HOW KELLY GOT THE MONEY

Kelly and the Blind Bottle Bout

Navy guys take their drinking seriously.  They are far more tactical and particular about its use and availability.  No doubt it’s some long institutional memory about being aboard ship.  Miles from anywhere.  With no booze.

Marines on the other hand, at least those not at sea, are less up against it, so to speak.  Targets of opportunity abound.

In the military, boredom is often the uniform of the day.  It is one thing to have an exciting job.  It is an entirely different thing when your job is either not needed or is needed on a short term basis. 

When you are not needed, you train endlessly, pointlessly.  Or you sit on your duff.

And drink.

I never drank alcohol before I joined the service.  Then I got real good at it.  There was lots of encouragement, all the way from up top, to drink. 

We had regular beer busts.  We played drinking games, like Whales Tails, in which you had to repeat an increasingly long string of dissociated terms in succession. 

Or chug a glass of beer if you couldn’t.

Camaraderie.

For some, it was the classroom for later years of binge-drinking and war memories.  And eventually cirrhosis.  I guess.

A fair conclusion might be that the military is actually a sub-division of some Infernal distillery.  That the Devil himself has a small but significant say in how things run.

One Friday, while stationed in Puerto Rico - after one of these beer busts - Kelly suggested that we go eat over on Rosy Roads.  Then go to the Navy NCO Club there.

At the chow hall, dinner consisted of what we called ‘mystery meat’.  Some unknown part of some unknown beast.  Submerged in a metric ton of ‘gravy’.

Early evening.  We entered the Navy club.  The place went quiet.

Marines. 

We got the "what the fuck are you doing here" look. 

Of course, Kelly being Kelly, knew a guy at the bar and gave him a half-assed salute. 

The Navy guy returned in kind. 

 

“They’re friendlies.”

The club was up a flight of stairs on the second floor, above Dispersal.  Filled to capacity, the room was hot sticky humid.  Almost hard to breathe.

As noted, Navy guys have very elaborate rituals concerning their libation. 

Serious stuff.  No Whales Tails here.

Finding seats at the end of the bar, we took everything in.  The chatter was all about the two bottles on the bar.  Scotch.  Except you wouldn’t know it.  Both were wrapped in a brown paper bag with only the top of the bottle exposed for pouring.

A real drinking contest was brewing.

There were only two spots.  One hundred dollars per contestant.  Winner gets five hundred.

All Kelly had to hear was scotch.

Unable to contain himself, he tossed five twenties on the bar.

“I’m in!”

Some Navy guys started to grouse. 

One voice said to let the sucker learn a lesson.

“He doesn’t know about Norman.”

A rumble of excitement came from the direction of the men’s head.  The murmur got louder and closer.  A small cheer arose and the crowd parted.  A hulking figure worked its way through to the bar.

Norman.

Picture a bear with a crew cut.  

He looked like he could drain an aquarium.  Fish and all.

He took the seat next to Kelly.  Sweating profusely. 

He looked hot.  Angry. 

Ready for a short bout of public exposure.

Kelly grinned at me.  Like he wanted me to believe it.

The bartender motioned Kelly close.

“You know what you’re getting into here.  Right?  Three minutes.”

He looked for a rise in Kelly.

“Okay, pal.  Just so you know.  Norman’s record is eleven.  Most people don’t get past eight.  You have to drink at least nine shots to win.”

Kelly waved him off.

The barman shrugged.  

 

"Your funeral."

 

The rules were straightforward.

Bartender pours.  Drink one and a half ounce shots of scotch whiskey.  As many as you can.  In three minutes.

Next he explained that the bottles were covered because one of them contained only a few ounces. 

“The person who gets the last drink poured out of that bottle, pays for both bottles used in the contest.”

The bartender waited for Kelly to parse it all in his head.

“Oh.  And Gentlemen.  One more thing.  As most people know, we have a tradition here in this bar.”

The crowd let out a raucous cheer. 

“The winner must walk twenty feet - in a straight line - before he can collect his winnings.”

Norman snorted and spit on the floor.

Kelly screwed up his forehead.  Huh.

On the floor a faded dotted line ran to the right from our end of the bar.  It ended at the door by the stairwell.  Across the landing was the entrance to the club’s dining room.

  

Raising his hand like a school kid, Kelly called the bartender over.

“Are there any other rules I should know about?”

The bartender gave him a funny look. 

A little annoyed, he assured Kelly there weren’t any others he could think of.

