The Feet of God

108 - IT’S A JOB

I sat at the bar keeping Jar-Boy company while he busied himself slicing limes.  He talked a lot about Punta Gordita’s past.  Pirates once roamed the island and local legend confirms they left buried treasure hereabouts.  It was a stopover for slave ships a long time ago, and it was later a major port for rum-running.  Two ex-presidents liked to vacation here during the summer months.  Punta Gordita’s now just a quiet little village set along gulfstream waters that bristle with harbor patrol gunboats and U.S. Coast Guard cutters.

Jar-Boy recounted in detail the legacy of The Rusty Trumpet.  The bar itself was a simple, old, wood frame structure, with a corrugated steel roof and shuttered windows.  I don’t remember much of what he said about the bar, except its history included being a customs house, a boathouse and a whorehouse.  Also, several people was supposedly shot in the back of the head on these premises.  In recent times The Rusty Trumpet has existed as a seedy watering hole favored by a sketchy bunch of locals.

I looked around the joint.  It wasn’t all that big, but neither was it too small.  The bar was no bigger than two Quonset huts combined.  Not much money had been spent on gilding-the-lily that much was clear.  There was nothing in the way of refinement here.  The furnishings was either metal or plastic, and everything looked like it could be safely sprayed with disinfectant if need be.  I noticed the floor was all bare concrete covered with sawdust for certain hygienic purposes.

Sandi Dollar reemerged from the door to the side of the bar.  She’d changed her clothes and was wearing something a whole lot more sheer and slinky, and had decorated herself with lots of cheap costume jewelry.  I detected a strange scent about her.  I’m sure she primped her hair but it looked the same as before.  She glided over to the jukebox and plunked some quarters in.  I knew what to expect next ‘cause Jar-Boy told me she likes to play sad songs during Happy Hour.

Sandi came and sat down next to me.  She looked around and asked, “So, whattaya think?”

“Think about what?”

“This place.”

“Oh, it’s a very fine establishment.  I’m sure I’ll fit right in.”

A Peggy Lee song torched in the background while Sandi slowly sipped a dirty martini.  After a few more sips she started explaining the essential job functions of a swamper.  She harped on and on about vacuuming this, and dusting that, and cleaning this and washing that.  (Blah, blah, blah.  I already got it.  I knew what a light sprucing up was.)

But I admit I wasn’t too happy when she got around to the part of my job description about cleaning the cat box.  Apparently Boo gets mad if it’s not sufficiently pristine, and he’ll retaliate by shitting on the floor and spraying everything.  To make matters worse, Sandi also informed me I’m responsible to clean The Head.

“Yes, ma’am,” I tried to force a smile.

Sandi sorta smiled back and gave me a sidelong glance.  “Well,” she reached into her purse, “here’s your keys.”

“Great,” I said.

“Oh, one other thing…” she sounded a cautionary note, placing an index finger to her cheek while her eyes rolled around in their sockets.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Don’t let the specters bother you.”

“Right.”  I sorta laughed.  “Specters.”

Sandi advised me to go to my bed in the lean-to and rest up, and that Jar-Boy would come and wake me at twelve-thirty when my shift started.  I stretched and yawned and took her advice.  I moseyed out back and found my sleeping accommodations which was scant more than a crawlspace.  But this was gonna be like a luxurious suite at The Four Seasons for me tonight.  And I tellya, once my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light.

Next thing I knew I heard, “Psssst, bruddah.”  Then, “Hey, bruddah!  Bruddah!”  It was Jar-Boy.  “Bar closed.”

Much as I appreciated being employed, them words did not magically fulfill me.

I somehow pulled myself together and managed to drag my tired ol’ ass to the empty bar.  I flicked on the lights and was disgusted to see all the cockroaches in the place scatter for cover.  Big ones, too.  I grabbed a bar towel and caught some of ‘em which I threw in the trash.  Damn things make my flesh crawl.

Boo the bar cat was still snoozing on top of the jukebox.  I walked over and tried to give him a sociable rub on his head, but he hissed and clawed at me.  I figured I’d keep my distance.

I went about my business and grabbed a broom to sweep the sawdust floor into toxic heaps.  While fetching some rubber gloves and a big plastic bag to dispose of the waste, I felt a weird cold spot in the middle of the room.  I didn’t think the temperature could drop so fast, or even be confined to one particular location like that.  Anyway, I chose to ignore it as one of life’s many mysteries.

Next thing on my To-Do list was the obnoxious task of cleaning Boo’s litter box.  I wasn’t sure how to go about this.  I improvised by using some ice tongs that was conveniently left on the counter, and proceeded to remove any cat feces I could find.  I replaced the tongs exactly where I found them on the bar.  Suddenly a glass inexplicably slid off a shelf and shattered.

I went on high yellow-alert.  I attributed all the creaks and groans I heard to the normal sounds of a building settle, but I noticed there was other squeaks and rustling noises going on.

Then I saw the cause of the disturbance.  A fucking rat.  And I saw another one.  And another one after that.  Rats scurried everywhere without no fear.  Obviously, the cat was no ratter.

The jukebox went off on its own and blared “Some Enchanted Evening.”  Boo was not in his customary place atop the jukebox, so I figured he must’a jumped down and hit some cords or wires or done something to start the music playing.  Goddamned worthless cat.  I unplugged the jukebox and resumed my light-dusting.

This freaked me out.  A pack of matches spontaneously combusted on the bar.  No kidding, the matches suddenly caught fire all by themselves.  I extinguished the flames, but I confess I was shaken.  Even though I was technically ‘on the clock,’ I broke house rules and drained about five-fingers of The Glenlivet straight from the bottle to calm my nerves.  I was done swamping the bar area.

There was one unfinished piece of business.  The Head.  I wasn’t looking forward to scrubbing down the toilet, but I tried to make the best of it.  I whistled real loud as I slung a fresh bar towel over my shoulder, reaching for bottles of ammonia and bleach, and lugging a hazardous waste receptacle.  Outside, I unlocked the shitcan’s door.  I wasn’t prepared for what I discovered next.  This was not good.  My boss and bar owner, Sandi Dollar, was laid out unconscious and wedged between the toilet and the wall.