The Feet of God

107 - THE SETUP

So this was Punta Gordita.  I surveyed my surroundings.  To the side of The Rusty Trumpet was a Ulele Gas pumping station.  A piercing and tattoo parlor called Mom’s was across the street next to Goldblatt’s Pet Emporium specializing in exotic birds.  Further down the way was a seafood restaurant called The Rosy Lipped Batfish.  On the other side of the pier was The Driftwood Inn.  And there was a McDonald’s.  This blew me away, I’m in Florida, and I’m standing in the shadows of a white clapboard chapel with a red-shingled steeple consecrated to the Sacred Bleeding Heart of the Sweet Baby Jesus, and it looks like a freaking Hallmark Christmas card without the snow.

The church bells started to clang.  The day was growing short, and the sun was dipping down.  Sandi got out of her seat in the vehicle and headed toward me.  She held some ledger book or something like that which she slammed shut as she drew near.  Even in the dimming light I could see her face was speckled with tons of freckles.  (Pre-cancerous, I hoped.)  She walked up and spoke to me point-blank, “I need a swamper.”

Over the gas pumps and beyond I watched the sun dip along the horizon like a nuclear explosion in reverse.  I smiled, “Well, you met your man.”

She spit in her hand and extended it, “Deal?”

I spit in mine and shook hers right back, “Deal.”

I could hardly believe it.  I just landed me a dream job in paradise.

Sandi told me it didn’t pay much, but I didn’t care.  She told me the benefits included a cot in a one-room lean-to out back near the bar.  And free beer once I was off the clock.  (Well, if you know me, this was an offer I would not refuse.)

We walked arm-in-arm in to The Rusty Trumpet.  Sandi greeted the bartender, yelling out his name.  “Jar-Boy!”

This dude Jar-Boy was a huge man wearing an extra-large Aloha shirt.  He had chocolate brown skin, curly black hair, and eyes like fudge.

“Meet our new swamper,” Sandi slapped my shoulder.  “And pour him whatever he wants.”

Jar-Boy made a gesture with his closed hand and extended pinkie and thumb.  I interpreted this as a positive signal.

I looked over at the drunk passed out on the bar next to me and considered asking for whatever he was having, but discretion intervened.  “I think I’ll have a Corona with lime, and a Jim Beam back,” I politely asked the bartender.

While I waited for my complimentary refreshments Sandi slipped away behind a side panel.  Carrying that big black book under her arm I assumed she kept an office back there.  Anyhow, I made small talk with Jar-Boy, who seemed friendly enough.  I asked him, “So where ya from?”

“Tonga.”

“Tonga?”

“Tonga.”

“Wow.”  I was amazed.  “Africa’s a long ways from here.”

Jar-Boy went to the far side of the bar and drew my shot of Jim Beam, then he set my drinks on some cardboard coasters without any further comment.

I swiveled on my stool and looked around the joint, noticing a large black cat perched on top of the jukebox.  “What’s with the cat?” I asked Jar-Boy.

“Boo,” he explained.

“What?”

“Cat named Boo.”

“Oh.”

“Him a ratter.”

Well, that made sense.

Then I realized all the customers was men.  Various ages and different sorts of men, but all men nevertheless.  I glanced over at Jar-Boy with raised eyebrows.

He knew my meaning.  He informed me Sandi Dollar didn’t much care to be around women so she discouraged them as customers, except for Esperanza Frato and Fatima Farquahar, and occasionally someone they called She-Bear.  Sandi preferred the company of men.  But, as Jar-Boy warned me with a sly nod, Sandi considered all men pigs even if she craved a pork chop.

I think I understood, but I didn’t pursue it.

Since I was the newest employee at The Rusty Trumpet, Jar-Boy gave me an orientation.  The bar was full of regulars who more or less made up the matinee crowd of drunks.  Jar-Boy shared the lowdown on who’s-who and what’s-what.

I gotta admit, this dive looked like some low-budget movie set with a cast of actors who had no futures or maybe no pasts.  I loved it.  My impression proved pretty accurate, too.  Jar-Boy first pointed out this one barfly whose shoulder-length hair was graying and thinning.  He had on a maroon felt jacket that made him look slightly overdressed considering all the heat and the humidity.  He called himself Leo Lancelot (not his real name, of course), and he was once a major porn star.  (The statute of limitations must’a run out on those days by now.)  Jar-Boy mentioned in an aside that Leo still liked to brag he works hard for the money.  He gets loaded early and his roommate picks him up.  I knew we wasn’t gonna have too much interesting to talk about.  I never liked braggarts, personally.

