NAked Warrior - ZANDERBILT

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T H E P U R P O S E F U L P R I M I T I V E
Back in the late eighties I ended up taking a job in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Anyone from
Connecticut knows Bridgeport was one rough freaking place. Incongruously a yacht club
had sprung up next to a waste recycling plant in the heart of Bridgeport, right next to a
notorious ghetto housing project. My friend Bobby relocated to Connecticut to take a job
working for his brother’s import/export firm. He asked me to help crew his 28 foot, twinscrew
Sea Ray from Deal, Maryland to its new home at the Bridgeport Marina. It was a
terrific trip and as it turned out, it was a ploy by the brothers to lure me into taking a job
with their firm. They enticed me by paying me way more than I was worth to do way less
than I was capable of. On the first day at the new job Bobby walked into my office. I was
nervously unpacking my stuff and trying to get my bearings.
“You look tense—let’s go get a drink!” This was 10am on Monday. But hey what the hell,
he was my new boss. “Meet the new boss—not the same as the old boss.” We drove to the
Bridgeport Marina in his new red Corvette. We arrived and parked. We walked towards
the brand new complex of shops that lined a mini-boardwalk. The shops and boardwalk
bordered a long line of docks that housed hundreds of boats. Suddenly a smell, make that
a stench, hit me. It was putrid and overpowering. “Bobby, what in the hell is that godawful
smell?” Bobby, a rail-thin bon vivant with a wicked Jack Nicholson smile, gestured
towards a sewage reprocessing plant next to the marina; it loomed like a building in Blade
Runner. “That smell is the reason the son-of-a-bitches that built this marina bought the
property for so freaking cheap!” He laughed.
The shops and bars that lined the boardwalk were shiny, new and impressive. He led me
to the centerpiece building, a massive bar/restaurant. We went inside and it was impressive:
a huge replica of the Titanic hung over a four sided bar. Since it was 11am, Bobby ordered
us a brace of Bloody Marys. The place was packed. “Welcome to your first day of work!”
We clinked glasses and surveyed the decadence. I munched on the celery stalk and noted
how strong and properly peppery the Bloody Mary was. I was mystified. The bar was full,
the crowd boisterous and it was all happening at such an early hour. I asked semi-rhetorically,
“What in the hell are all these people doing here at 11am on a Monday morning?
Why are they getting crocked at a beautiful bar located in place that smells like shit?” I was
serious.
Bob ogled the attractive women. “We could be back at work doing something mindless.
Besides I thought you were a writer. Didn’t you ever read The Great Gatsby? We are hanging
out with the idle elite. Egg Harbor is just a hop skip and jump down the road. These are
the chuckleheaded parasitical offspring of Tom and Daisy Buchanan. This is the local aristocracy
shaking off the effects of their fabulous weekend and starting the new week off on
just the right foot. Everyone’s having a few belts before firing up their boats and heading
out to sunbathe. C’mon! Get in stride and go with the flow!” He leered at a passing
For complete information on Marty Gallagher’s The Purposeful Primitive, or to
purchase the physical book, visit http://www.dragondoor.com/b37.html now