Shuttled to and from town for sugar, for Full Moon creative endeavors. Mildly eventful trip.
Thought I was getting harassed by 20 somethings fresh from D-Street. "Nice Cane. Hey you." was said to my back. It reminded me of the times way-the-frak-back when 40 somethings from Wally's/The Old Bridge would say to the back of my mohawk/spikes "Nice hair. Hey kid."
I made up my mind that, like the bikers/redecks of old, I would ignore them. But, should they push the issue, and not leave me alone, as running from the event was not a possibility, extreme measures (headbutts, biting, scrotum-hook on newly-finished cane put to any possible use) were acceptable. I figured I could take out one before the other 2 (3?) took me down. Some consolation prize for the pain and inconvenience of beating, but you take what you can get.
Nothing happened.
Got to PoPro, they came in after, and one of them had a cane. A shitty, collapsible cane. Nothing was said, which pleased me.
Turns out "Nice cane" wasn't intended as a threat; it was a compliment from a child (even if he's legally entitled to pickle himself) with the manners of a mentally impaired house-cat.
I returned to the shuttle, and mentioned to another passenger I'd seen around for years about what happened. We reflected on dumbasses mouthing off, and I mentioned how I wish the Old Bridge still existed to send such people to.
We ended talking about one of the toughest men in The Old Bridge, Mario. I'd actually been thinking about Mario lately, wondering what became of him.
I'd see him at Richardon's. He'd come in and say in his heavily accented English "Heeeey, buddy! Howyou?" "Great, Mario! What's happenin'?" "Fine, buddy! Fine!"
These things I knew about Mario: He was Cuban, didn't speak English well at all, and had arrived in the 70s, or 80s. I thought he possibly arrived in 1980 expulsion from Cuba, but didn't know for sure.
He had some of the darkest skin I'd ever seen, and, though decades older than me, the features of the Gerber Baby.
I also knew from stories in the neighborhood that Mario was a Grade A badass. This is a man who stood maybe 5'5", weighing 150lbs if that, who was known to knock down with one punch men 300+lbs. In a dive bar.
I'd heard he was a boxer in Cuba.
I learned tonight that he had been on his way to being a major champion, winning 39 fights. Then Castro.
Mario hated Castro, not just on spec, and for the ruining of his country, but personally, for ruining his career.
He'd ended up in prison for murder (circumstances I don't know), and had seen someone die there every week.
In 1980, when Castro cast out all the "undesirables", the mental patients, the prisoners, the counter-revolutionaries not worth killing, Mario was released, and put on a boat.
He happily left Cuba, and set sail. For what he thought was Miami.
But was actually Portsmouth, NH. Imagine his surprise...
But he liked it, and never left.
"Ilikehere! 'stoofuckin'cold, butIlikeit!"
After what he left, Portsmouth, even in barely-civilized 1980, must have seemed heavenly.
Mario always elevated my mood when he came in, always so cheerful, and genuinely friendly. Turns out that was in genuine appreciation of what he had. I'd been thinking about lately, and was glad to find out all this about him.
Turns out he died a few years ago. Not surprising, given his age, and the intensity of his life. Gator, the owner of Wally's and briefly The Old Bridge, paid for his funeral. There was no plot, or interment of ashes, however. Mario's ashes are in the basement of D-Street. The man who told me said he liked to believe Mario would be happy with that, which kind of made sense: he spent all his time at TOB, and seemed to like a dive.
This man, though, said he'd been looking for a way to contact Mario's family in Cuba, and see if they wanted his ashes. I thought that was pretty cool, and hope he succeeds.
Until then, Mario rests in an environment that, while not luxurious or restful by most standards, is NOT a Cuban prison, and therefore "Fine, Buddy, fine!"
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