The Feet of God

110 - TOO MUCH INFORMATION

Suddenly there was light.  Not light from the sun exactly, but light all around.  Only everything was black and white, or, I suppose, brighter and darker shades of gray.

Something lifted and propelled me forward.  The next thing I knew, I was floating inside the confines of The Rusty Trumpet.  And Sandi Dollar was sitting there by herself, in a white wedding gown, sopping wet.  She noticed I was in the room.  Although her lips didn’t move I heard her say, “Even my cats are dead.  Little jars of ashes next to my chair.  No wonder I spend my weekends in a dark room, alone, with a bottle of gin and a knife.”

I then heard loud click-click-clicks, and I was immediately transported out front of the bar.  I could see a pack of pink poodles walking down the sidewalk.  It was their long toenails that was the source of all that clicketing racket I heard.  All the dogs had glowing yellow eyes.  The clicking sounds faded fast once the poodles rounded a corner....

“Bruddah!”

My head bolted up and slammed hard against the metal roof just above the cot.  I checked my scalp for blood.

“Bruddah!”

“Whattaya want, Jar-Boy?”

“Bathroom not clean.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m on it.”  I lied.  (I thought I could grab me a little more shuteye before getting around to that particularly unpleasant task.)

“Bar opens in twenty minutes.”

I looked at my watch, and the time was 1:40.

Then I remembered.  Sandi told me the bar opened every day at two o’clock in the afternoon, and Jar-Boy worked till four when she spelled him for two hours, then Jar-Boy returned to tend bar at six o’clock until closing at midnight.

I guess I had no choice but to go clean the crapper before the start of business.  I reluctantly rousted myself from the comfort of my bed.

The space under the lean-to wasn’t much, that’s for sure.  But I’ve slept under many a trailer coach in my time, so I was used to forgoing certain luxuries.  I was grateful I wasn’t sleeping with wood lice on pallets somewhere, or waking in some county lockup.

The bleach and ammonia was still by The Head.  I entered the shitter and braced myself to see Sandi Dollar passed out again in the bathroom stall.  But the place was empty.  I proceeded to diligently scrub down the toilet and the pisser, and in that duration I only dry-heaved three times.  Everything was clean as a whistle after I was done.  I was pretty proud of my work, too.  I reserved for myself the position as customer No. 1.

I closed the door to the toilet stall and read all the historical graffiti, including that all-time classic:

Here I sit
Buns a-flexin’
Just gave birth
To another Texan

I noticed an arrow was pointing to the clearance between the bottom of the stall door and the floor, so I followed its direction back to where someone’d scribbled: Beware of gay limbo dancers.

And below that:

If you're lonely
And you know it,
Hug your knees

In short order I was done tending to my own personal needs in the newly clean bathroom, so I thought I’d go hang at The Rusty Trumpet and enjoy my well-earned employment benefit of free beers till it was time to turn in.

I took a stool near Jar-Boy’s station at the bar.  He sure could talk your ear off.  I learned he was once a lifeguard at the Navy Officers’ Club at Pearl Harbor.  Later he moved to Oklahoma on a scholarship at the University of Tractor Fixing.  He dropped out of school since he couldn’t keep his grades up.  Gradually he made his way to Punta Gordita, where, he told me, if you stay long enough, the world will pass you by.

I sat and listened to Jar-Boy talk.  He went off on office politics and tidbits of juicy gossip.  Seems that Sandi Dollar hasn’t been much herself lately since she changed her meds and hadn’t stopped drinking.  I’m not sure what passed for normal with Sandi, but I bet Jar-Boy had a valid point.  He also alerted me to the fact she liked to preside over the bar like she’s the Queen Bee during her two-hour, late afternoon stints.

I looked over the bar and several regulars I recognized from the day before started showing up.  Mr. E appeared with the crossword tucked under his arm, and he ordered his usual dry martini.  Jar-Boy told me he switches to scotch on the rocks after eating lunch.  Sea Bass was drinking alone.  Big Dick and Little Dick was playing the pinball machine.  And a couple’a other guys came in who I didn’t know yet.  I’m sure Jar-Boy would fill me in shortly.  And then, to my later regret, the bar patron they called Ass-Rocket showed up and sat on the stool next to me.

I whiled away my time and it seemed in no time it was four o’clock, and time for Sandi to make her entrance.  Jar-Boy looked like he was set to go somewhere, so I figured there wasn’t gonna be a hitch.  And sure enough, at the stroke of four, Sandi came out from behind the sliding panel door to her living space.

She and Jar-Boy exchanged a few words.  Then Jar-Boy left and Sandi took over the bar.

“I feel like I been rode hard and put up wet,” she complained.  Sandi seemed tired.

“Well, it looked like a pretty rough night.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Sorry about that.  I should watch how much I drink now.”  Sandi put her finger to cheek, “Especially since I got that new prescription for acute angina.”

(I didn’t know they had designer drugs for lady parts.  But hey, I’m a man.)

