Christophers Napkin Sketch by Al Gleichman Krash Khronicles - Key West Khronicles Konclusion 1985

Krash Khronicles 01/13/85
(Key West Khronicles Konclusion)

Well, it-s late Sunday, and I've had just about all the fun at the drafting board that I can stand at one time. Jackson and Cee are in the back finishing up the Boynton Trail Center site plan resubmission. I'm still behind on 'good ole what's his name's' house addition, but I'm also about two months behind on these miscellaneous ramblings too. Joe Butler is urging me to finish his project, but Dash is urging me to update the Khronicles .... Guess who has the stronger pull on my attention.

I left off last at the beginning of race day with Krash jr. filling me in on the previous day's indiscretions. When we got back to our lodgings, I cleaned up and retired to the balcony to crack another Budweiser and watch the people below working on the raceboats. It seems I wasn't the only one to party too much. Bob Casper, dana's sidekick, developed chest pains earlier of such severity that they had the paramedics in the other timeshare unit working on him with oxygen and I.V. bottles. It seemed to dampen Bob's spirits to the point that he never did have much fun after the incident. It is about 11:00 AM now and the Budweiser is starting to make me feel a little better as we watch people arrive for the race. I spy a big guy approaching from the north who looks vaguely familar. He looks like a biker. He is wearing a black teeshirt with white lettering proclaiming 'I'm a slut!'.

"Craig, I know that guy! But I don't know from where.'

As I search my clouded brain, the big guy in question scans the balconies as he walks. His eyes suddenly focus on me and he begins to yell at the top of his lungs.

'I know you! I had to kick you out of my bar last night!!'

Others in the crowd stop and momentarily divide their attention between me and the bouncer. He moves over under the balcony.

'Ya have any more of those buds up there?'

'Sure, hold on a minute.'

I go to the refrigerator for another beer as he relates his version of the previous evening to the other Vanderpersons. I toss the beer down to him.


'Hope I wasn't causin' ya too much trouble last night.'

"Naw, You were just real drunk. You were walkin' into walls and not stoppin'. And yeh, you were singin' with the band, but you were way out of key. Everytime I kicked you out, ya wandered back in the other side! You're a crazy fuck!'

'Thanks, I guess.'

A few more minutes of these antics and the bouncer wandered away to find a good place to view the race. I turned to Derek. He just shook his head and grinned. We wandered downstairs to get a closer look at the boats. Some Cubans had set up a sandwich stand specializing in pork delicacies from the mother island. Bobby Silvia came over to me and offered me a slab of some kind of brown mystery meat. I bit into it and swallowed. A greasy hunk of goo hit the bottom of my stomach and rebounded with the energy of a superball. The stuff was pure hog belly fat! I would be tasting it and burping for days. I threw it into the water. Not even the fish wanted it. I have been to three of these events thus far, and everytime I've lost it from too much partying before the race. This day turns out to be no exception. I have once again lost it and once again people will wonder when I tell them I was at the Key West Powerboat race and don't know who the fuck won the thing! My body watched it, but I wasn't there.

After the race, we take one last boat ride around the Island. Derek, Isabelle, Bill and Fay, Bobby and Judy, Krash jr. and I are aboard. At one point I discovered that the WRONG room I'd stumbled into the previous night belonged to none other than Bobby and Judy. This was impressed upon me rather unexpectedly by Bobby.

'What the hell were you doin' in my room with me an' mah wife last night?!'

'I'm sorry, Bob. I didn't know you were gonna be there.'

I don't quite understand it, but Bobby lets this pass without further comment. Later on the ride I decide to complement Judy to improve upon the situation. She is standing next to the helm and I am sitting behind her. I notice she has Black running shoes and ankle socks with a white lace 'bracelet' on each foot.

'Judy, you shore got ugly boots, but I luv ya anyway!'

Krash jr., who is sitting beside me, moves quickly away. Bobby looks at me with mild shock, makes a decision and turns back to the ocean. I am once again confused. It isn't 'til later That Krash jr. informs me that everyone thought I said BOOBS instead of boots.

