- cramergr
- Mar 27, 2022
- 9 min read
Paul sat there alone in the semi-darkened room, hunched over on a stool at the end of the bar listening to a Hank Williams song. He liked sitting at the end because he could survey and evaluate any possible threat that approached. Well, that and any sweet thing that came in looking willing and worth investing time with. He absentmindedly felt the side of his belt confirming his trusty folding electrician’s knife was in its leather sheath at the ready if needed. They had twenty years plus as partners. And that knife had always served him well at work and in defense of any asshole whose mouth wrote a check his ass couldn’t cash. Then he rolled his gold wedding band around his ring finger while looking at it and wondered what she and his boy were doing right now.
It was a familiar environment. One he had spent many hours of his life in on both sides of the bar. He enjoyed bartending on his available nights. It gave him a chance to meet women, bullshit with the guys and the free drinks didn’t hurt either. Plus everyone liked the bartender!
He reflected on the time he had drunkenly wandered off to Northern California in search of God only knows what. He had been out at a bar on a Friday payday night as he all too often did instead of going home to the family. It had been a hard week climbing those fricking wooden telephone poles like a monkey. But it did keep him in tiptop shape and he prided himself on his body and being the fastest lineman with a climbing belt and spikes in the area. The next morning he awoke lying on the seat in the cab of his worn yellow Chevy pickup. “Where the hell am I?” he muttered. He was cold as the stillness of the night was interrupted by the rising rays of sunshine and another day. “Damn it, why is it always colder when the sun comes up, and where the hell am I” he asked himself again. As he very slowly, due to one more damned hangover, grabbed the soiled steering wheel and hauled himself into an upright position. It was then his stomach started issuing complaints that he hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before at work. He rubbed his stomach and said “God damn it, what have I done this time”?
As was his normal wakeup ritual, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the ever-present pack of unfiltered camels. “Shit, I’m low again, I really should stop but why”, he muttered to no one inside his truck. He slipped his US Navy Zippo lighter out, and automatically without even thinking, flipped it open with his thumb and drew the wheel down across the flint in one flowing movement waking up its trusted flame. He drew a deeply inhaled lung full of smoke that brought out a horrible rasping cough. He rolled down the driver’s window as he exhaled outside. Nothing looked one bit familiar. And that noise; was that the Pacific Ocean he heard pounding a beach. “Where the God damned hell am I”, he said again. This time he yelled it out of frustration. He scratched his tossed black hair as he reached up to the rear view mirror and turned it to survey his face. Well at least he didn’t look like he had gotten into another fight last night. He scratched his rapidly growing thick black beard stubble and couldn’t recall when he had last shaved. Maybe yesterday morning before work…
He looked up and down the unfamiliar street and spotted his first stop. The Neptune neon sign proudly proclaimed they were open. As he looked at his battered old Timex wristwatch, he was shocked that it was 0630 hrs. Christ, he thought, I’ve been out of the US Navy for years and still go by military time. He laughed at himself. He put on his battered Oakland Oaks ball cap with the visor sticking almost straight up exposing most of his forehead as walked up the quiet deserted street to his destination. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a diesel engine roaring to life and dogs barking in protest of being awakened so abruptly. He gazed up at seagulls lazily gliding in the gentle coastal morning breezes as they called out as if asking for a food offering. He loved the sounds and smell of the salt laden air near the ocean. He stopped outside the Neptune to bend over and pet a dog lying to the side of the door. He smiled to himself as the dog rewarded him with an enthusiastic lick of his hand and wagged his tail. He pushed open the door and stood there looking around. Somebody non-threateningly shouted, “Hey, could you either come in or leave but close the damned door. It’s too early for that much sun”. Paul laughed and made his way to the head after he spotted the Restrooms sign. He stood there letting out a long sigh of relief as he waited to finish. He zipped up his black work pants with the familiar Gorilla label on the back and slowly made his way to the sink. God he looked like crap he reflected to himself as he gazed dull eyed into the mirror. He exited through a very old worn wooden door that protested its use with loud squeaks and headed for the stool at the end of the bar. He observed t was a typical layout complete with pinball machine, shuffleboard along to far wall, jukebox near the heads and assorted round tables but no cigarette machine. Round tables were always a good idea over square ones. That way when a drunk fell they were less likely to open their skull on a corner of the table.