The bartender was a retired Chief Petty Officer.  Razor sharp.  In charge of everything. 

He ran a tidy operation.  

Two guys went through the crowd taking bets and collecting dollars. 

Free form betting.  It was wild.  Big money.

Only a few put their money on Kelly.

The bartender rang the ship’s bell above the register.

“Gentlemen.  It’s time.”

There are two kinds of gamblers.  The brash.  And the thinkers.

Kelly knew which Norman was from the start. 

The bartender began by pouring a shot for each.

Norman slammed it down and asked for another. 

Then two more in quick succession. 

Four shots.  All in under a minute.

Kelly slowly finished sipping his first.

Norman glowered at Kelly and demanded another.

The bartender poured half a shot into Norman’s glass.  The bottle was empty.

Already ornery, Norman slammed the bar.  The bottles were on him.

Kelly asked for his second shot.  From the new bottle.

Then three more.  Which he drank.  Slowly.

Five shots.

Down the hatch, Norman huffed another two. 

Seven.

Kelly drank two more slowly.  

Seven.

Norman, almost white, drank two more. 

Nine drinks.

A little more than a minute to go. 

Kelly drank two more.  Sipping each gently.

Nine. 

Tied.

Kelly’s deliberateness was having an effect on Norman. 

And.  So was the booze.

The fetid air choked the big man for oxygen.

  

Kelly looked fuzzy.

But Norman looked on the ropes.

“Gentlemen.  Sixty seconds remaining.” 

Norman, hand shaking, drank another and sank into his bar chair. 

Ten shots.  

The bartender, ready to call the match for Norman, looked at Kelly.

Kelly held up two fingers. 

The barkeep obliged.

Kelly lifted the first shot to his lips.  He took a half swig and put the glass on the bar.

And then... the unthinkable.

He vomited.  Into an ice bucket on the bar.

The place went wild.

“He’s done.  Norman wins.  You can’t throw up in a drinking contest!”

Unfazed, Kelly wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 

The crowd started to get ugly.

The bartender rang the bell and shouted for quiet.

Kelly remained calm.  He put both hands on the bar.

“When I asked about any other rules, you never said a thing about throwing up!”

The bartender reluctantly agreed.

 
“I still have time.”

Loud boos erupted.

Kelly drank the rest of the former shot. 

The bartender looked at the clock.

Kelly stared hard at the remaining one and a half ounces.

Ten seconds.

Norman began to say something, but decided it was too much effort.

Kelly licked his lips and looked someplace far away.  

In a single motion, he launched the liquid off the bar and down his gullet.

Three seconds left on the clock. 

ELEVEN SHOTS!  KELLY WON!!

Defeated and cross-eyed, Norman shrugged.  And left. 

 

The place went dead silent. 

Then everything went ballistic.

Shrieks of joy came from the few who had bet on Kelly. 

Those who thought the whole thing stunk started to gripe. 

Loudly.

There was going to be mayhem on a grand scale. 

All that money!

The bartender rang the bell so hard it wouldn’t ring any more.

Kelly looked like a slow motion collision.  I had never seen him so hammered.

A roar came up from the crowd.

“Walk the Plank!  Walk the Plank!”

Oh no.  The line on the floor!

“Walk the Plank!”

Two-thirds of a bottle of scotch in three minutes.  Kelly was too drunk to stand.

Nobody really believed he could actually do it.

I didn’t.

Kelly was sopping with sweat.  His shirt was soaked.  He made an effort to stand but found he wasn’t quite ready. 

I offered to help him and the guy next to me slapped my hand back.

“He does it on his own here, Gyrene.”

Kelly closed his eyes and somehow drew himself up.

Unsteady as a two year old, he slinked his way off his seat.

Halting step by wobbly mis-step, he plowed forward.  Flailing his arms like a drowning swimmer, he cleared a path through the angry crowd.

After a couple of feet, he got some momentum going.

Too much.

He couldn’t quite find the brakes about the time the stairs appeared at the end of his careening charge.

Oh shit.

Down he went.  Ass over tin-cups.

All the way to the bottom.

Everyone ran to the stairs. 

There was Kelly.  At the bottom.  All banged up.  

Sitting up.  Laughing.

  

A couple of people helped him back up the stairs.

  

The bartender warned everyone that Kelly had won the money fair and square.

He counted out five hundred dollars and gave it to Kelly.

Kelly immediately bought the entire house a round. 

A cheer arose.  Then lots of laughter.

We got out with our lives. 

And five hundred large.

jIMmcCORMICK  6-27-16