Popeye the Sailor, An Outsider’s Perspective

Pensacola, Florida 

I gotta tell someone about what I saw. Really, it was the damdedest thing. So I sometimes have lunch at that pub near the office on Fridays, down by the marina, a burger and pint before slipping peacefully into the weekend.

It was a month ago. I usually get there early enough to secure my preferred table at the back. You know, the outlaw’s position with my back to the wall and all the action kept in front of me. No surprises, right? It’s sparsely occupied at that time, plus it’s not a big place, maybe six tables and a pool table. I want to get a seat, eat lunch and get out.

Anyway, there was a lady sitting at the bar, beanpole skinny, jet black hair worn tight in a bun at the back, trying to keep to herself. There was a regular hassling her, a real barfly, “I’d gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.” Real weak stuff he was giving off.

“Leave her alone, Wimpy,” said the bartender, and like that he returned to his seat staring into his empty glass. Wimpy, it’s the dude’s name, the bartender wasn’t throwing shade on him. Meanwhile, I’m eating my burger, a delicious jalapeno burger with pepper jack cheese on a ciabatta bun, plus a hefeweisen, a tall boy from a local microbrew. This was my best meal of the week, very tasty. But back to this thing I saw. 

A big guy walks in. I’d seen him before but never had cause to interact, thankfully. The guy was big as a bear, a real lummox. He sees the lady at the bar and is immediately hitting on her, or trying to. They seemed to be acquaintances, but not particularly friendly. It was apparent she wanted him to leave her alone. I involuntarily overheard some of the exchange.

“Brutus, please leave me alone,” she said.

“Aw, but Olive Oil, you look like you could benefit from some attention from me,” said lummox. Not exactly A+ material, but that’s what he delivered.

“I advise you to scram, my boyfriend will be here any minute,” she said, then turned away from him in her barstool. Scram, she said, like she’s locked into 1950’s era slang.

As if on cue, sure enough, a little guy walks in with a massive jutting chin and a sailor’s cap. He was rocking an anchor tattoo on his forearm and was smoking a corncob pipe. I shit you not, corncob! He stood just inside the door for a few seconds waiting for his eyeballs to adjust to the darker environ.

“Well blow me down, there’s my best goil. And Brutusk,” he said tossing a ‘k’ on the end of the big guy’s name. Then it got good. Or, weird, really.

I’d just finished off my mojo potatoes. Hey, you know, you’ve got to have lunch with me there sometime. Their mojos are fantastic, and they serve ‘em with a generous tub of gourmet spicy ketchup. But I digress.

As I placed the last bite of burger into my cake hole the two guys are rolling around on the ground bumping aggressively into tables, knocking chairs over. I missed the inception of the scuffle, I don’t know what the flashpoint was.

“Brutus, get off of him! Leave him alone! Popeye, are you OK? Hit him back,” yells the lady at the bar, Olive. The big guy is pummeling the little guy. Little guy’s like half his size, tiny biceps, and then these vastly disproportionate forearms. On odd body configuration. The big guy pauses his assault to start dialoguing with the lady.

“Why are you with a wimp like him when you can be with a real man like me,” he lamely asked.

“Because you’re an awful mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging waste of flesh,” she deftly countered. The two continued bantering back and forth.

The little guy, Popeye, amidst the reprieve from taking punches off his massive chin, and this is where it gets really weird, he pulls a plastic bag out from his shirt collar. I found out later it was spinach. So, what gives, the guy walks around with a small produce bag of spinach in his shirt? A produce bag, the kind you’d see at Whole Foods. He pulls the contents of the bag out by a fistful, puts it in his mouth and chews. The effect was more fantastic than stories you’d hear about people on PCP. He gets to his feet, while the big guy is still on his back, riding him like a monkey as if he were no more burden than a throw pillow. The sailor man grabs Brutus’ ankle and starts whipping him around over his head like a ceiling fan. The guy’s gotta weigh near 300 pounds but there he is being waved around in the air like a rag doll. Then he launches him with enough force to toss the big fella completely through the window blinds and the window. He's lying dazed out there on the sidewalk.

‘What the hell is going on,’ I’m thinking to myself. I’m a big self-preservationist, so I quietly pulled the last of my hefeweisen, put the glass down and slipped out the back door. Last thing I heard as the door closed behind me was, “I’m strong to the finish ‘cause I eats me spinach, I’m Popeye the sailor man. Uck-uck-uck-uck,” finishing off with a strange cadence to his laugh. I could hear the police sirens approaching as I waked away, but never looked back.

Anyway, I haven’t been back since. Hey, you available for lunch this Friday?