Tall Tales Well Told

The sun had set and The Sunset Bar lit up, alive with neon, music and pulsating enthusiasm from the horde of summer beach lovers, a made-for-memories kind of night.

Max was there early with tall tales, his personal trademark. He sat at the bar arm-wrestling a local underage lifeguard who seemed to be winning. This was not good for Max, his reputation was at stake. He lost! The kid moved on, smiling.

Max, The King of Tall Tales, was humiliated in defeat. The warm beer and half-smoked cigar offered no comfort. He mumbled aloud, “It happened…I’ve become obsolete, irrelevant, useless.”

Max was a regular. A hulking man at 65, his massive physical presence dominated the bar. Only a fool would have challenged his right to that stool beneath the ancient teak bar. Max lived large, having done everything “to the max” in life. Now, he re-lived these gusto years in stories from the stage of his bar stool.

Tall tales sold beer to island regulars, their thirst insatiable for wild exploits of the past. The teak bar, carved with Max’s initials, itself had a story, having come from a pirated sailboat that he and Jake, the bar’s owner, used to escape from Cuba.

But for Max tonight, both the magic and the crowds were absent. “Hey Jake, where’s my usual crowd? I’ve got a couple of goodies to tell.”

Jake shrugged, palms up, “Don’t know. Guess they ate and left early. They’re old now, don’t forget. And say, you’re looking kinda down tonight, Max, the ladies ignoring you since you lost the match to that kid?”

“Don’t remind me, Jake. The crowd just seems to get younger, and I seem to get older. Heck, they’re now calling me ‘Sir.’ One even called me ‘cute.” Imagine that, Jake, me, Max, cute?” His face sagged, the sadness showed.

“You know, Jake, nobody wants to hear our stories anymore. Man, we’ve had some great experiences, right? Remember that night when we hopped the wrong train over in Waycross? Ended up in Atlanta, not Jacksonville?” Max became animated.

Jake laughed, “Yeah, and that time when we bought Mosquito Island from Clyde’s widow for nothing, flipped it to those fellows in New York, and then squandered the whole stash in some Cajun card game down on Bourbon Street?”

Max grinned big, “Jake, tell me again that story of what happened to your third wife, you know, the gypsy chick you hooked up with when the carnival passed through. How many houses did you finally give her?”

Jake grimaced, “Stuff it, McGillicuddy… that memory still hurts.” Jake knew Max hated his given name, so he frequently bludgeoned him with it, a childhood act of love.

“Shhhh, Jake, they know me by Max…you’ll ruin my image,” Max blurted.

Jake hooted, “Image? What image? Where’s your crowd, your fans, tonight? You lost, remember? Didn’t I hear you complain about being irrelevant? Well, pal, join our crowd. We’re relics, antiques. Check in with your mirror!”

Max retorted, “That hurts, man.” Jake pointed his finger and said, “Max, see those young guys over there? They’re what’s happening now, pal, it’s a new crowd, new stories.”

“Mere boys, Jake. Heck, they’re hardly old enough to shave. But, I will have to admit they’re doing pretty well attracting the ladies. Say, who are they anyway?” Max asked.

Jake answered, “The PGA crowd, Max. Well, those ‘boys,’ as you called them, just flew in on their Hawker. The one in the blue polo just pocketed three million from the US Open. Wonder what tall tales he’ll be telling after tonight, huh, Max?”

The comment returned Max to his melancholy. Jake withdrew, supplying intoxicants to the swilling throngs. After all, it was nearly midnight, and the later it got, the more they drank.

Later Jake returned. Max said, “Jake, why do you think men tell tall tales?”

Jake looked long into the teeming masses, and said, “Life, Max, life. We live in stories, telling them to affirm ourselves, to reconcile the events of this passing life. We use these stories as a wrench to grip the passing, to hold to the fleeting, and to remember how it was then. It’s our final act, our last stage, Max.”

The men’s eyes locked for an instant, each knowing that a tall tale well told is a reincarnation and a way to perpetuate life. “Hey, Jake, more cold beer,” the boy in blue shouted as Max returned to his warm one, his audience elsewhere.

Darlene walked by, winked, and Max said, “Hey Darlene, want to hear about my trip to Hawaii?” Her eyes rolled, she answered, “Save it, Max, that was then, this is now,” as she headed towards the boy in blue with new money and newer stories.

Jake worked on, and Max eased out. “Men’s tall tales…Why?” he said aloud to no one, Jake’s words reverberating in his head…“Life, Max, Life.” I’ve had my life, he thought, they’re having theirs. What’s left for me? He pondered the question.


The parking lot was dark except for the neon flashes that winked intermittently on the cars. She stood alone in the strobbed reflections, glancing impatiently at her watch, then at the muted cell phone. “Damn him,” she said, as Max strolled past.

She was tall, blonde, scorned and stood-up. Whomever she cursed in that lot had other plans and left her stranded. “You OK, hon?” Max asked, “need a ride?” She was startled, but composed. Forget she was a good twenty years his junior ~ they all were ~ Max knew age was no deterrent these days. Besides, her pride had been publicly damaged.

“This your Harley? Never ridden one,” she said with a sly smile, her eyes twinkling. “Yeah, mine and the bank’s,” Max said, “but it’s mine tonight. Hop on.” She slid easily onto the contoured leather cushion, close, next to him, touching.

With one kick on the silver crank the sleek Harley came to life in a throaty growl, reviving both itself and the muted primal roar of the man. Their spirits soared and they became one with the machine. Astride that beast with the power surging between their legs, they spun from the lose gravel onto the vast and open highway.

Rejuvenated, rebellious and hell-bent for more of life, they sped together somewhere undefined through the darkness lit only by the light of a waning moon….



Bud Hearn
June 30, 2009