TERRY SOUTHERN

We were barge “Captains,” as they called themselves — rather euphemistically since it was a job so lowly that it was ordinarily held by guys who had been kicked out of the Longshoreman’s Union — old winos and the like, being replaced now by this new breed, the dopehead writer. It was one of those classic writer’s jobs, like hotel clerk, night watchman, fire-tower guy, with practically no duties (“Just keep her tied up and pumped out”). Alex Trocchi found it by chance, wandering around the West Side docks after a few hours at the White Horse Tavern. The guy who did the hiring happened to be Scottish, a Scotsman called Scotty, in fact. So he took a fancy to Alex, Alex being a Ludgate Scholar from Glasgow, who had boss charm besides. (Scottish accent; “Have ye had any experience at sea, lad?” “Only with small craft, sir — punting on the Clyde and the like.” “Good enough, lad, I like the cut of yer jib.”) So Alex was in. And about half a dozen of us— of similar stamp and ki…