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Oliver Benjamin                            
the 70’s.”
Roy caught his reflection in the window of the boat. He was
wearing a cheap pair of dated sunglasses, a large-collared and
embroidered Cuban shirt, and the garish jewelry from Hernán. Plus,
he was a short, slender black man with a conservative haircut. He
could see how a pair of small-town white Southerners might make
the connection.
“I’m even Jewish,” he said.
This impelled the woman to let out a long raspy laugh. The
Captain extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, son. I’m Bernard P.
Linden. Call me Bern. This is my wife Dolores. We’re sailin’ around
the world. Forgive us for actin’ so goofy ‘bout it, but we’re huge fans
of Mr. Davis.”
“My name’s Roy. No relation to Sammy. But I was friends with
him as a child.”
“No shit!” He said, pulling off his glasses. His eyes were clear and
blue as the water. “Come on in and have a Bohemiaand tell us all
about it. Dotty just mixed up some guacamole.”
Roy left his worry on the pier as he climbed up onto the deck of
the small yacht. After chatting a while, Roy confided that he was
looking to explore the Caribbean, but admitted that he had no
experience sailing.
“Never been on a small boat before?”
“Aside from a small papyrus kayak in Ethiopia, no.”
“Well this ain’t no kayak, son. But it ain’t no luxury liner neither.
Still, it’s comfortable enough. If you’d like to join us, we could use the
company. We’ve already heard all each other’s jokes. Say, do you
“Showtunes. Sammy Davis. Old standards.”
“I’m not much of a singer.”
Dolores said, “We’re hopin’ to get an act together. Play some
“We call ourselves ‘Doobie Doobie Doo’” he said. “Get it? From
Dolores and Bern. And that Sinatra line of course.”
Roy guessed that Bernard didn’t have any idea what a doobie
was. Dolores pulled a battered old ukulele out of a satchel and they
launched into a passable rendition of Something Stupid, Gradually,
Roy found himself falling in with the idea of sailing with the earnest
duo. A few beers later, he even tried to harmonize.
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