Padding the Lily or How I Came to
Control the Lost Medallions of Paradise.

(An excerpt) About 15 years ago, I was sitting in a beachfront cafe called La Tarraya in a little Mexican village. I was enjoying the Modelo and looking out across the Caribbean at Isla de Cozumel. I was simply minding my own business, imagining little mini fantasies about some of the various bikini-clad women all around me while masochistically enjoying the afternoon sun’s assault on me.

The café was crowded. I had a table for 4 or 6 people all to my lonesome, when an overly excited, typically disheveled American tourist type introduced himself as Rod Lily and asked if he could join me.

I nodded affirmatively and looked him over. I thought he could be the Guns N’ Roses frontman, Axl Rose. In any event, I figured this might get interesting. 

I introduced myself as Memphis, which was one of my bullshit meeting a stranger’s name. He was all excited about his diving experience that day and told me about these mysterious medallions that he recovered from a shipwreck. A shipwreck that thousands had visited before and had not discovered. It seemed a bit sus. But I tried to feign mild enthusiasm to mask the interest he had immediately triggered in me. Something on a profoundly deep level told me instantly I wanted to own whatever they were. I mean, you got shipwrecks, recovered bounty, did anyone say “pirates?

We talked and drank. We were getting lots of attention from the bikini girls, far more than the zero I was receiving on my own. We got into a friendly competition over who could drink more. The margaritas flowed, but not the slushy bullshit kind, just tequila and freshly made lime juice on lots of ice. As the AI bots would say, “No fluff.”

I soon learned that this rock star-looking mutha-fucker with a bag full of magic beans was no lightweight when it came to alcohol consumption. We talked shit, the usual shit like vacationing whores. Neither of us bashed them; we held them in high esteem. Housewives and single women who spent months in a gym to develop their bikini bods proudly strutting their stuff and offering free rides for those bold enough to inquire.

I bragged about a recent conquest. I had tapped a pole-dancing instructor from the island of Martinique, an absolute Goddess who left me three pounds lighter. Rod admitted his appearance was somewhat cultured to cash in on Axl Rose, and the wannabe groupies often were looking for any excuse to release their inner whore. He was laughing his ass off, attempting to do a passable version of November Rain in a mock pick-up routine.

It was a fine fucking day, sunshine, endless beauties surrounding us, cold tequila, and the elephant at the table, the waterproof bag containing the mysterious medallions, quite possibly Rod’s magic beans. Finally, I asked if I would see them.

Rod suddenly looked concerned and surveyed our immediate surroundings. He whispered almost and said, “Memphis, I think these are sold gold, I will hand you one under the table, take a look at it, but keep it under wraps.”

I grinned like a kid whose mom had just given him $5 and opened the door to the candy store. Fuck me. I thought to myself, I hope this is the real deal. He handed me a medallion, and it felt heavy and rough to touch. I took off my straw hat and dropped the medallion inside the hat so I could see it in the sunlight without others seeing it.

I was gobsmacked. It was fucking beautiful. It glistened in the sunlight, the etchings were not entirely clean cut, no doubt a result of their time under the sea, but it had a mystique, it demanded awe and respect. It had a presence, an aura almost, it screamed mystery, maybe a universal mystery, maybe a pirate connection, but somehow natural, inviting, and engaging. It was mesmerizing.