When we return, Krash jr., Bobby Brant, "Good Old What's His Name' and I Did what we do best: Pub Crawl. We ended up in a seedy place called Tony's. It's much the same kind of establishment as the Propeller Club on Fort Lauderdale Beach. For those of you who don't know, It's almost, but not quite, one of those places where they check you for guns and knives at the door, and if you don't have any, they give you some for self-protection. We sit at the main bar. There is the upper torso of a female mannekin anchored to the bar directly in front of me. The rest of the group drag me from the place when I buy the dummy a drink and arrange for a date with her later in the evening. I don't understand why they did that. She was the first girl to ever listen to everything I had to say! I was in love.

We stumbled back to our lodgings, and I passed out. It was only five in the afternoon, but I was beyond my limit of endurance. I would not move again from the bed until Sunday morning. The others continued on bravely. I was told later that Derek hailed a cab in front of the Galleon after dinner. Said cab already had passengers, but Hell, this was an emergency!

'Ah neeed this cab. Ya all won't mind. Nother one be 'long soon.' (I assume Derek is in his famous Foghorn Leghorn mode).

'scuse me buddy this taxi is taken.'

'Don' ya understan', SON, Ahh need to get to the Galleon right away!'

'We're in front of the galleon, FUCK-HEAD!" (The cabbie becomes emphatic.)

Derek eventally makes it to the Galleon, despite this momentary setback.


It is Sunday morning, check-out day. I am laying on my back, in bed, trembling slightly at times, uncontrollably at others. This is always the effect of my next-to-no-food, all beer binges. Paybacks are a bitch, and this one is just beginning. Occasionlly, I do a horizontal, Warner Brothers Tasmanian Devil spin. I can't help it, one minute I'm still and then I spin like a G.E. turbine for three seconds or so. These attacks come about every fifteen minutes. I begin to time them, hoping I don't give birth to an ulcer. Twisted thoughts from a twisted mind caused by a twisted body. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming and force myself to get up. I shower and change into my freshest clothes for the journey home, still two hundred plus miles away by boat. I crack a Bud and wait on the balcony for the others to rise. I have a problem. I can't get the Goddamn can to my mouth without spilling the brew all over me. That cursed, self-induced palsey again. I finally get about a third of the bud inside which will calm my nerves enough to get two thirds of the next one in. limited progress. The others get up and we go to breakfast. I manage to get an English muffin and some coffee down. Bobby Silvia is lovin' it. 'Fuckin' non-hacker' echoes through the deep recesses of my skull. We settle up at the Galleon and load the Manta. Homeward bound.

We cruise up the east side of the Island edgin' up to fifty-plus mph. It is a good day. Weather and sea conditions couldn't be better, but I won't enjoy it much. The 'fleet' gradually surrounds us, and the eight or so of us keep pace up the coast. My last offical act is to take some pictures of the other boats while trying to keep a grip on the fantail. The others move in close to us in tight formation. It turns into a scene straight out of "Miami Vice". Derek throttles back. The fools in the fleet are too close, twelve to twenty feet. It would only take one steering line to snap, and there would be several burials at sea without benefit of clergy. One of the fleet returns to see if we need assistance. We tell him it's just a beer break, but thanks, you go on ahead. We'll catch up later (and we do). I settle down by the engines, as I did after the Fort Myers race, and let their noise grind away at my condition. Next event I'll have to take a lady to keep me out of harm's way. My thoughts slowly begin to drift through the refrain from Jimmy Buffet's 'Tryin' to reason with Hurricane season', and I silently repeat it over and over.

And now I must confess,

I could use some rest.

I can't run at this pace very long.

I know it's quite insane,

I think it hurts the brain. But, then it cleans me out, and then I can go on.

END OF THE KEY WEST KHRONICLES, 1984 (Thank God, it's only once a year.)


Last updated: 8/3/96