Know him?

OILY OYL

 

His biceps are taut. They bulge like rounded rocks, barely squeezing thru his tightly knit sleeves. He's exercising almost every minute he isn't eating, sleeping or chasing his girlfriend around her bunk. Just about everyone calls him Pop, including me, although, I don't know for sure if he ever was married, has any kids. What I do know for sure is he's not my father, I wouldn't want to live with him. He'd be pushing me into his machines, his gadgets all the time. Pop teases me, slaps me around, wants to make a man out of me. Hell, he'd flip if he knew a I already have a hot girlfriend. Linda is her name. My bragging is a bit exaggerated as I only have a crush on Lucy and she barely knows I'm alive. 

 

Pop has his Fourth of July plans ready. They include Olivetta, his current lady and me. I tell him if he is taking her along, I would be a third wheel and thus am forced to mention Linda. He lifts his thick eyebrows and gives me a big wink with his only eye that has 20 vision. Often he wears a patch over his left eye. I have noticed how much he likes the attention when some nerd asks him what is wrong with that eye. Pop has a different tale to tell every time. Even I don't know the truth.

 

July 1, Pop invites me to go with him to rent a decent boat, not too big, not too little. What do I know about boats? Zippo, but Pop wants company and has me trapped. He has gone to the yellow pages and located a few rental shops listed on a scrap pad that has a  red, white and blue flag as its cover page. That reminds me at once that Pop has a large tattoo of our flag  on his left arm's huge muscle. It is almost always hidden by his striped knit shirts.

 

Using the process of elimination, we rule out canoes, kayaks, row boats,  fishing boats, yachts. What's left is a sightseeing boat that holds about thirty people. There are lavatories, a lunch counter, a non-alcoholic bar, benches, wooden lounges with folding cushions. Sight-seeing is meaningless. We'll float past the newly built City Hall, a light house from the 1800's that hasn't been lit once in our lifetimes combined. Pop brought along an ice chest for a few beers and ham sandwiches in plastic zip bags. We walk the deck, talk to strangers, smell the engine's oil. The odor gets stronger and stronger as Olivetta gets closer to the railing. She looks like she is about to throw up. Pop and I move back. 'Pop yells out, 'Thar she goes,' and Linda gags so hard she almost falls overboard. The oily odor envelops the boat. The captain in a cheap sailor's cap that must have come from the five and dime wears it rakishly over one eye. The loudspeaker squawks, 'Don't be alarmed folks. We ain't leakin'. Something is going on and I'm gonna find out what it is. Have a coke on me. No charge.'

 

He walks around the deck, sniffing, sniffing until he reaches the woman who is still hanging over the rail, calming her insides. He stops and sniffs, discovers Olivetta is the oil carrier. She cries out, 'Pop, Pop, Popeye! They know. They know who I am', but they don't. She stands up straight on her skinny legs and announces over the bullhorn, 'Ladies and Gentlemen, let my friend Popeye, the Sailor Man, show you what true love is. I am Olive Oyl, the stinky Olive Oyl, and Popeye has loved me since the 1930's. I'll move to the lea side until you can breathe easily again.

 

Look, look over there. I think a light has gone on in the old lighthouse. Write about your adventure in your diaries. Tell your friends about your experience. They won't believe you, but tell them anyhow. You may never see Popeye and me again, unless you find the falling down wooden house on Carpenter St. #1930. That's  where the funny papers play games on Sundays.'