Keep Left: The Open Air Asylum Called St. John

By Michael T. Mullen

St. John, US Virgin Islands, comedy book about the characters and events on the islands as described by a newbie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 1, 2008
• ISBN: 9781483558189

Book preview

Epilogue

Prologue

Keep Left

The Open Air Asylum Called St. John

Granddad, a self-made man from Ireland, traveled from his country home to the United States in order to escape the potato famine. During the ensuing years in America, he made a fortune in real estate speculation throughout the United States only to lose a vast portion of his wealth during the Great Depression. Not unlike me in life, he consistently went for it, the venture, and the risk, win, lose, or draw.

My parents were divorced and at the impressionable age of eight, I was shipped off to my grandparents. Fortunately, Granddad became my beacon of knowledge, courage, and intellect. At this tender age, growing up in the warmth of my grandparent’s stately rural New York State home, I came to appreciate Granddad’s wisdom, humor, and intelligence.

Many times over the passage of our lives together, he imparted amazing insight garnered over his seeming many years, most often while slowly sipping a generous finger of straight up Bushmills Irish whiskey. On numerous evenings, Granddad would invite me into the cozy private library warmed by the burning embers glowing in the massive stone fireplace.

Musty smelling leather covered books lined the shelves of the walnut paneled walls, inviting readers to immerse themselves. Curling in one of the high wingback worn plaid chairs with a warm glass of milk in hand and chocolate chip cookies in my lap, I sat awaiting Granddad’s gems of wisdom. I always longed for those times of silence between us, listening to the rhythmical ticking of the ancient gold-faced mantle clock and an occasional crackle of burning logs.

It was during these occasions that he would regale me with stories of Ireland when he was a lad or impart sensible decisions and judgments accumulated in life, like, Mikey, what do you do with cash?

I reverently replied, Never Flash the Cash!

Or he’d ask, What president is on the ten thousand dollar bill?

Salmon Chase, but he’s not a president, he worked for Lincoln! You didn’t believe I would know that, did you? I replied in a quiet little boy voice of pride.

One such occasion, a windy snow blustering evening with a blizzard raging, sitting sleepily in my usual place, toasty in pajamas and holding tightly to warm milk and cookies, I watched Granddad intently. He, ensconced in his respective plaid wingback chair, was mesmerized by the crackling roar of the blazing birchwood log fire. The fire spewed vivid dancing colors red, yellow, and green stretching far up the chimney from the four-foot log on the hearth. I watched his gaze wander up to The Mullen Coat of Arms prominently displayed high above the smoky marble mantle with the Gaelic inscription of Above All Honor Loyalty.

Slowly, from the pipe stand at his elbow, Granddad extracted one of his favorite briar pipes and packed the bowl from the silver tobacco decanter. Soon the red glow of the well-worn pipe produced wisps and circles of smoke rising to all corners of the room, and I deeply inhaled the distinct and rich odor of the cherry fumes. Even to a child of eight it was apparent this evening was to be no simple lesson or story. He drew deeply on the pipe again, sending sweet plumes deeper into the room. Lifting his Baccarat crystal highball glass emblazoned with the family coat of arms, filled tall with twelve-year-old Bushmills, he took a small sip, and after what seemed like an eternity to a small boy he spoke in his rich quiet voice that always demanded respect and attention.

"Mikey, when your father was your age, we sat in this very room sharing the principles of what the Mullen Clan has lived by for more than five centuries. Five simple rules of life have served us throughout the generations. Thus keeping the family’s name alive for eternity with honor and loyalty, it is now your responsibility to learn and understand these basic rules and principles and follow them as your life unfolds.

Rule One – Never be a warrior. The Mullen Clan has always been merchants, landlords, or politicians, but never soldiers. Not a single Mullen in five hundred years has served in the military. We always believed there was a peaceful solution to any conflict or confrontation. A war produces death and destruction leading to the annihilation of entire families; it results in the total and absolute loss of the family name for perpetuity. Always follow a path of peaceful resolution to each and every conflict, stand by your conviction, never waver in the face of all others, and you will preserve the Mullen family name with honor.

