That night the Skipper rescues George from his wife and niece's severe double silent treatment. To repent for the disastrous lunch, he takes him to a place that only another man could understand – his usual haunt, Barnacle Bill's. Most of the regular crowd hasn't left since 1964 and when the Skipper bursts through the door, sans necktie and with his cap securely moored to his head again, they cry out, shout and cheer and applaud, welcome him back with tipsy toasts and open arms.
The two men belly up to the bar and the bartender promises to keep 'em coming, on the house, for as long as they want. Regular beer – none of that fancy stuff. No pink lady drinks with the little Hawaiian umbrellas. No tourist would dare set foot in this joint. It's dark and smoky, peanut shells snap and crackle under their feet, and there's an unspoken rule not to mention wives, yours or otherwise.
The Skipper and George are pals already, an instant bond formed of mutual respect and shared roles as leader and protector. One a master of the land and the other a master of the sea, together they could conquer anything Mother Nature conjured up.
Since neither man got to finish his lunch and because George Summers looks like a man who can appreciate and handle a trash can lid filled with meat, the Skipper slaps his hand down on the bar and announces that they will be undertaking the ultimate challenge – to finish Barnacle Bill's infamous Belly Buster. A chorus of cheers erupts around the bar and the staff yells out to the cook and George half expects a banner to unfurl and an emcee to appear from nowhere to referee.
Both men are two beers gone and sidestepping around discussing the obvious when the cook and the bartender emerge from the kitchen, each burdened with a metal trash can lid. The lids are piled high with a solid pound of French fries and the biggest hamburger in existence in the United States of America. The Skipper and George are relocated to a table so they can sit across from each other and eye their opponent, to intimidate and keep tabs on them. The regulars gather around like it's a boxing match, clutching their big frosted mugs of beer and leaning forward in anticipation. The two competitors squint at each other. George tucks a napkin into his collar. The Skipper removes his cap. Both stretch out their arms, crack their knuckles. The bartender sets his timer for half an hour.
Twenty nine minutes and forty seconds later, the commotion at Barnacle Bill's can be heard halfway down the block. Other guys have wandered in out of curiosity, drunks from next door, young sailors from the harbor, people off the street. Men of all ages and sobriety levels are gathered around the tiny table, yelling and cheering, taking up sides, throwing down bets.
George tosses his wadded up napkin victoriously onto the empty lid just as the Skipper shoves the last French fry into his mouth. Both claim victory, pointing at themselves, unable to talk around the last mouthful. They're so stuffed they have nowhere to put it. The Skipper's eyes widen and he shakes his head as he points at George, holds up his own empty trash can lid for the bartender to see. George is just as vehement and the crowd is even louder than before, shouting incoherent arguments for their favored eater. The cook and the bartender huddle for a brief conference and finally declare it a draw.
The Skipper and George are finally able to swallow the last bites and they drain their beer mugs to wash it down before shaking hands across the table. The cook clears the table and the crowd disperses, lurking back to their bar stools and their dark corners. The bartender disappears for a second, reappearing with a Polaroid camera to take the traditional celebratory picture.
The Skipper nods. "Impressive, Summers."
"I'd be in so much trouble if Martha saw that."
Around the bar the other men look up and shout unintelligibly at him, cover their ears, throw napkins at him, reprimanding the newcomer for breaking Barnacle Bill's golden rule: Do not mention your wife. It just reminds everyone else that they've got one somewhere.
The bartender returns with two little gold plastic hamburger trophies for the victors. He moves to the back wall of the bar and unceremoniously stabs a thumbtack through the top of their picture, posting it on the end of a long row of photographic proof that men will stuff themselves full of three times their stomach capacity of meat just to be able to say they did.
The Skipper and George stagger to their feet, the Belly Buster beginning to live up to its name and form a solid rock in the pit of their stomachs. They move to admire their photo on the wall, forever immortalized in the shrine. They're grinning at the camera, red-faced and bursting, arms around the other's shoulders and their glass beer mugs raised in triumph. They scan the other worthy champions on display: men in serious food comas, eyes half closed, drooling. One man is face down in the empty metal lid. When they get to the last picture in the row, they freeze.
"I'll be damned," George mutters.
It's Gilligan. Twenty-one years old and grinning widely, eyes bright and alert, his gold hamburger trophy raised jubilantly in one hand. An ice cream sundae sits next to the empty trash can lid on the table.
Gilligan beat the Belly Buster.
And then he had dessert.
"I'll be damned," George says again, shaking his head, and heads back to the table. He drops into his chair and leans back. He pulls another chair closer to him with his foot and props his feet up on the seat, groaning in discomfort. "How did he do it?"
The Skipper shuffles back to the table and leans his palms on the surface, lowering himself gently back into his seat. "I have no idea." The Skipper exhales in relief as he settles into the chair. "He can eat two whole coconut crème pies in one sitting."
George grimaces, waves his hand in the air to erase this last sentence. "Don't talk about food."
The Skipper nods, stares down into his fresh mug of beer. "He's a unique little guy, I'll say that."
"I think my ...," George glances around and then mouths the word 'wife' so the other patrons won't kick him out for breaking the golden rule twice, "is a little in love with him."