“They got medicine that can actually do that for you?” I said, tryin’ to sound interested, even if it wasn’t a subject I wasn’t entirely knowledgeable about.

Sandi cocked her head and stared blank at me.

(Well, I didn’t ask her to share such personal and confidential information with me in the first place.)

Sandi Dollar was a bit of a motor-mouth like Jar-Boy.  She told me she was born in Paris, France.  One of three daughters.  She and her sisters (who are no longer on speaking terms) were Air Force brats.  She let me know their family moved to Las Vegas where her father worked at Hangar 18.

When she told me this I lit up.  “Hangar 18?  No kidding?  There’s a real Hangar 18?”

Her eyes orbited.  “Can’t.  Talk.  About.  It.”

Well, I guess that killed off that topic of discussion.  After a pause she picked up her narrative and told me how she moved away from home and ended up in Oregon.  In Oregon she worked in a succession of bead stores.  Sold some pot on the side to help make ends meet.  She also wasn’t above cleaning apartments.  Then she lived a more roaming lifestyle, eventually making her way to San Francisco with some Deadheads.

It was in San Francisco that her fate with Durwood Dobbler was sealed.  He was the trumpet player who played such a big part in her life.  When they met he was a little-known musician working small clubs in North Beach.  It was love at first sight, as Sandi said.  His first words to her was, “I am me for you.”

Sandi pointed to the musical instrument hung up over the bar.  It was the keepsake trophy she had from their relationship, a bent and rusted trumpet.  And, as I was quick to figure out, the musical inspiration for the name of the bar.

Sandi opened up about her love for Dobbler and, in her enthusiasm, went back to her place to fetch that big black book I seen her with.  Turns out, it was a scrapbook filled with photos and playbills and other personal items associated with her beloved Durwood Dobbler.  She said she takes it with her almost everywhere, so she can always remain close to him.

I thought that was sorta weird, but I didn’t wanna question the boss on anything so obviously important to her.

They lived together in the Haight-Ashbury for over two years.  He traveled a lot of the time, though, while she stayed at home with her cats.  Sandi thinks this was her fatal mistake.  Dobbler lost interest in their relationship.  While he went places and played his trumpet, he seemed bored whenever he was at home.

It was after she disclosed this bit of information Sandi stepped outside to smoke a Salem.

While she was outside I took a few smokes from her pack for later.  Even though I’m not a fan of menthol, except for an occasional Kool, you can’t beat that price.

I flipped through the album.  I had never heard of Durwood Dobbler before, and I was taken aback a bit to see who this dude was who was such a big thing in Sandi’s life, her own personal hotsy-totsy.  Man, this dude was plug-ugly.  He was balding, with thick black glasses over an eye patch, with a wispy brown mustache and a brown-dot soul patch under chapped thin lips.

Sandi returned and resumed the drama.  Turns out, Dobbler had a wandering eye.  He had been cheating on her the whole time.  (Big surprise there, huh?)  He wanted out of their relationship.  A fight ensued, and then he told her just before storming out, “I will never dampen your door!”

Seems he ran away with a French horn player.  They split for Europe.  Dobbler toured successfully after that time as an ex-pat American jazzman.  He recorded with various big name artists, jammed with famous bands, and launched a solo career.  He made it big in Bulgaria and the Balkans.

I consoled Sandi, “I’m sure he keeps a special place in his heart for you.”

“Not possible,” she looked down at the floor.

“C’mon, anything’s possible if you believe.”

“He’s dead.”

“There is that,” I meekly added.

“Durwood cheated on the horn player.  It got ugly.  A crime of passion, three deaths.”  She dabbed at her eyes with a bar towel.

Sandi picked up her pack of smokes and looked to be headed outdoors again.  But she put the cigarettes down, and continued with the rest of her story.

“Durwood listed me as the beneficiary on a life insurance policy for $5,000.  He forgot to change it.  So when he died, I collected.”  She brightened considerably.  “With the windfall of cash I moved to Punta Gordita where I bought The Rusty Trumpet.  Back then it was known as The Big Bamboo.  Shanty O’Rourke practically gave it to me.  I paid cash on the barrelhead.”

Sandi’s voice changed, as she apparently decided to change the course of the conversation.  “So?  What part of Kansas are you from?  Missouri?”

I told her my story about life in a trailer park outside downtown Bakersfield, and how my life had to change due to a series of circumstances beyond my control.  Sandi seemed to be listening, but I’m not sure how much she actually heard.

I noticed every time she turned around and bent over to retrieve a bottle from the bottom shelf, she revealed a flash of butt crack and a tramp stamp.  The tattoo made me think of Baby Harmonica, so I begun to tell her the saga about my long lost half-sister.

Sandi seemed genuinely concerned about Baby, and she even seemed curious about her dancing days in Bakersfield.  I informed her that I’d put Baby’s picture on the bulletin board by the door, hoping someday someone would come in and recognize her and tell me where she was.

Sandi asked why this was so important.  I told her, because maybe Baby needed me.  Her penetrating question put me on the spot.  Truth is, I had nothing.