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Whisker Lickins

Antaeus

    Whisker Lickins was the kind of man who would listen in while an eight-year-old boy attempted to get out of trouble by telling his father a fabricated story. Then, when I had finished spinning it to my dad, he’d make a comment, “That’s a tall tale well-told lad, but it still smells like a fart in a diving suit ta me,” he’d say. Then he and my dad would have a good laugh.
    When I knew him, Whisker Lickins was an old man of sixty (which doesn’t seem old now). He had hunched shoulders and always sported a beat-up tweed jacket and a kind face. Unfortunately for him, it was the kind of face that looked like an old piece of red leather left out in the sun too long.
    Whisker Lickins’ ruddy complexion and deep-lined face were testaments to the hard life he had led. But it was his piercing green eyes that grabbed your attention. Those eyes had a knowing look in them. A look that said he was more than the beer-drinking, egg-eating reprobate he pretended to be. To an eight-year-old boy he was an enigma. A puzzle to be solved, and a mystery to investigate.
    The man was a fixture at my uncle’s neighborhood bar for as far back as I can remember. I never knew his real name, and if anyone else at the bar did, they never told me. Then, one day, I decided to give him the nickname “Whisker Lickins.” He had a fat walrus mustache under his alcohol-induced red nose that hid his upper lip. Every time he would take a sip of beer, he would lick that mustache and rub the permanent stubble on his chin. I remember being fascinated by the red veins on his nose and the blue ones under his tongue.
    Everyone had a nickname at the bar where I grew up. There was The Monk, Harry the Bat, Louie the Peddler, and a host of others. My nickname was The Kid. Occasionally, the “F” word would be inserted in the middle, depending on what I was or wasn’t doing at the time.
    I told my dad about the nickname I’d given Whiskers, and it caught on. The guys at the bar would sometimes shorten it to “Whiskers” or “WL.”
    Every day except Sunday, my dad would open the bar at six each morning. I’d show up around six-thirty and start cleaning the toilets. Whiskers wouldn’t be far behind. He was like the mailman. Rain or shine, sleet, or snow, he would be there at the six-forty-five on the dot. The man would always sit on the same barstool, where he could see the tiny-screen TV mounted above the bar. That spot was also where my father placed one of the baskets of hardboiled eggs and a saltshaker. Once settled in, Whiskers would order his “Breakfast Beer.”
    The man only drank Ballantine beer, whose trademark was three rings that meant Purity, Body, and Flavor. So, he would make an “O” with his thumb and index finger. The other three fingers would be sticking straight up. So, Whisker Likens did what Mel Allen, the Yankees baseball announcer, said to do, “Make the three-ring sign for Ballantine.”
    As soon as my father was at the beer tap in the middle of the bar, the old codger would stuff two or three eggs in his tattered jacket pocket. My father knew but never said anything because the eggs were free to customers. Besides, I think he felt sorry for the man, just as I did.
    My dad was physically challenged, so after giving Whiskers his beer, he would hobble to the far end of the bar. There he would line up eight empty shot glasses and beer glasses.
    Around seven-thirty, the big rig truck drivers from Davidson Trucking or Baltimore & New York would start showing up. They always sat at that end of the bar.
    The truckers would start their day with one or two boilermakers and a couple of hardboiled eggs. Then they would leave the bar with a half-pint of ninety proof Old Grandad whiskey in their back pocket. Sometimes, if they were feeling generous, they would buy Whiskers a beer to wash down his egg before going on their way.
    By eight AM, I had already lit a fire under the massive pot of water containing six dozen fresh eggs and was off to school. After school, I’d be back at the bar helping where I could, and Whiskers would still be sitting on his usual barstool. He’d spent the day eating the free hardboiled eggs, nursing his beer, and farting. Consequently, the seats on either side of him were always empty.

