Crocodile Dummy
View From the Edge
By Brian Sanders
I had some friends over for drinks, heavy appetizers and some music. A casual affair … initially. We had music via my CD player (Van Morrison, the current CD of choice), but there was also a guitar, a harmonica and a drum. All at our random convenience of course, but it was late and I have neighbors, so we had a CD in, with the volume at an acceptable level. We also had Macho Nachos, adult beverages and great weather. It was summertime! The Atlantic Ocean crashing in the distance, a pleasant breeze, amazingly low humidity, good company and good F&B. What in the world could go wrong?
My new roommate had a friend in town from the great state of Virginia and I was providing a place for him to lay his head. Ron is a cool guy, perhaps a little wound-up, but my roommate vouches for him. My roommate, however, was out of town. I was left solo entertaining Ron and my other four guests, and unfortunately, having to keep the peace.
Crocodile Dummy approached the deck from Bert’s Market, appreciating the Van Morrison and wanting to know if he could come up and join us. I was pondering this, assessing the six of us already on the deck, our level of awareness, level of intoxication, etc… Before I could process the many variables, Ron yells, “Come on up!”
“Only if you bring some beer,” I quickly added, walking to the deck rail. I figured I already had enough guests, and if I had to entertain him as well, there’s no reason why he can’t carry his own. I was being proactive. And besides…WTF?
“Ron, what the f**k? Do you know him?” I’m thinking. Ron gives me a silly grin, as if reading my thoughts. Crocodile Dummy gives an affirmative double-thumbs up and heads back to Bert’s Market, a mere twenty yards away. Good so far, I guess. I return to my other guests, three of them laughing, chatting and sipping their beers; one though, passed-out with guitar in his lap.
Crocodile Dummy is back in a flash and climbs the steps to the deck, a twelve-pack of PBR in hand. We shake hands, introduce ourselves and I pass him off to Ron. Again, I turn to my other guests, those awake anyway. He and Ron start conversing like long-lost friends. Perhaps it was more like two giddy teenagers, but I guess I’m just older. Oh, and I’m more sober.
‘Crocodile Dummy’ is twenty-something, 200 lbs. and about 6’, perhaps 6’3” with his Dingo boots. I haven’t seen ‘Dingos’ since the ‘80s, OJ-era. He was wearing too-tight jeans, a long sleeve denim shirt and some sort of skinned reptile hat with a big brim. I kinda liked the hat. But…he did have a large buck knife on his right side, attached to a ‘trucker’ belt – an overly-thick leather belt with an equally overly-sized buckle. Despite the bling, the buck knife sorta caught my attention. He, unfortunately, did earn his moniker that night: Crocodile ‘Dummy.’ It kinda had something to do with the knife.
After about ten minutes I enter the kitchen for a fresh round of beers and a vodka and fresh orange juice for me. I’m full of nachos and beer and just want a final nightcap. I find, upon my return indoors: Ron and Crocodile Dummy are at the kitchen sink slamming beers in some disturbing race mode. There are already six beer cans in the sink, all crushed with odd puncture wounds at the bottom of each can.
I laugh to myself and open the fridge, removing three bottles of Blue Moon and a Tupperware container of orange slices. I’m topping off my vodka and juice when Ron taps me on the shoulder.
“Brian, you time us. Twenty bucks!”
“Okay,” I respond, sitting the beers, orange slices and my cocktail on a nearby table. This could be entertaining, no doubt. I give them my undivided attention, except that I’m chewing on a fat slice of orange at the same time. I’m multi-tasking, but I’ve assumed a referee stance, hands on hips, eyes forward… passionately chewing on an orange slice. “Game on,” I nod.
Ron and Crocodile Dummy square-off at the kitchen sink, fresh cans of PBR raised like cocked and loaded six-shooters. They quickly glance at each other and…the cans fly with a crack, a fizz, more crackling, and much slurping and sucking. Mere seconds pass before Ron slams his crushed can into the sink first, but Crocodile Dummy quickly follows. His can, however, hits the edge of the sink and bounces onto the floor. Beer spills from it, foamy on my carpet.
