by Josh Harris
Another time, Phil was gambling at Harrah’s in Tahoe, accompanied by Hugh. While Phil became deeply engrossed in playing blackjack, Hugh was busy getting hammered on the complimentary drinks that kept coming his way.
One of Phil’s favorite bartenders, Neil, was supplying the booze. Seeing Hugh spill drink after drink on the gaming table, Neil, as his shift ended, told Phil, “You should take your buddy home.”
Replied Phil, “Fuck that. If he goes, I go.”
They stayed. The next night when Neil returned for his shift, Phil and Hugh were still at the same table. Neil couldn’t believe it.
This time, it was Hugh’s turn to do a belly flop onto the green playing surface, sending drinks, cards, and chips in all directions.
A couple of flops later, the boys were eighty-sixed. But Phil wasn’t ready to head home. He had pancakes at IHOP on his mind. Phil loved his pancakes.
When they reached the restaurant by cab, Phil ordered the driver to pull up in front of a huge window, in full view of a group of churchgoers who had arrived for breakfast from Sunday morning services.
Phil saw that Hugh was getting greener and greener by the minute, so Phil left him there, half in and half out of the cab, staring vacantly at the good folks shielded from him by the glass.
What happened next was a scene straight out of The Exorcist: the window splattered, the customers disgusted, and Phil, seated at a nearby table, amused.
But not distracted for long from his mission. Without so much as a pause, Phil grabbed his fork and dug into the triple-decker stack of flapjacks in front of him.
Finally, reluctantly, Phil was forced to cut his meal short when Hugh tumbled onto the pavement. Phil came out, stuffed Hugh back into the cab, and off they went with the waiter in hopeless pursuit, waving the unpaid bill.
Hugh got his revenge later that day. Sobered up, he was driving Phil’s car with Phil asleep in the passenger seat, contentedly snoring after his marathon blackjack session, his bare feet sticking out the window.
When a diesel truck pulled alongside, Hugh, a mischievous look in his eye, gave the trucker the universal closed-fist pumping sign to blow his horn.
The trucker responded with a resounding blast, causing Phil, not eight feet from the horn, to bolt upright, his head nearly crashing through the front window.
Hugh gave the driver a grateful salute, his day complete.
• • •
One day, Hugh heard a persistent knock at his front door. It was Phil looking more terrible than usual, awash in blood and in obvious pain, with all sorts of twigs and thorns clinging to his body, the result of careening off the road.
“Man,” he said, “I wrecked my bike and walked all the way here.”
When Phil pulled his shirt up, Hugh could see his friend had broken his collarbone, the injury so severe that the bone was jutting out grotesquely through the flesh.
“Man, it was gnarly,” recalled Hugh years later.
Phil had somehow managed to walk two miles to get to Hugh’s house.
“Why didn’t you go straight to the hospital?” Hugh asked him.
“Well, they’d know I was drunk and fucked-up,” said Phil.
“The hospital doesn’t care,” Hugh told him.
Hugh gently put Phil in his car and then raced at speeds up to one hundred miles an hour in order to get his buddy to people who could relieve the pain.
When Phil returned home, his shoulder was still bothering him, the joint popping in and out of alignment, but he refused to see a doctor.
“If you don’t do something about it,” Mary insisted, “you will have problems when you get older.”
“I’m not going to live that long anyway,” Phil replied.
He proceeded to gobble down a handful of pain pills, jumped on another bike, and roared away, heading for a nearby bar.
Just another day in Phil’s self-destructive life.
When Phil pushed the envelope with Mary, which he did quite often, he would frequently make up for it by whisking her away on a vacation at some exotic location.
“Phil knew how to vacation,” said Mary. They once spent ten days in Maui, staying in luxurious digs and living it up. But vacations with Phil could quickly change from bliss to torture.
Having grown up in Hawaii, Mary got excited when Phil agreed to let her show him where she’d spent her teen years and gone to high school. “But, as it turned out,” Mary said, “he just wanted to sit in the hotel room, watch football, drink alcohol, and snort coke. I was so disappointed. He seemed to have forgotten how to enjoy life without drugs or alcohol.