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    Whisker Lickins was a retired Merchant Mariner who survived six U-boat attacks that sank all six ships he crewed. At the time, that fact meant nothing to me. All I knew was that the man had no income, lived on welfare money and free drinks from the bar patrons who listened to his war stories. As far as I was concerned, he was a man who told exciting stories, but not someone I wanted to emulate.
    I remember being fascinated by the stories he told. The topless Haitian women he danced with, the golden sunsets he saw at sea, and the faraway places with strange names he visited. He would brag about the women he’d slept with, and his drinking adventures. But it was the stories he told about his love of the sea that fascinated me.
    The look in his eyes and the words he spoke painted vivid pictures in my mind. Although I had never seen the ocean, his stories made this inner-city kid feel that same love for the sea. Looking back, I think those stories about life at sea and far-off places prompted me to join the US Navy.
    However, Whiskers would never talk about what he experienced in World War II. Not even for a free drink. It wasn’t until I joined the Navy that I found out why. While at the training facility, AKA Boot Camp, at the Great Lakes in Illinois, I learned that the Merchant Marine ships hauled vital war cargo for the Allies during World War II.
    Those hardy mariners sailed the supply ships that provided virtually everything the Allied armies needed to survive and fight on foreign battlefields. To do that, those brave seamen sailed unarmed vessels through dangerous enemy waters.
    German U-boats would use the glow of lights from American coastal cities to silhouette merchant ships for torpedo strikes on the American coast. Merchant ships didn’t only face danger from submarines. There were mines, enemy ships, and aircraft to worry about. Although the articles of war stated unarmed ships were non-targets, to the Nazis those ships were like ducks in a carnival shooting gallery.
    The movies they showed us about survival at sea while at boot camp were taken during the war. They were vividly raw, appalling, and uncensored. So, when I saw men and body parts floating in shark infested water red with blood, I realized why Whiskers didn’t speak about how he’d survived the six times it happened to him.
    The non-military Merchant Mariners also suffered a higher casualty rate than any US military branch, losing 9,300 men in 1942 alone. Another 8,300 mariners were killed at sea, and 12,000 more were wounded by the war’s end. Those brave men had no military standing and received no government benefits until 1988. By that time, Whiskers was long gone.

#
    When I turned ten years old, I learned that Whisker Lickins had a wooden leg. He showed it to me and let me touch it for my birthday present. I remember being disappointed because it wasn’t a pirate peg leg.
    As far as I know, the man never talked about how he’d lost his leg. However, whenever he was asked how he could drink so much beer, he’d say, “I’ve got a hollow leg.” As a kid, once I’d learned that he had a wooden leg, it cracked me up every time he’d say it. So much so that I’d start snickering even before he answered. Whisker Likens would just give me a wink.
    Later in life, when I learned that a shark had bitten off his leg after a U-boat torpedoed his ship, I was mortified. That’s when I saw Whiskers in a new light. The man had fought in World War II and lost his leg. He was a hero, someone to look up to, a man to emulate. After that, I didn’t think the hollow leg joke was funny any longer. Even today, the words irk me, especially when people with two good legs say them.
    What I learned from that experience was that most people are judgmental, just like I was. They see the person before them and judge them in that one moment, with that one look. There is no thought given to what that person may have endured in life that molded them into what they see now. After all, isn’t every one of us molded by our experiences in life?

#
    One winter morning, when I was in my 12^th year, my dad opened the back door to the bar to air the place out, as he usually did. That’s when we found Whisker Lickins lying face up covered in snow. He’d been lying there all night.
    The medical examiner said that Whiskers had a heart attack the previous night when he stepped out of the bar to get some fresh air. His blue face was relaxed in death, and many of the wrinkles were gone. Yet, those piercing green eyes were open and clouded over, and somehow, he looked smaller than he was the previous day.
    I like to think that he died looking up through the snow at the sea of stars. That all his dead comrades were with him at the end and escorted him to his reward. But then, I’m a writer who likes happy endings.
    The poor man had no relatives, and no one even knew where he lived. So, they buried Whiskers in a paupers’ grave. It was not a fitting ending or place for a man who suffered and gave so much of himself for his country.
    The face I choose to remember is not the blue one with ice crystals on his mustache. Instead, I picture Whisker Lickins as I knew him best. A beer-drinking, egg-eating freeloader, sitting in his spot at the bar. The man with the kind and cheerful face, the beer-foamed mustache, and a faraway look in his eyes.
    Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and my biggest regret is that I never learned Whisker Lickins’ real name. If I could go back in time, that’s the first thing I’d ask him. Then, I’d sit next to him on a barstool and listen again to those stories he told. Finally, I’d sneak the man a beer or two and stick some hardboiled eggs and a half-pint in his jacket pocket when my dad wasn’t looking.
    I’d thank him for his service to my country, then run home and write every one of those stories down. I’d do that so I could read them to my children and grandchildren and so his memory would live on in them.
    Yeah, you better believe that’s what I’d do, and I’d do it in a heartbeat.

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