“Ron won,” I announce and toss the stray can into the sink. Ron does this whole Rocky thing, followed by a mighty burp – at least a 7 on the Richter scale. I step between them to the sink and lift Ron’s crushed can and drop it. It is crushed, cashed and empty. I step away. Crocodile Dummy begins to adamantly protest, he and Ron bumping beer bellies, both yelling bullshit. I wait until the man-love subsides and again step in.
“Ron won,” I repeat and gather up the outside drinks, my lovely orange ‘health drink’ included. I’m back on the deck, passing around the beers, orange slices and a bottle opener, finally tasting my vitamin C vodka. Then the beer swillers come out onto the deck, still arguing of course. This goes on for some time, both of these knuckleheads climbing in volume over intellect. I became weary of it, unable to hear Van Morrison or even converse with my friends. WTF?
“Shut the f**k up!” I yell, yet once again stepping between them. Ron backs down. But, you guessed it…Crocodile Dummy begins yelling at me. Damn! I look up, beyond him, and lift my arms in supplication, each hand about shoulder-height. Ron moves behind me to the deck rail and Crocodile Dummy finishes whatever point he had in mind. I really wasn’t paying attention to his tirade, but I’m guessing it had something to do with the science of speed-drinking. He lifts a fresh PRB and draws hard. At least there was only one hole in the can, I noticed. I also noticed that the beer is in his left hand, his right hidden at his side. Earlier, he had been slamming beers with his right hand. Damn.
“Watch that knife!” I hear Ron shout. Crocodile Dummy had just turned to face me, the now empty PBR can crushed in his left, and even worse, he was about to yell more bullshit in my face. That right hand is still out of my view.
I, however, had had enough. Screaming in my face, his right hand out of my view, a damned knife on right hip…I decided it was time to be even more proactive. With my hands still at shoulder-height, I slam both into Crocodile Dummy’s chest, dead center and drove hard.
He literally flies across the deck, landing on his back atop a lounge chair, both he and the chair crashing into the far corner of the deck. I notice his right arm was trapped underneath, perhaps still reaching for that knife? His hat is AWOL and his crushed PBR can clattered across the deck. Awkwardly tangled with the chair, Crocodile Dummy is at a big disadvantage. I’ve taken three long strides to be over him. My fists are balled.
“Get the f**k off my deck!” I bark with a stern glare and then pause to make sure I had his attention. I had his ‘undivided’ attention.
“Oh, and pay up the twenty you owe.” I add, calm and clear now, but still hovering. He doesn’t bother to try to get up, but takes out his wallet and removes a thick wad of bills. A twenty floats to the deck. Unfortunately, Ron seeing the wad of money, starts toward him.
“No!” I tell Ron, my left arm pushing him back. “Go while you still can,” I tell Crocodile Dummy, continuing to push Ron back. Now, the title of ‘Crocodile Dummy’ had never really come into play until now, but in the flurry of things, I do remember someone other than Ron shouting just that. There seemed to be a cheering section against poor Crocodile Dummy. If it wasn’t for that silly knife, things might have been different. I figured the best for all involved would be if he just went on his way.
“Let’s take ALL his s**t,” Ron roars, pushing against my restraining arm. I push Ron back even harder. Crocodile Dummy quickly scurried (is that redundant?) off the deck, his silly OJ Dingo boots thumping down the wooden deck stairs, eventually clumping down the asphalt of East Ashley Avenue – going west, toward Center Street. I give Ron a final hard push, sigh and snatch up the twenty.
“Take this over to Bert’s and buy a damn chill pill,” I tell Ron, planting the twenty on the table. Ron starts to argue, but catches himself. He scoops up the twenty.
“How about some more beer?” He grins, making for the stairs Crocodile Dummy had just stumbled down. Ron’s really not waiting for an answer, snickering all the way to Bert’s, but I’m not done yet.
“None of that damned PBR!” I yell, leaning over the deck rail for what I hope is the end. I finally collapse into a nearby chair. I’m draining my vodka and orange and getting high fives from my three awake and peaceful guests when my one slumbering guest, guitar still in his lap, turns and asks:
“Brian, is there any PBR left?”
Brian Sanders owns the Lunch Hook restaurant on Folly Beach. You can reach him at bp.sands1034@gmail.com.
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