Following the Equator.com - Baby Willie Yu

Local go-to guy...

Some people say the 1950's were the last big snooze this great country had. If that is so, then, during those years, Poco Cabesa was positively comatose. It was into this stagnant state and time that Baby William Jefferson Alvarez Wu was born.

Baby Willie as a schoolboy giving national salute, circa 1962.

His father (whose own father acquired what passed for a fortune on Poco Cabesa speculating in bean curd imports and then rum-running during Prohibition) owned two of the six taverns licensed to operate in (then) Klinkleburg. His mother (who lavished attention on her only son and gave him his nom de plume) kept the family books.

Grandfather Sigmund Yu was a wealthy speculator.

Because of his parents' exalted social and economic status, Baby Willie's boyhood was, by Poco Cabesa standards, quite privileged.

Unlike his peers, whose families survived on funds from the tightfisted Limited Trust, Baby Willie benefited from having parents who actually earned a living.


Schooled at home by a string of pious tutors, Baby Willie also took lessons from his saloonkeeper father in the big classroom of life. And there was much to learn.

After Comrade Joe the First's unusual ascension to power in the early 1960's, Poco Cabesa (except, of course, for Medillo Grande) was quite similar to Florence during the time of the Medici family (but without the great art and culture).

Kingpins obtained and retained their economic, political, and social clout by whatever means necessary and available. Turf-wars settled with scathing insults and big sticks were a monthly occurrence.

Baby Willie's great-aunt Giselle Yu Fraser was tragically killed by Congolese rebels in 1965.

Baby Willie promoted groups to Motown in the 1970's but missed the Disco wave.

Hustles and cons were as common as lobbyists in the foyer of your state capitol. Those lucky enough to have connections to the rest of the world profited most, because those limited to island resources had use of an extremely tight currency supply that made borrowing and lending a fairly static affair.

Only funds brought in from outside could change the status quo, and the lucky "jet-set" few (like the Wus) had no reasons to invest in this decidedly unpleasant island. Excluding Medillo Grande, there was nothing to attract anything but flies to Poco Cabesa.

Through the Swinging Seventies, Egregious Eighties, and dotCom Nineties, Baby Willie used his smarts and his family position to carve out a niche for himself atop the island's demi monde. Resisting entreaties from expatriate family members to join them in Virginia Beach or Houston, in many ways this dapper, chubby fellow is Poco Cabesa's version of Sydney Greenstreet.

Recently, inspired by events like OktoberFest, Mardi Gras, or the Sundance Film Festival, Comrade Joe the Only and Baby Willie staged a "PirateFest" to attract tourists. The first night drew some of the biggest names in entertainment (well, Charo showed up), but a methane explosion in the southern cesspool dampened the evening's gaiety.

That (combined with the surplus tents pitched in the rocks and billed as "beach bungalows") led to the quick exodus of the few curiosity-seekers who stopped in to see the "pirates."

Angry performers demanding their wages.

(One of them was that long-haired Australian guy who wears real short denim cutoffs and not much else. He goes to the most unattractive locales imaginable and yet he always has a charming female companion. Who is that guy anyway?)

Despite Baby Willie's best efforts, including importing Cubans to pack the audience, the whole production closed early amid accusations of financial improprieties and misplaced payrolls.

Undeterred, Baby Willie presses on in his efforts to bring prosperity to his home island. Like all great men (or women), Baby Willie dreams big.

His goal is to be the Warren Buffett of the Caribbean. But, he'll settle for being Bebe Rebozo if he must.

Home | Back

Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is because we are not the person involved.
-- Mr. Twain