The Skipper chuckles into his mug. "Yeah, so's your ni—." The Skipper freezes and looks up at the man across the table.
But George is smiling a little, shaking his head and staring off into the corner. "Yeah, I can tell. I raised three daughters of my own. I know the signs. Plus, she's not very subtle."
The Skipper laughs again. He had noticed the way Mary Ann was watching Gilligan before the first hour of their three hour tour was up. On the island, she followed him around, baking for him and shamelessly telling him how wonderful he was, hoping desperately that one day he'd turn around and say the same to her.
"It still took Gilligan ten years to figure out what was going on – even after the rest of us came right out and told him." The Skipper watches George closely. "He's terrified of you."
To his surprise, George smiles. Then he starts laughing. "I know!" he says, laughing harder. "When my oldest girl Rachel went on her first date, I set myself up on the porch and pretended to clean my gun. You should've seen that poor kid's face when he showed up and saw me. I said, 'What time are you bringing her home, boy?' and he squeaks out, 'Seven thirty, sir!' and I near about lost my mind laughing right there 'cause it was already seven o'clock when he came to get her." George is grinning, shaking his head in amusement. "God love him, that boy came back at seven thirty on the dot. I don't even think they made it all the way to town before they had to turn around and come back. Rachel didn't speak to me for a week." George turns to the Skipper and winks, whispering, "Neither did Martha, come to think of it." George stops to take a long gulp from the cold mug. When he speaks again, he's calm, almost reverent. "But that kid kept coming back. They're married now. Two kids. They named the older girl after Mary Ann when we thought she was ..." He looks down at the floor and his voice trails off, lets the rest of his thought float away into the smoky air in the bar.
The Skipper lets a moment of silence pass before a thought strikes him. "Wait a minute. You were doing that to Gilligan on purpose?"
George looks away, avoids the question. "You have any daughters, Skipper?"
"No."
"Any kids at all?"
The Skipper sighs, rolls his eyes. "Just Gilligan."
"Then you don't know the fun you missed out on."
The Skipper blusters something incoherent. He smacks his palm down on the table, puts his words in order. "Now, see here! I'm the only one who can torture my little buddy for sport!"
George pulls his feet off the chair and turns to face the Skipper properly. He rests his forearms on the table and leans forward earnestly. "It's not about sport, Skipper. It's about protecting your girls. You understand that."
"From savages and dehydration and hurricanes! Not selfless little guys like Gilligan!"
"That's not what I mean. I mean from ..." He frowns down at the table. George Summers can talk about wheat for three hours without taking a breath, but somehow he can't put this simple concept into words. He can't wrangle his thoughts securely enough to translate them into words and herd them out into the world.
"Mary Ann's boyfriend in high school turned out to be a real jerk. When he dropped her for some cheerleader, she was a mess and I said that would never happen again." George leans forward again and continues solemnly, "If I had done to him what I did to Rachel's boyfriend, he wouldn't have come back, I guarantee it. It wasn't worth it to him and we all would've been better off." George pauses again, looks up at the Skipper sincerely. "The point is that the boy comes back. If he comes back, then you know he's serious, that she's worth it to him. If he could live without her and never have to deal with me again, he would. But he can't. So he comes back. That's what you want."
George points at the Skipper to emphasize this point and then sits back in his chair. The Skipper watches him closely. George is staring at him, waiting. He knows George wants him to tell him if Gilligan would go back.
Of course he'd go back.
The Skipper wants to tell him about Jonathan Kincaid, about how Gilligan was hunted. He wants to tell him about Rodriguez sentencing him to execution. About rescuing them all from the Japanese sailor. A man with a gun is old news to Gilligan.
The Skipper wants to tell him about how Gilligan saved his own life in the Navy and about the medal he got for it that no one else knows he has, not even Mary Ann.
He wants to tell him about Gilligan leaping into the lagoon when he heard Mary Ann shouting for help. About how he flew up onto the stage before anyone else had even blinked when she fainted. How he helped her with the laundry and the dishes and made her laugh when a severe storm blew in and she got scared. He wants to tell him about how angry Gilligan got when Mary Ann started hanging out with Duke Williams because he knew that the lost surfer was the kind of guy who would drop her for some cheerleader.
Duke Williams would not go back.
But these are too many words. Too many words will cheapen it, make it sound like he's pleading Gilligan's case. So instead he quietly says:
"He loves her."
George relaxes a little in his chair. "I know. I can tell."
"You can?"
"You didn't see what he did at lunch, did you?"
The Skipper frowns into his beer. "He did a lot of things at lunch." He cautiously peers up at George with one eye. "So you're ... okay with them?"
George doesn't look at him. He spins his frosted beer mug on the table, trails of condensation puddle in its wake. "I didn't say that."
"Why don't you like him?"
George heaves a sigh that could move mountains. "I do like him. That's the problem. He's a sweet kid. A little scrawny, but they're good for each other. If we were in Kansas I'd have 'em married before Saturday. It's just that ..."
George trails off, stares down at the table, his mug clutched in both hands. "I can't get my brother back," he continues quietly. "I can't get Sarah back. But ... but we just got Mary Ann back and now –." George looks up at the Skipper. He looks sad, like he already knows the answer to his next question. "She's not gonna come home with us, is she?"