“There was no in between with him. He was either running around with his hair on fire or he was a total couch potato.”
Phil would go fishing for months at a time and return with a pile of money. After he had risked his life, grinding out the grueling hours demanded by the Bering Sea, who could deny him his pleasures? As he reiterated to Mary over and over again, he wasn’t hurting anybody—other than maybe himself, he sometimes conceded. So he lived by his unwavering creed: You’re only young once. Let’s party. And she partied right along with him.
Mary had her own issues with alcohol: she couldn’t hold her liquor. “Mary doesn’t have a drinking problem,” Phil once said. “She’s a problem when she drinks.”
One spring, Phil invited her to join him in Alaska for a fishing trip. He had convinced her that she wouldn’t have to worry about the weather. It was May, not January, and the storms had long since passed.
He got Mary an airline ticket for Anchorage, but there are no guarantees when it comes to Alaskan weather and, on the day of her scheduled departure, fog had rolled into Anchorage, delaying the flight.
Stuck in Seattle’s Sea-Tac Airport, Mary went into the bar for a drink. She kept drinking as the delay stretched to sixteen hours. That’s a lot of drinks.
“I had to redo my makeup so many times,” Mary said, “I thought I was going to have to peel it off with a spatula.”
Mary finally got on the plane, but, even after it took off, she was unable to relax. Not only was the flight extremely bumpy, but, as the plane neared Anchorage, she could see that the fog hadn’t dissipated.
So, to calm her nerves, she kept drinking.
“By the time we got there,” she said, “I was drunker than a skunk.”
Gingerly getting off the plane and lurching through the airport, Mary could see, through squinting eyes, the word “Bar” on a sign.
Anxious to get off her feet, she stumbled in, only to find the place was packed with fishermen, every chair taken.
Didn’t matter. She could have her choice of seats. From all sides of the room, bar patrons were motioning to her.
“You can sit here right next to me,” said one.
“No, sit here,” said another.
Or here.
Or there.
These guys are so friendly, she thought, so nice.
Mary plopped down and, empowered by the liquor, began telling jokes, one after another.
You would have thought she was Jay Leno or David Letterman delivering the monologue because all the fishermen at the surrounding tables were paying rapt attention to her.
It was then that she heard someone whispering, “Mary, Mary, get over here.”
It was a familiar voice coming from a nearby booth.
She soon realized it was Phil trying to alert her. About what?
In her drunken stupor, Mary wasn’t aware she had stumbled into the bar with one of her breasts hanging out.
“That’s why I was so popular,” she said.
• • •
Phil and Mary celebrated one New Year’s Eve at a restaurant named Jonah and the Whale in Bellevue, Washington. The booze and drugs flowed freely.
Afterward, they went to a hotel, the Washington Plaza, but became separated after Mary passed out in the hallway.
A hotel employee found her, got her to her room, opened it, and let her lurch in.
Only it wasn�
��t her room. She fell into a bed already occupied by two other hotel guests.
“Who are you?” demanded the woman, her eyes opening to find Mary in her face.
“Who are you?” Mary replied just as adamantly.
Then, the other head popped up, that of the woman’s male companion. “Uh oh,” said Mary. “I guess I’m the one who doesn’t belong.”
Meanwhile, livid at her for disappearing, Phil stomped home. Mary made it back to the house by cab, but by then, Phil had already given up on her. She found him in their bed with another woman.
Now it was Mary’s turn to be livid. She took off and stayed away for a month, living with friends in Yakima, Washington.
When she finally returned, Mary had a warning for Phil. “Every time you cheat on me,” she said, “I’ll cheat on you twice.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Phil told her.
“No,” Mary agreed, “but it sure evens the score.”
“We hurt each other so much with all that payback stuff,” Mary later said. “I would have thought me cheating to get even would have made him stop, or at least kick me out.”
