I was good friends with a drunken sailor who had a Volkswagen Beetle that he called Hitler’s Revenge.
He appeared at the door with a bucket. I was reading in an old wingback chair. I pretended he wasn’t there. He banged insistently, having the audacity to shout, “I see you. I know you’re in there. Answer the door it’s an emergency.” I sighed and rolled my eyes. I left my favorite threadbare seat and opened the door. “How may I help you?” He needed fresh water. I showed him to the kitchen tap. Although we were yet to be properly introduced, I knew who he was. He lived across the street in the boatyard aboard a gaff rigged Tahiti ketch, Alice Elizabeth, hunter green hull with a buff deck and varnished wood cabin and masts. Once his bucket was full, I turned on my heel, impatient to get back to my book, and headed for the door to show him out. “What are you doing?” “I’m reading.” Oh. Good then you can help me, it won’t take a minute.” “Help you do what exactly?” “It won’t take a minute, c’mon.”
Four hours later we had completed the installation of a seacock. He thanked me, stuck out his somewhat greasy hand and introduced himself, “Ambrose Stewart; call me Stew, everyone does. I shook his hand “Stew is dull, I’ll call you Ambrose. You may call me Lucy, diminutive of Lucinda.” “Very well, Lucy, let’s see if we can hustle up a drink somewhere.” I looked at him. “I’m not accustomed to drinking.” “Why not? Teetotaler? Alcoholic?” “I’m fourteen.” He looked aghast for a moment, giving me a quick once over, “What the hell, you’ll be eighteen someday. Let’s go.”
The first episode in this series is titled Richard’s Story due to Richard Daybell’s suggestion that an observation I made would be a good sentence to begin a story. As usual, letting the story tell me and hoping for the best.