The Feet of God

112 - THE MEMBERSHIP

It didn’t take long for disaster to strike Punta Gordita a second time.  And this one had a particular impact on The Rusty Trumpet.

Mr. E was driving to the bar for his afternoon cocktails and crossword puzzle.  But he lost control of his Bonneville and hit nearly every parking meter for a block, narrowly missing several pedestrians along the way.  His car crashed into a fire hydrant where it came to a final stop.  A huge spout of water shot in the air.

Everyone ran to the scene.  I lit a Marlboro and witnessed events from a distance.  Sandi Dollar was one of the first to rush out and render assistance.  She opened the driver’s side door to check on Mr. E’s condition.  She apparently found a pulse and shouted, “He’s alive!”  She proceeded to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the elderly gentleman until medical professionals arrived.

Finally an ambulance did show up, and the emergency response team took over.  But they didn’t seem to share the same urgency to revive the old man, at least not to Sandi’s satisfaction.  She got in their face.  “What’s wrong with you?  Why aren’t you trying to save him?”

The paramedic drawled, “Lady, he’s deader’n Elvis.”

“I took courses in cosmetology,” she protested.  “He still has a heartbeat!”

“That’s his pacemaker.  Trust me, he’s gone.”

Sandi’s eyes circled furiously while she tried to come to grips with reality.

Officers investigating the wreck confirmed Mr. E’s real name was Edgar Edgerton.  He had an extensive police blotter including some vague allegations stemming from a child sex case in Central America.  Nothing was proved, so who knows?  The Rusty Trumpet grieved the loss of one of its own.  Mr. E was buried and soon forgotten, and life at the bar went on as usual.

I got into a comfortable routine myself of swamping, drinking and sleeping.  I met more of the regulars as my career was fast-tracked.

I found out that the bar itself was divided into three sections popularly known as the Vatican, the Balcony (sometimes called the Baloney) and the Government.  I usually situated myself at the end of the bar called the Government.  Two regulars presided over the Vatican, Pope Randy and his follower, Dagoberto.  (Whenever Jar-Boy popped open a bottle of wine or champagne, Skipper liked to shout, “And Pope Randy got off his bar stool.”  Pope Randy was never amused.)  Mostly, those two muttered to each other and didn’t interact too pleasant with other customers. 

Failed writer Rick Rottingham most often parked himself at the Balcony next to Sputnik.  I’m not sure why.  Every time Sputnik used his pool cue pointer to tap out a message on the Ouija board, Rick Rottingham would get angry and point a finger, “Do shut up, do.”  I never understood the source of their friendship.

More problematic was She-Bear.  She was a bit of an exception to Sandi’s policy discouraging women customers, maybe ’cause She-Bear looked like a testosterone-fueled trucker with a big beer gut hanging over her manly belt buckle.  She-Bear came in almost every day, punctuating almost everything she said with, “Ya fuckin’ moron.”

The Brazilian slipped away again, on one of his frequent trips for whatever nefarious reason, which I figured was likely narco-traffic.  Celestino dropped in from time to time, but I kept Jar-Boy’s advice and stayed away from him.  The Celestial quietly got drunk after finishing work.  Leo Lancelot could always be counted on to mince away the hours until about four o’clock.  Big Dick and Little Dick showed up daily to wage war at pinball, slamming back Buds and idly passing time.  Jar-Boy and Sea Bass was constantly debating something.  I usually didn’t pay much attention since their arguments bored me.  Last time I heard them dispute if a great white shark could beat a killer whale.

I ultimately decided to evacuate the Government for a small table in a neutral zone near a window, because Ass-Rocket kept sitting next to me blowin’ backdoor breezes.  I finally went to Jar-Boy and tried to get Ass-Rocket officially 86’d.  “Who needs to put up with him firing air bagels all day long?” I complained.  “I don’t care how many times he apologizes.”  But I guess I didn’t have enough political juice, since Jar-Boy didn’t do nothin’ and Ass-Rocket kept burnin’ rubber as much as he pleased.

I tellya, I haven’t felt so at home since my trailer park days back in Bakersfield.

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