The Feet of God

113 - WATCHING THE WORLD GO BY

One day I was sitting at the bar during Jar-Boy’s afternoon shift sipping Auld Michael Phinney on the rocks.  I wasn’t paying much attention to anything, but I couldn’t help overhearing Sea Bass and Jar-Boy discussing the lyrics to ”Folsom Prison.”  Jar-Boy said if the dude in the song killed a man in Reno, how come he ended up in a California state prison?  I always wondered about that myself.  I interrupted their conversation, “And I just happen to know for a fact that you cannot hear a train from Folsom Prison.”  This failed to impress.  Sea Bass and Jar-Boy told me to butt out.

My attention wandered.  I noticed a new regular sitting near me at the bar, a guy who went by the name of Acorn.  Yes, that’s what a grown man called himself.  His real name was Raymond Aldritch (at least that was the name on his credit card which worked, according to Jar-Boy).  But for some reason he preferred the moniker Acorn.  Go figure.  Acorn sorta resembled that Calamity Sam cartoon character, or maybe the guy on a pack of Zig-Zags.  I suspected him to be the equivalent of a graduate Reaper.  His drink of preference was Blue Moons mixed with OJ in a chilled glass.  And I noticed he frequently stepped outside for other forms of recreation.  We was gonna talk.

Just then you could hear Sea Bass raise his voice to Jar-Boy.  “No, it’s not.  It’s, ‘Excuse me while I kiss the sky.’”

I looked around the bar, and it occurred to me that I might be the only person hereabouts who uses his actual birth name.  (Well, maybe except for Sandi Dollar, but she may be lying, too.)  Everyone else went under a nickname, an alias, or they assumed some other identity under false pretenses.  This place was a magnet for frauds, phonies and fakers, all characters living lives of fiction.  I loved it.

I idled away the time with a few more drinks until Sandi’s shift.  As usual she came out at 4:00 p.m. to spell Jar-Boy for a couple’a hours.  I thought this two-hour break was somewhat unusual and questioned Sandi about it.  All she said was that Jar-Boy had personal errands to run and needed the time off, and besides, she liked to be behind the bar and spend quality time with all her good friends.  I remember Jar-Boy said she enjoyed being the bar’s Queen Bee.  Other than that, Sandi said she couldn’t talk about it.  That was good enough for me.

I inquired how come She-Bear hadn’t been around lately.  Well, it seems the Queen Bee and She-Bear got into another tiff, and they wasn’t talking to each other.  It seems they had regular tiffs over whatever reason suited them best for the moment.  I nodded in understanding and let it slide.

My head buzzed pretty good from the afternoon cocktails.  And I was in my comfort zone and everything seemed to be all right.  I ordered another employee-discount drink.

Joe Jack bounded in the bar and glad-handed various regulars.  He looked like a leprechaun who lived under a bridge.  He sure had a sense of humor, though.  Joe Jack always had a new joke to share, and today was no exception:

“Hey, didja hear the one about the three-legged talking dog who walked into the Western bar?”

“No.”

“The dog shouted, ‘I’m looking for the man who shot my paw!’”

Rim shot.  Time for me to go to bed.  “I’m tired,” I yawned to Sandi.  I got up and retired to my cot under the lean-to.  I had strange dreams about a genie who refused to get back inside the bottle, and worse, wouldn’t grant no wishes.

As if we haven’t suffered enough, turns out fate was about to open another big ol’ can of ass-whoop on Punta Gordita.

First off, we find out they had to cut The Celestial down after he was found hanging from a rafter at Ulele Gas.

The next day two customers got roofied.  This was the same day a few dimes somehow got mixed in Skipper’s shot of Jäger.  Poor Skipper.  He flopped around on the floor sounding like a water-boarded Donald Duck.  He practically choked hisself to death before regurgitating them damn coins, which, of course, he pocketed.

Leo Lancelot continued getting shitfaced to the point of throwing up and passing out every day.  His roommate stopped picking him up, so I’m sure there was some sorta connection, but that wasn’t really any of my concern.  All I had to do was stuff his sorry ass in a cab on a daily basis and mop up the vomit.  Of course I put all this on my timesheet as overtime.

But really, swamping nights at The Rusty Trumpet was my fortress of solitude in Punta Gordita.  I enjoyed the time being alone by myself, keeping the company of lost spirits and departed souls.  Even Boo the black bar cat was taking a shining to me now.  At least, he didn’t bite or claw no more.  I figured maybe he came to appreciate all my efforts to maintain his cat box in good order.  The magical jukebox serenaded me nightly all by itself, and I grew to like it.  And when my work shift ended, it always played “Stand by Your Man.”