Next Jar-Boy pointed out a fat guy and a skinny guy over in the corner playing a pinball machine.  You could hear the loud growling sounds the machine made and an occasional mechanical voice shouting, “Attack!  Attack!”  They both nursed cans of Budweiser.  Jar-Boy told me they was called Big Dick and Little Dick ’cause they shared Richard as their first name, but nobody thereabouts addressed anybody as Richard, least of all them two, so they was simply known as Big Dick and Little Dick.  That made a certain sense.

Jar-Boy continued the rogue’s gallery roundup.  He pointed to a table where an old man sat completely absorbed in a crossword puzzle.  His glasses hung at the end of his purple nose, the most noticeable feature about him under that floppy hat he had on, if you was to overlook the Bermuda shorts exposing chalky white legs marbled with blue varicose veins.  He was a mean SOB who everyone knew simply as Mr. E.

There was a fisherman who went by the handle Sea Bass, which, it turns out, was a nickname for Sebastian.  (I noted they didn’t much observe formal birth names around here.)  Sea Bass drank a lot since he lost his job.

Then there was Ass-Rocket, a dude mostly known for his furious bouts of flatulence.  (Which affliction made me fondly, if sadly, recall a dead relative of mine from a long, long time ago.  I’ll never forget my Great-Granny Fanny, and may God rest her immortal soul, even if you was to believe in karma.)

There was a dapper man in a sharply pressed, vintage zoot suit who presented himself as Celestino Castro-Madrid.  Jar-Boy warned me to stay away from him.  When I asked why, all Jar-Boy would say is, “Trouble.”

There was a white wine-drinker sitting at a small table all by himself, looking like an uncooked sausage dressed in a rumpled pink leisure suit.  He fancied himself a great American novelist who wrote under the alias Rick Rottingham.  Nobody’s seen a book he’s published.  I figured him for a liar and a fraud.

Then there was the shady form near the end of the bar strapped in a wheelchair with a Ouija board in front of him, and a pool cue for a pointer attached to a helmet on his head.  His moniker was Sputnik.  I guessed he was the quiet type.

To the side there was a clean-cut Black man in a bright green, yellow and black athletic jumpsuit, with a pair of dark sunglasses perched on top of his shiny bald head.  He was known simply as The Brazilian.  Nobody knew much about him.  Jar-Boy said he comes and he goes, and nobody knows why.  The Brazilian had no visible means of support, and he was very secretive.  I suspected contraband right off.

The last regular at The Rusty Trumpet was a Chinese guy.  Everyone called him The Celestial.  He worked at the Ulele gas station next door.  He was the only one who was allowed to run a tab, since he cashed his paychecks at the bar on paydays.

About then I was feeling a certain undeniable urge, and I asked Jar-Boy to point me in the direction of the lavatory.  He pointed to the front door.

“Outside?” I asked.

“Head outside.”

I walked outside and found a room with a sign that said: THE HEAD.  I caught the nautical reference, and quickly realized this was the only restroom facility available for the patrons.  This didn’t deter me, I’ve done my business in far worse places.  Fortunately, The Head wasn’t occupied at this particular moment, so I let myself in.  I baked brownies, but afterwards was frustrated to learn there was no working sink to wash up in.  After I returned inside I asked Jar-Boy to toss me a bar towel.  I wiped my hands and ordered a second round.

I began to ponder on things as I waited.  And on the whole, things was look’n good.  I mean, I got a job.  And a place to sleep.  What more could I ask for?

Jar-Boy set my free drinks down as I noticed a bulletin board by the front door.  I carefully pulled out Baby Harmonica’s picture and closely examined it.  Her image was pretty faded and creased by now, but her likeness held up and was still recognizable.  I asked Jar-Boy for permission to put it up.  He waggled that ol’ pinkie-and-thumb salute at me.

I hopped off my stool and tacked Baby’s 8”x10” glossy next to the Wanted posters.