Bob and a shipmate are frowned on by high society

A Night At The Opera

By Bob Smith

 Bob Smith Crossed the Bar 4 June 1999


An Electrician’s Mate first class (I can’t remember his name) and I found ourselves on Tremont Street in Boston looking for excitement. He was an iconoclast, as was I. When we spotted the Opera House, we decided to partake of this excellent chance to improve our culture . . . . . . . . after proper preparations.

First, the guy at the ticket booth would not sell us a ticket—full tails were required, he insisted. We argued correctly that our blues were full dress, but couldn’t make him believe us — so we called a cop, who told the ticket man to let us in or close up the show. We never knew whether the cop knew the law or just didn’t like “high society” No matter, we got in and took our seats.

At intermission, the high society men reached for their silver flasks inside their jacket pockets and took small nips. We Coasties reached into our blues and each took out a pint of water in a clear bottle.

You never heard such gasps from the ladies, or such language from the gentlemen—language not fit for a CPO. They were going to throw us out. 

Haw!

We left quietly to look for something better than the water.

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