Two weeks ago I was in a mixed-race bar seated between the blacks and the whites—the United Nations representative in that inebriated little world. To my right sat the middle-aged Michael Jordan look-alike who was working his way into the fat girl across the bar one shot of tequila at a time. To my left was ‘Get a Room’, the forty-something drunk stoner couple who shoot dope in the alley, step into the bar to chug beer by the bucket, and then neck and dry-hump in the walkway, doing their best to give monogamy a bad name. The aging ho with the high-heel earrings is not on station so it has not become a sleaze-fest yet.

The drive up muggings have apparently abated in this area, as I’m not getting any interview leads, so I’m about ready to pack it in. Then a tall long-haired brunette of a girly man with a long aquiline nose and the scruffiest beard a testosterone deficient post-apocalyptic hippie can manage, walks in—dressed like Captain Morgan! The Captain has it all: knee high boots, broad belt, hat, open long-tailed jacket—and a sword.

The Captain, at six-four and a buck-sixty, stands imperiously behind Get a Room. The dyke barmaid asks if he needs anything and he gives her a raised eye-brow and finger, that I think meant, ‘Hold your fire until we are astern boys’. She returns to chilling glasses. Get a Room take a break from their unsuccessful procreation efforts and beginning heckling The Captain, “Ahoy matey’, ‘Arrgh, rum’ and then perform a duet rendition of a song with a chorus about men sitting on a dead man’s chest.

The Captain remained aloof and silent, so the female component of Get a Room said, “Hey we’re talking pirate to you.”

The Captain stepped behind me and sneered, “No self-respecting pirate would use such low order speech. We are the nobility of the Seven Seas.”

The pirate song resumes from Get a Room to my left as they are joined by an annihilated redneck up front, who reminds them that it was bottles that were on the dead man’s chest.

Michael to my right takes his focus off the overstuffed white spandex across the bar long enough to whisper to me, “Dude has a sword!”

The Captain than waives over the barmaid.

She asks, “What ‘ill it be hon?”

“A shot.”

“A shot of what?”

He turns his head in a measured way, as if he is used to being disappointed by his wait staff, and sneers, “Rum.”

“What kind of rum?”

He disdains to answer and Get a Room comes to the rescue, chiming in with both sets of pipes at the same time, “Captain Morgan!”

The Captain nods his ascent as he hooks his thumbs into his broad belt. When the shot comes he counts out coin, including pennies, to pay for it. He then takes the shot against the rail behind Michael and begins to sip menacingly with one boot back against the wall. Michael looks at me with his shoulders hunched forward and head ducked, as if he is expecting to be stabbed in the back, “What the fuck!?!”

I just nodded at The Captain, and Michael, getting my meaning, turns, “Hey Captain is that a real sword?”

The Captain then draws what seems to me to be some kind of straight single-edged boarding sword, with a cup hilt, about 20 inches long. Michael whispers, “Jesus, time for me to expedite matters.”

Michael moves to the other side of the bar and buys more top shelf tequila for the fat girl and begins whispering in her ear. I am left with The Captain, who finishes his rum at a measured pace and then strolls out to a cheer of “Arrgh matey” from Get a Room and their white trash cohorts.

I was left wondering about the eccentric Captain for nearly a week, until I was taking an early morning walk through the alleys and back streets near the bar and noticed him in standard hippie regalia, his long hair in a peace-and-love ponytail, and a guitar in his hand. He was headed to the main corner to set up and play for change.

When I passed him again a few moments later he was going through the high-volume trash bin on the corner where he would play, retrieving discarded bottles of soda, water, and tea, and drinking what was left—after, of course, he checked for any floating cigarette butts.

A man must have his standards after all.

James, 9/5/13