As only Charles Walsh can do, another encounter with The Old Geezer:
As we sat admiring the firm head of foam on a pint of exotic suds in the vast tap room of the new Brewport Brewery over by Harbor Yard, we spotted a familiar figure sprawled at a corner table. If we had any doubt as to that figure’s identity, the costume, wool tweed overcoat, knitted watch cap over plastic flip flops, erased it.
Us: Say there old timer, what are you doing away from your seawall bench? Somebody might need a lifeguard.
Old Geezer: Well my stars, sonny-boy, how’s life treatin’ ya?
Us: Not bad. So, are you a regular here?
OG: Sonny, the place just opened. Gimme time. No, the management was nice enough to spot me to a couple of brewskis when I stepped in the test the AC this morning. “Which of our many craft beers would you like to sample?” the barkeep asks me. Until that very moment I thought Kraft only made instant Mac ‘n’ Cheese. Beer, who knew?
Us: Well … oh never mind. Cheers. You been checking out the election campaign?
OG: Sonny, if you know a way to avoid checking out this campaign please enlighten me. I don’t even own a TV (my crystal set still brings in Pittsburgh) and the non-stop blather is still corrupting my admittedly pickled brain. But you know what? This fella Trump reminds me of a younger me. His mouth and his brain work pretty much simultaneously. He figures if he can think something, he can say it, so why bother thinkin’ before you’re sayin’? This is great if what you think doesn’t make somebody want to slug you, or worse, muss your hairdo. With me it was a tendency to, let’s say, be a bit too explicit when admiring a some of the abbreviated swim attire on the young and lovely ladies who glided by my bench. Sonny, you can’t believe the arm strength on some of them babes … I mean women. After a couple of neck-wrenching slaps I learned to move my mouth only AFTER running a thought through my common sense filter. It’s a common problem with us megalomaniacs. We believe everything we think is something people are dying to hear. Take it from me, sonny, they aren’t. Ole Donny-boy may be starting to get that concept, but it may be too late. Hey barkeep, how ’bout another round Kraft IPAs?
Us: So you’re a Hillary guy.
OG: Just a friggin’ minute Sonny. You said that, not me. You know the amount of nervous system rewiring a man my age would have to do to admit that there’s another place for a woman in the White House besides the kitchen? In a way Clinton and Trump are cut from the same cheesy supermarket pizza. It’s genetically impossible for either of ’em to admit they made a mistake. They think the words ‘I’m sorry’ will make their heads explode. Hilly’s explanation for those “classified email” boo boos, needed faster footwork than an over-caffeinated Irish step dancer.
Us: On another subject, we were wondering, as a beach resident, do you worry about getting bitten by a Zika mosquito?
OG: Ha! Sonny, my hide is so thick they have to use a small electric drill to give me a flu shot. Mosquitoes take one look at my leather and go look for a rhinoceros to bite. I heard there’s a Zika vaccine in the pipeline, but Congress won’t come up with the dough to finish the job. Hey, nice. My suggestion is lock the whole bunch of them in a room full of the little flyin’ monsters (mosquitoes not Congress people) and see how long it takes to get a yea vote. My guess: less time than it takes to scratch a fat tuchus.