Instead, she’d find Phil at restaurants or clubs with women hanging on him or taking advantage of his seemingly never-ending supply of coke.
When Mary would catch him, she would spew her bitterness at his female companion of the moment, then ask Phil in disgust if he was coming home. “He’d stumble back to our house,” Mary said, “then pass out on the front porch, where I’d leave him all night.”
By the early 1980s, Phil had become convinced that Mary was cheating on him while he was at sea, a belief bolstered by rumors that drifted back to him from home. Jeff got a call from Phil one time at four thirty in the morning. “I want you to come over here right now,” Phil said.
“You’re back from fishing a little early, aren’t you?” he asked Phil when he got to the house.
“Yeah, well, I found out Brad [Mary’s ex-husband] was trying to fuck Mary while I was gone even though there was no chance that was going to happen,” said Phil. “I wanted you to hear this phone call I’m about to make.”
Phil dialed a number, and Jeff heard him describe Brad and tell the person on the line, “I’ll give you five hundred bucks if you take this guy’s legs out.”
Jeff had no doubt Phil was dead serious.
Phil then called Brad and told him, “Hey, I just put out a contract on you, so watch your back.”
Brad took off and spent five days at a friend’s pig farm, sleeping in a back room while clutching a .22-caliber rifle.
Finally, Phil called back and said, “Okay, don’t worry about it. I’m not going to do anything.”
He never did, although he wouldn’t talk to Brad after that and never forgave him. And though everyone who knew him agrees that Phil would never have followed through on such a threat, it wasn’t the first time Phil used the power of a gun to send a message.
Once, when someone ratted out one of his dealers, Phil learned who the snitch was, then lured him over to the house under the pretext of asking for a drug delivery. When the snitch arrived, Phil stuck his .44 Magnum in the man’s mouth and told him, “If you ever fuck me or any of my friends again, I’ll kill ya.”
His temper and his .44 Magnum raised the ire of the local police on more than one occasion.
One blazing hot summer day, Phil, Mary, and Hugh Gerrard were relaxing with a few cold beers when a car streaked by at a hellacious clip, almost hitting Meigon. Phil’s street was a dead end, so the reckless driver had to turn around.
Phil decided to greet the offender and point out the error of his driving habits. He planted himself in the middle of the street, sans shirt, like a boxer preparing for battle. But this fighter was armed with more than his fists. He raised his .44 Magnum as the car raced toward him.
It was the ultimate game of chicken, and the other guy blinked first. He pulled over and got chewed out by Phil, but when the lecture was over, the driver took off and called the cops. A few minutes later, they came roaring up to Phil’s house, guns drawn.
Phil’s friend Dan Mittman remembers the gun being “as big as a hog’s leg.” After the police saw the weapon, it was Phil who was on the receiving end of a lecture. But, as was often the case with him, he soon won over those who questioned him.
When they asked Phil why he had a gun that size, he smiled and said, “It’s the biggest I could find. If I could’ve found a bigger one, I would have bought it by now.”
• • •
In 1982, having worn Phil’s engagement ring for four turbulent years, Mary decided it was time for him to, in terms he could understand, fish or cut bait. “What am I wearing this ring for?” she demanded. “If we don’t stop all this payback stuff and get married the next time you come home from Alaska, I think we should just go our separate ways. You said you wanted to start a family. I’m twenty-eight and I’m ready. I want to do things right. I’m willing to start fresh with a clean slate. But no more cheating and no more craziness.”
“That sounds like an ultimatum,” Phil said. “I don’t like ultimatums.”
“That’s the deal,” she replied. “It’s your choice, marriage or cutting our losses before we end up hating each other.”
With the issue unresolved, they jetted off for a Las Vegas vacation. Naturally, with his love of all forms of wildlife, Phil took Mary to the Siegfried & Roy show. Mary could tell Phil was really enjoying it.
Then, all of a sudden, right in the middle of the performance, he stood up and declared, “This is the best show ever. Let’s leave right now and get married.”
