"Crazy Bernie"

"Crazy Bernie" is the name of this, well, crazy man.

That's what his wife, Sue, wrote in the margin of the business card she gave us before she took her husband by the arm and left us. Bino and I have both got a copy in our wallets; I doubt either of us will ever throw it away. Crazy Bernie is someone we will both remember for the rest of our lives.
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It started innocently enough.

"Excuse me, do you speak English?"

"Yes," I answered to the middle-aged couple looking lost on the winding back alleys of Dubrovnik, a good thirty minutes from where every tourist in the city is trying to go: Old Town.

"Do you know how to get to the Old Town?"

"Follow us."
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What D.I. and I both saw as our Good Samaritan deed of the day would eventually become a treat for us. But at the time -- and for the next thirty minutes, as we walked in two pairs, he and Bernie leading the way for Sue and I -- all we thought was that we would lead the vacationing couple to their destination, and that would be that.

But Bernie had other plans.
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Happy Hour? The more the merrier, right! That is Bernie's philosophy.

Sue was a little more cognizant of the fact that two 22-year-old college grads out on the town in Croatia may not be trying to have a surrogate family night out.

"Don't feel obligated to hang out with us," she said to me with a touch of embarrassment, while Bernie was ordering the first round.

"It's fine," I told her, quietly a little annoyed, but not enough for it to really bother me. We had gone to our de facto Dubrovnik hangout, a place called Fresh, to meet kids our age. Instead, Bino and I -- former roomates who could pass as brothers because of our curly hair and Israeli complexion -- walked in with what appeared to be our parents, causing many heads to turn once we approached the bar.

These were nice folks, though, so it wasn't a big deal; and besides, Bernie was buying...
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Bernie is 60 years old. He may have been able to hold his liquor well at one stage in his life, but not these days. He quickly got drunk. And then, I'd say he got wasted.

"Our old woman that we are staying with gave us a shot of palinka!" I remembered him saying in the wake of our initial introduction, his British accent -- diluted from years of living in Toronto with his Canadian wife -- making up for its lack of original potency with sheer volume. "So I'm already feeling good!"

Two pints later, Bernie was feeling extra good.

"You're cute!" he informed the blonde Kiwi sitting across from us. "Are you with him?!" Bernie wasn't too impressed by the girl's apparent boyfriend.

"Dubrovnik has a lot of talent!" he said to me, not so discreetly. Sue stood just a few feet away, talking to Bino.

Bernie is what I like to call the harmless old man who knows he carries the harmless old man card. He says what he wants, because he knows he can get away with it. Like this, for example:

"When I was your age, I was living in London, going to clubs, just living it up, mate! Now, though, I've been married for 32 years," he said, looking in the direction of Sue. "While I may not be able to do it like I once could, I can do it once like I ever could!" He nudged me, making sure I got the pun.

I got it.
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"Are you listening to me! You're not listening to me -- LISTEN to me!" Bernie was grabbing me by the arm as he tried to tell me his latest story. I was listening, but Bernie is an intense figure. He wants eye contact. All the time. And he pokes hard if he doesn't get it.

"I went to Catholic school, too!" he exclaimed, shocked that the kid he'd been talking to for 30 minutes -- a kid who looks like the prototypical Jew -- was in fact a Papist. Bernie, a proud descendant of the Israelites, wanted to tell me a little secret ... one that he didn't exactly whisper.

"I've taken the biscuit," he said with a BIG grin, as if he was sticking one to me and to Benedict at the same time.

Now that was a term I had never heard before, and I started to bellow in laughter.

"Do you know what that is, mate!" he asked. "That is the real deal -- the flesh and blood, mate!" Bernie was clearly amused that a piece of cardboard, disguised as the bread of life, was actually human tissue. "I ate it!"
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But that wasn't even the best part.

After a few beers, Bernie went in for reinforcements. He came out with two pints and a mixed drink for his wife. But no beers for Billy.

"Bernie, man, where the hell is MY beer?" I couldn't believe the snub.

"Hold on, mate," he said, putting his mug down as he stood up.

I saw a bulge in his pants.

"There is no way Bernie bought me a bottle of beer and stuck it in his pants...." I didn't know what he had in his magic bag.

Bernie started to put his hand in his pants.

I started to get a little uncomfortable.

He was digging deep, and wiggling around, too. But his big, British grin was as wide as ever.

I looked over at Bino -- he was as entranced as I was, looking as excited as a little Christian boy on Christmas Day, ready to see what the hell it was that Bernie was about to pull out of there.

If I gave you one million guesses, there is NO WAY you would get it right.

Bananas.

Four bananas. FOUR!

I had to run down the alley, I was laughing so hard. Bananas! They had been in there the whole walk! Four bananas. Was Bernie planning this trick the entire time? Does he do this often? Does his wife know about this? Bananas.

"What???" Bernie asked amidst the hysteria. Everyone outside was now staring at us in disbelief. "Haven't you ever heard the expression, 'Is that a banana in your pocket?" Bernie was cracking up.

"I mean, yeah, but those were IN YOUR PANTS, Bernie!"

It didn't matter to him. Bernie started chomping away, laughing so hard I was amazed he could still chew.

I've seen a lot of things in my life, but never, EVER, have I seen that. It reminded me of Wes, the original beach kid from www.newcollegeidentities.com, who carries around snacks with him wherever he goes. But not even Push 'Em Petticrew has carried around bananas in his pants before.

Crazy Bernie.

Bananas.