had outsmarted us again. Conceding defeat, Charlie pulled the car over to the side of the road and eased it to a halt. The officers emerged from the cruiser, one being tall and tubercular, and the other a rotund and red-faced man. The latter tried to take Charlie aside and befriend him.

"Listen, Kelly, me name is O'Malley, Mike O'Malley, and...."

"O'Malley, a likely story," interrupted Charlie with scorn.

The policemen told us to drive to the station and that they would follow. I got behind the wheel and tried to start the machine. After several fruitless attempts the officers became impatient so O'Malley drove our car while the other followed in the cruiser.

Although it was three o'clock in the morning, there were quite a number of "civilians" in the station. A number of them were the weeping mothers of teenage boys who had been brought in on their first drunken charge. A stern police sergeant was presiding. When Charlie's turn came the court again grew silent. The little man with the big belly, scantily clad and wearing a heavy growth of hair on his face stood defiantly in front of the sergeant's desk.

"Young man, have you been drinking?" inquired the austere officer of the law.

"Of cour-r-rse, stupid," replied Charlie, rolling his "r" as the Spanish do.

The somber scene changed to one of merriment. The erstwhile despondent mothers were laughing so hard that tears were rolling from their eyes. All three of us spent the weekend in jail.

Signed Higgins

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