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.