There were three patrons sitting at the bar watching this stranger out of the corner of their eyes and via the mirror behind the bar with all its colorful bottles of hooch. Blackie, (His friends called him that because of the color of his hair and when he got really pissed off, his eyes turned almost totally black) at any rate, he waited for the bartender who was hooking up a new keg of beer for the noon crowd. While draining the opening foam the bartender asked, “What’ll it be bubb?” Blackie called back in a raspy voice, “draft Olie and a pack of Camels if you have them behind the bar”. By the time the beer and cigs arrived, Blackie had reconsidered his order. “Add in a shot of Ol Grand Dad whiskey while you’re at it.” The bartender smiled and asked, “What ship were you on?” Blackie casually dropped the shot glass of whiskey into the mug of beer making a Boilermaker and took a long hard sip. After a long satisfying sigh, he replied “Too damned many but mostly flat tops. The last one was the Shangri La during the Korean war. We were the ship that jury rigged the torpedoes that took at the gooks dam”. “What did you do onboard” the bartender inquired. Blackie simply replied, “Torpedomans Mate 1st Class” l The bartender smiled and said, “I was mostly on tin cans. That’ll be two bucks for the Camels and drink. Thanks for your service sailor and the next one is on the house”. As the bartender started back down the well worn and oiled duck boards behind the bar, Blackie looked up from his drink as an afterthought and asked, “Where in the hell am I?” The bartender and all three patrons laughed. In unison like a well rehearsed quartet they all shouted out to him, “Eureka, California”. Paul’s lower jaw dropped and he dropped his head as he muttered, “SHIT”. There was going to be hell to pay for this one and even harder to explain to the wife. He took a long hard draw on his cigarette, held it for a full minute and exhaled. Next was a sizeable drink from his mug. Then he sighed, shook his head and called to the bartender, “You’d best get started on that second one mate.”
But that was years ago. Now he was in Traverse City Michigan at his favorite dive bar. It was a place he frequented so often that every time he entered with his ball cap on cocked back on his head with bill almost straight up so most of his forehead showed there was a loud co-ordinated cheer of “Hey Blackie, what the hell’s up with you”. He would smile and wave. He always took his customary stool at the end of the bar and after he ordered his… well you know what he ordered!!!
So now he sat there and reflected on how the hell he had gone from being a successful electrician and owned his own TV repair shop in California living with his wife and son in the first house anyone in his family had ever owned to a wandering farm worker living out his days in a small 8 by 8 cabin with his dog on a nice farm owned but a lady who took pity on him. As the night wore on and the drinks flowed endlessly, he made that old familiar reach. The bartender, Sam, thought to himself, here we go again. The old battered and bulging leather wallet slid out of Paul’s rear pocket. He sat there a moment and reflected as if waiting for a message with a tear rolling slowly down his sundried and cracked cheek.
Then he slowly opened the wallet and fished out a very small old and worn picture of a young boy around 10 years old. He stared down at it with a long heavy heart and sighed as the tears were now running down both of his cheeks. “Hey Sam, you wanna see a picture of my boy?” Sam, being the loyal bartender slash friend said, “Sure Blackie”. Later that night he would slowly stagger back to the farm because he couldn’t hitch a ride or get laid and by now his pickup was long gone. His dog was waiting for him as he approached, his tail wagging and whining. Blackie bent over, patted him on the head and got that wonderful lick on his hand. They went inside and he gave the dog some kibble and water. Then simply plopped down on the wood framed bed and drifted off to sleep for the last time with his dog lying next to him. Two days later, after nobody had seen or heard of him, they opened the door to find him laying there with a large distended stomach and his dog curled up next to him licking his master’s hand and whining.
It took the sheriff’s department almost two weeks to locate his son, now about 25 and still living in California. He was reached at work over the phone and after confirming he was in fact Paul’s son, the deputy regretfully told him his dad had passed away two weeks ago and was being buried today in an unmarked grave on Potters Hill.
The son took down all the info with tears flowing down his face as he sat there shaking. He hung up the phone and went to his boss. He explained what had happened and Jim, being the great and understanding man he was said to take off for the day. The son put his ball cap on cocked back on his head with bill almost straight up so most of his forehead showed, then he sat in his Chevy pickup for almost an hour outside the electrical warehouse he worked at, and had helped build, before he could stop crying enough to drive. He drove down the street to Vern’s on the corner. He walked in, took the stool at the end of the bar and without looking up said to the bartender, “How about an Olie draft and shot of Ol’ Grand Dad? And get second one started in about two minutes” The bartender looked up with a smile and asked, “What ship were you on?” After a brief conversation the bartend could see his patron wanted to be alone. The young man reached down and pulled out his electricians knife from his Gorilla jeans, opened it and set it in front of his drink. “God I miss you dad”. Tears ran down his face and he wished he was at the beach with his dog and that special girl he had recently lost, Carol.
That started a binge that lasted for weeks. It included three martini lunches at Vern’s with Jim, his boss. How he kept his job is a mystery to this day. Each night he would return to his one bedroom bungalow on West Taylor Street in San Jose. There he would heat up some left overs or a TV dinner and open one or more bottles of booze. He would shuffle into the living room, turn on the TV and plop down with his glass of ice and bottle into that very special extra large beanbag Carol and he had made together. Sometimes he would zip it open just to see the custom tag she had sewn into it with her name on it. It all came to a climax one night when he was so miserable and drunk he pulled out his firearms and cleaned each and every one of them. I guess you could say his guardian angel was watching over him. While in a complete stupor, he called his best friend, Jeff. He was so incoherent except for the fact that he had told them he was drunk and had his guns all around him. That was about the time he passed out with them still on the phone. They were so concerned that they drove from San Leandro to San Jose at about 2 AM. They found the front door unlocked and opened it to find him just as he had described. There was lots of coffee consumed that morning and the promise made to them that he would go on the wagon and straighten up. As much as he remained dry, he still always felt so very alone and lost from that time on.
Gary Cramer
July 20, 2014