“Don’t you at least want to see the rest of the show?” Mary asked.
“Nope,” replied Phil.
And off they went.
They hailed a cab and stopped to get a little liquid confidence to steady their nerves.
By the time they made it to the altar in one of the many dingy, bare-essentials wedding chapels spread around the city, Phil and Mary were both zombies. And so, in April of 1982, they slurred their “I do’s” and were pronounced husband and wife.
The next morning, as Phil walked by their bathroom in the hotel, he saw Mary on the floor, hugging the toilet bowl. Noticing something stuck on her back, Phil peeled it off.
It was their wedding certificate.
CHAPTER 7
RAISING HELL, RAISING KIDS
What woman in her right mind would want to be with a guy who is never there?
—Josh
When Mary got pregnant, Phil got scared.
Bearing the responsibility for keeping crew members alive under the most frightening nautical conditions on earth was manageable. Bearing the responsibility for raising a child seemed, in some ways, unimaginable to Phil. As Mary once said, “Not much scares Phil. Just fatherhood and rats.”
When Mary was wheeled into the delivery room, Phil accompanied her, but he didn’t stay long. Doctors don’t want nervous wrecks hanging over them while they work. Phil was ordered to go out into the hall, where he stood, anxiously clutching his wife’s purse, while his first son entered the world.
Eleven months after the wedding, Joshua Grant Harris was born on March 18, 1983.
Although he was premature by three weeks, the baby proved to be healthy and strong. That can be crucial to your well-being when your father has a drinking problem. Although he had hoped for a girl, Phil was thrilled with his new son, but not thrilled enough to give up alcohol.
When Josh was three months old, a drunk Phil picked him up, but accidentally dropped the baby on his head. Fortunately, Josh was okay, but that didn’t stop a furious Mary from verbally lambasting Phil.
He responded by pinning her up against a wall before suddenly backing off and dropping his head in shame.
“I’m fucking up,” he admitted. “I just feel so much pressure. Sometimes, I just wish I was a bum with nothing to lose.”
Mary, worried about her young son’s safety, was not satisfied with her husband
’s response. Neither was a neighbor, who called the police. When they arrived, Phil offered to leave, but Mary saved him the trouble. She packed Josh up, along with Meigon (Shane was with his father at the time), and took off.
She stayed with a friend for three weeks. Phil would drive by her temporary home obviously drunk, shout profanities, and harass Mary.
But no matter how much Phil would bombard Mary with verbal abuse, she couldn’t stay away. She loved him, and every time he promised to change and vowed to give up his addictions, she felt that this was the time he meant it. This was the time he would truly reform.
So back she came with Josh after twenty-one days and things returned to normal. But for Phil, normal meant drunk.
For Josh, that almost meant disaster once again when he was eight months old. As he was crawling around the house, he spotted a shot glass full of vodka left on a coffee table. With no one else paying attention, he furiously moved his little arms and legs to propel himself over there and then pulled his small body up.
As Mary’s eyes locked on Josh, she saw the last drops of vodka disappearing down his throat. She yelled at Phil that they needed to rush their son to the hospital.
“Wait a minute,” said Phil, his palms pumping downward to signal for calmness, his gaze focused on his infant child. Josh’s eyes got big, his breathing heavy.
But the crisis quickly passed, and a look of serenity came over his face. He dropped back to the floor and resumed crawling, heading off in search of more mischief.
“He’s fine,” said Phil, a big grin on his face. “He’s just like me.”
That wasn’t necessarily a good thing. One afternoon late in 1983, the owner of a boat on which Phil was serving as captain showed up unannounced at the dock and found Phil passed out in the wheelhouse from too much booze.
Not only was Phil fired, but, his reputation soiled, he was run aground indefinitely, with no one in the fishing industry willing to hire him.
“We lost everything,” Mary said. “Our house, the land, the Corvettes, the Porsche, the Harley, and the parrots. It was terrible.”
