H.T.B: The Legend

It was as if the wise and weathered megalomaniacs from the nautical tales of Conrad, Stevenson, and Melville all fused into one, and we just happened to sit next to him.

A few housemates and I went to a pub, adequately named “The Boater.” It’s right near the river that runs through Bath, but we had no idea it attracted the sea-fairing sorts. We got our drinks and sat down in a corner of the bar. The tiny tables in front of us had very elaborate carvings on them, and we realized that there were faces by our nether regions. So we joked about how they must enjoy that, being on every leg of every table. “They’re probably all over the place,” I commented, “they’ve positioned themselves strategically around the world!”

A gruff voice interjected.

“And how would ye do that?”

We turned, and there sat a portly old man. His small, delicate hands were cradling a gin and tonic, which he was burning a hole through with his green eyes.

“How,” he asked, finally turning his head toward us, as if it was a great burden, “how would ye strategically place yourself around the world?”

“Well,” I said, hoping I could joke my way out of the exchange, “it’s a very complicated process…”

“I’ll tell ye,” he grunted. “I know a thing or two about positioning yourself around the world. Y’see, I’m a mariner.”

We all showed the adequate amount of surprise and respect.

“I just got back from Nigerian waters, the worst place I ever been. And I’ve sailed five of the seven seas. Twelve of me men was kidnapped-”

“Kidnapped?” I asked in shock.

He raised an eyebrow.

“What, ye haven’t heard?” He tossed his head back and gave a hearty chortle, creating an expression that made me feel incredibly ignorant.

“Why, I’m not lyin’! Here, I carry two passports, one full.” He took two passports from his black jacket pocket, and handed them to me. “Go on,” he said, “take a look.” Sure enough, stamps from Nigeria. “Y’see this watch?”

He then removed his watch and passed it around the table.

“If I ever get kidnapped meself, I pull that there knob, it sends a beacon out to the royal navy. It costs a fortune to get rescued; my wife would probably say ‘keep him!’”

We were all amazed, and he could clearly tell.

“I give a good story, don’t I? I’m from Whales, like all those great actors who come from Whales, I have presence, I know how to deliver!” He lifted his hands and deepened his voice, “Anthony Hopkins, Richard Burton, they all got it.” He patted my friend Amanda on the knee. “Do I scare ye? Don’t be scared, what’re you drinkin’?”
“Jack and coke,” she answered.”

“Jack and coke!” He exclaimed, “Well now! When you’ve known Jack Daniels as long as I have, you call him Jon! Jon Daniels!”

He looked around at the rest of us at the table.

“Know your movies, Paccino said it. You’ll be looking for that quote for seven days, I guarantee, and then you’ll find it. Then you’ll think back, and say ‘that bloke we met in the pub was tellin’ the truth!’” He chuckled, and then leaned in. “Because, y’see, you will never, ever hear a lie from me. And that’s the truth.”

So, am I to believe that a man who knows the value of giving a good performance will never tell a lie? He asked us our names, and then introduced himself.

“I’m Harry, but you can call me what all the shipmates call me. H.T.B., Harry The Bastard.”

So he bought us some drinks, and we offered to buy him one. He scoffed, and whipped out a receipt for his paycheck. It was over 9,000 pounds. “Now who’s buying who drinks?”

Then he took us down some stone steps closer to the water, and took us under a bridge to a shady nightclub. The bouncer told us all there was a pound cover charge. Harry told him he knows the manager, and he went to talk to him. He came back and got us in for free. The club had lots of fluorescent flashing lights and loud music, with little hidden caves everywhere with separate DJs and dance floors.

Harry sat us down, jerked his hand toward the dance floor, and tried to talk over the music. Apparently, he claimed to have been part of “London’s underground dance club scene” in the eighties. He gave me names of location, no doubt meant to impress, but they were meaningless. But, because of those glory days, people know him, and he gets in for free.

He started to roll his own cigarette and told us never to start smoking. He looked at my roommate.

“Do you golf?”

“What?”

“Golf. At the end of your life, you’ve done one of two things: you either were a golfer, or you were a sailor.”

To his surprise, my roommate has sailed before.

“Well then,” Harry said, “you can trust him. He’s a sailor.”

There where too many gems like this one to recount, but then things got a little weird when he asked me to accept Christ as my savior.

“I can’t really do that,” I said, “my last name is Kantrowitz.”
“That’s alright,” he exclaimed “mine’s Silverman!”

I don’t know if we’ll ever see Harry again. Although he has my roommate’s number and offered to take us for a ride on his narrowboat, I have a feeling he likes to maintain the appearance of a murky enigma. He struck me as an effective showman, one who knows that the novelty can wear off after too much exposure.