Rule Two – You should have a great number of children. They may do you right or wrong, but the Mullen name will never disappear from history especially if they are all boys.

Rule Three – Make one hell of a lot of money or marry someone very rich. Remember, there are as many rich women available to you as poor ones, except the rich are just a little harder to find. Marrying rich, people will always remember your wife, and probably for how much money she had before she met you and how you increased or squandered it.

Rule Four – Get your name in print by creating your own fame through financial or political success or failure. You, Mikey Mullen, will become a man of renown.

Rule Five – Write great novels that people will continue to enjoy long after your demise, still enjoying your tales of humor or tragedy, laugh at what amused you or made you sad, and all the while vicariously experiencing the events you describe, lived through, and survived.

For a number of weeks our discussions focused on the virtues of the five rules and what they meant to life until I could recite them verbatim and express understanding of their meaning. He would then gently lift me from the high wingback chair and carry the four stone weight to the down feather mattress with its cool sheets, laying me under a warm comforter.

As an adult, I well remember my Granddad’s words and have taken on the five rules in order to pass this legacy onto the next generation thus perpetuating the Mullen lineage.

Granddad, you were right,

First, I continued the tradition of never serving in the military.

Second, my first marriage resulted in the birth of two children both of whom refuse to acknowledge my existence. Or more likely, believe I am incarcerated in some foreign prison somehow owing to their mother’s explanation of what a bum she married when in actuality she ran off with my best friend.

I do delight on occasion, reflecting on the fact that over these many years she got what she deserved by marrying the narcissistic bastard.

Third, although married three times and twice divorced, none of these women were rich or famous but nevertheless, beautiful in their own unique way, thus providing much more than mere financial wealth. Each was a gift in a time of personal need.

The first wife was Sally. She dragged me through college where I only succeeded after nine years; this was through no fault of her own. The second was Alanea, who in a short time of living together and six months of marriage taught me to be a man and face life’s challenges. The third is Rosa, who has given me my life’s dream and a good kick in the ass when I most needed it.

Fourth, over the course of my life I have been quoted in local newspapers and business journals. While never reaching the Forbes 400 Wealthiest List, I have attained a respectable degree of financial success, which is secreted and closely guarded from the inquisitive eyes of the lurking Internal Revenue Service.

However, none of my successes in life ever reached the depths of Granddad’s words and advice.

So, it appears I am left with but the final alternative, the Fifth Rule, the written word. The great novel! So begins my best efforts at portraying events in my life remembered with fondness and occasional sadness.

It is fervently hoped this light story will make you smile, occasionally cry; but most of all, allow you to genuinely laugh out loud driving your fellow passengers crazy while you are hurled through space in your aluminum cigar with restrooms smelling of ripe dirty diapers. Being served by your flying waitress, week old stale Kaiser rolls encasing mystery meat and sweaty American cheese at thirty thousand feet while winging your way toward my magical island paradise.

Or just possibly, you’re taking that scenic ocean voyage you have waited a lifetime for and at this very moment are bearing down on the tiny island of St. John. The island people are ready to welcome you with open arms, the obese, middle age tourist, with cameras ever ready. Locals are looking for your wallet to be significantly lighter after they have fleeced you with the sale of unneeded straw hats, strange clothing that no one wears here, and much needed Bushwhacker or Painkiller island drinks.

Laugh at my blunders, my companions, and events, which shaped and changed my life forever on the tiny Island of St. John while always remembering my Granddad’s advice. I sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I did writing it. It is not about building a house per say, it is about the people and events that transpired.

So sit back, pop a cap off my favorite amber brew, which of course, you don’t know yet but within these pages, you’ll learn to say the word Heineken. Enjoy and listen to my tale. So begins the saga.

