The Coffeehouse ChroniclesThe Adventures of Captain Contraband
What up, my peeps? You got yer cup? Good. Let's go.
The HB and I had a plan. A simple plan. A civilized plan.
We were going to quietly slip away on a cruise with a handful of friends, enjoy some sun, some food, maybe a little relaxation, and return home without creating an international incident.
Naturally, that plan fell apart immediately.
Somehow, somewhere, Commander McCroc caught wind of our scheme.
"Ooh! Ooh! Can I come? Can I come?"
Now, anyone who knows McCroc understands this wasn't really a question. It's more of a declaration. Like gravity. Or taxes.
So there we were. Ten excited ducklings waddling toward adventure.
My favorite brother-in-law loaded us into one of his Sprinter vans and ferried us down to the port. Before dropping us off, he looked at us with the weary expression of a man who knows exactly who he's transporting.
"You people stay out of trouble."
He paused.
"And I don't have bail money."
He pointed at all of us.
"If anybody ends up in a Mexican gulag, you're on your own."
We all laughed.
Because obviously none of us were going to get arrested.
Right?
Right.
Ten minutes later, port security had other ideas.
We were happily checking in, making bad jokes, poking fun at each other, and generally behaving like unsupervised middle-schoolers when a uniformed security officer locked eyes with me.
Not the group.
Me.
You ever have that feeling when your stomach instantly drops into your shoes?
Yeah.
He pointed.
"You. Step this way."
I actually looked behind me.
Maybe he meant someone else.
Nope.
Definitely me.
The group immediately fell silent.
Everybody turned.
The HB turned.
McCroc turned.
The Professor turned.
Even complete strangers were probably turning at that point.
The officer pointed again.
"Sir."
Oh.
This was happening.
Meanwhile, my loving and supportive friends immediately began making guesses.
"What'd you do?"
"Outstanding warrants?"
"Tax evasion?"
"Counterfeiting churros?"
McCroc was grinning so hard I thought his head might split in half.
As I disappeared through the security door, I heard him yell:
"We'll save you a seat at dinner!"
Some friend.
The next thing I know I'm in a room surrounded by security personnel.
Now, in my memory, it looked exactly like an interrogation scene from a cop movie.
Dark room.
Single spotlight.
Six stern faces.
Dramatic music.
It probably wasn't actually like that, but that's how I remember it.
One officer slid a pair of magazines across the table.
Loaded magazines.
For a 9mm.
My loaded magazines.
Which I had somehow managed to bring to a cruise terminal.
Even worse, I'd done it completely by accident.
The room got very quiet.
The officer looked at me.
I looked at the officer.
The magazines looked at me.
Everybody was disappointed.
Especially the magazines.
As the questioning continued, my imagination started running wild. Every movie and cop show I'd ever seen suddenly came flooding back into my brain. I began mentally preparing for the next phase of the process.
Rubber gloves.
An uncomfortable cough.
A strip search that would haunt family gatherings for generations.
I wasn't worried about jail anymore.
I was worried about dignity.
Fortunately for everyone involved, especially the officers, none of that happened.
"Where's the firearm, sir?"
"At home."
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure."
"In a safe?"
"Very safe."
"Why do you have loaded magazines in your backpack?"
At this point, I would have loved an answer myself.
Apparently Past Marc had borrowed the computer bag.
Past Marc had used it at the range.
Past Marc had forgotten to remove the magazines.
Present Marc was now paying for the stupidity of Past Marc.
Yet another example of why Past Marc cannot be trusted.
While all this was happening, the rest of the group was boarding the ship.
As they walked up the gangway, they were waving at me.
Waving.
At me.
Like I was being shipped off to prison.
McCroc reportedly shouted:
"Don't worry! We'll send postcards!"
The Professor laughed so hard he nearly needed medical attention.
For years, these two have been the punchline.
The foils.
The agents of chaos.
Now, suddenly, they had front-row seats to my clown show.
And they were loving every second of it.
Forty-five very long minutes passed.
Port Police.
Port Security.
Ship Security.
The Captain.
The Head of Security.
Every person with a badge apparently wanted to hear how an otherwise harmless cruise
passenger accidentally showed up carrying enough poor decision-making to trigger three separate investigations.
Just as I was beginning to imagine myself watching the ship sail away from shore, salvation appeared.
Ron Duval.
Who just happened to be nearby aboard the USS Iowa.
The man swooped in like an action hero nearing retirement.
No cape.
No dramatic music.
Just a look that said, "What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now?"
He collected the magazines, handled the paperwork, saved the day, and probably added another twenty gray hairs in the process.
At long last, I was cleared.
I practically sprinted onto the ship.
The moment I found the group, nine faces turned toward me.
There was silence.
Then McCroc stood up and saluted.
"Captain Contraband has returned."
The entire table erupted.
Even the HB couldn't save me.
The damage was done.
For the remainder of the day, every time I walked into a room, somebody asked if I'd remembered to check my pockets.
By 8:30, people I had never met were asking me if I was "the magazine guy."
What really hurt, however, was a confession the HB made a little bit later.
After I was finally released and safely aboard, she admitted that during my extended interrogation she had briefly considered the possibility that I wasn't making the cruise.
Being the loving, devoted, supportive partner that she is, I naturally assumed she'd been worried sick.
Nope.
She admitted she'd started imagining the suite we'd already paid for.
Just her.
Spread out diagonally across the entire king-sized bed.
No snoring.
No blanket theft.
No giant human furnace radiating heat from the other side of the mattress.
Just peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.
Apparently she spent several glorious minutes mentally redecorating my side of the room before learning that Captain Contraband had been cleared for boarding.
Even now I'm not sure whether she was relieved to see me or disappointed that she had to share the suite after all.
I suspect the answer depends on who you ask.
And thus another legend was born.
Not the legend I wanted.
But a legend nonetheless.
Until next time, my peeps...
Check your bags.
Check them again.
And if Commander McCroc is laughing at you, just remember:
Sometimes the universe decides it's your turn to be the chapter.
You know what to do! Drink 'em if you got 'em.
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