Chapter One

My Charitable Nature

Friends and, of course, my wife, would agree I am more than a little self-centered, egotistical, stubborn, and a control freak – wait, who wrote that?

Further, they would quickly add with my wife Rosa’s concurrence and blessings ‘shiftless’, ‘worthless’, and ‘lazy,’ often referred to as terms of endearment by my wife and friends. Can’t even begin to imagine nor print the comments from my two previous brides - Sally, and Alanea, both of whom left before large amounts of cash commenced rolling my way at a time while entering my mid-life crisis years. They must have thought better than to hang around an unstable, unreliable dreamer and at their respective points in time, one really couldn’t blame them.

In December, 1998, Rosa, my bride, and our niece Mary were invited – well actually Mary’s presence was requested, but she being perpetually broke due to excess of everything, she asked us to accompany her to a Charity Auction in Vail, Colorado. Knowing full well the true reason Mary invited her aunt and uncle was the underlying lack of funds on her part. She was certain yours truly would pick up the entire tab while she scouted for a potential boyfriend/husband prospect. It really didn’t matter as were eager to accommodate her in exchange for an anticipated fun-filled weekend.

It was a dark and stormy night upon our arrival that December eve. (I always wanted to say that). The event drew a large crowd of assorted of well heeled attendees: big jets, lots of limos, black ties, fur coats covering the beautiful bodies of high maintenance young women on the arms of the fear of getting old high roller men.

The charity event, not to be outdone, plied the guests with complimentary wine, Dom Perignon Champagne, and a grand display of hors d’oeuvres followed by a three-course meal and the ultimate charity event, the live auction.

By 9:30 p.m. Rosa, not feeling well (maybe too much champagne), and Mary, unable to find the perfect husband or for that matter any reasonable prospect for a twelve hour sexual encounter, retired to our well appointed suite complete with fireplace and Jacuzzi tub. Not Michael T. Mullen, no way, much too early for a man of the hour.

I proceeded to imbibe Dom Perignon and talk to the newly select, moneyed friends, actually, ego aside, anyone who would talk to me. Precisely at 10:30 p.m., the live auction of big-ticket items began! I sat at a table between two delightful couples one husband a cardiovascular surgeon and the second couple were Hollywood film producers, although the wife looked like an actress. The wives sat on either side of me.

My newly acquired, through the roof stock market portfolio had landed me in the upper one percent of the flaunted American wealthy, so while mingling with this crowd in my champagne induced, slightly inebriated state, spending money was no object. Bring on the Auction! At precisely midnight, I settled the immense bill with a check, sincerely hoping it would clear the bank on Monday. The four of us continued to sit at the table drinking Champaign. The movie producer’s wife slipped her left hand down to my crouch and looked into my eyes as she squeezed my testicles so hard it instantly brought tears to my eyes and said, I really want that Harley Davidson motorcycle. If I pay you a thousand dollars more than you paid would you sell it to me?

Her squeeze intensified, making me squirm in the seat and I looked her right in the eyes with a smirk on my face, But of course, is there anything else I can do for you?

She released her vice like grip on my privates, and murmured in a voice to be overheard by others at the table, Yes, I believe there is something else you can do for me tonight.

Now, you don’t know Rosa, she is the only individual in the world who can strike fear in my heart and bring me trembling to my knees.

Rosa could have been another Columbo, Sherlock Holmes or even Beretta, you remember Beretta, with a parrot on his shoulder who said, If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. Wonder if his murdered wife would agree with that statement? Rosa is the absolute master spy, sleuth detective.

Over time, I have cleverly learned to choose the narrow course of brutal honesty when quizzed about anything from breaking a dish (early in marriage blaming the cat) to checking out the blonde at the next table (using, isn’t she a friend of yours, more than once). Rosa has an uncanny knack of rooting out any attempt at deception on my part and certainly not from lack of trying by yours truly.

Early the next morning in Suite 241 at the Ritz Carlton in Vail Colorado the