2:00 A.M.
You and nine other drunks are bathed in the glow of a giant neon martini glass.
You are all standing on the sidewalk in front of the Moonlight Lounge. A geeky
college kid is doing an embarrassingly poor job trying to convince a girl, whom
he met at the bar, to come back to his apartment; three hipsters with ironic
facial hair are trying to figure out where they can get some more beer; a fat
Asian girl is on her cell phone trying to get a taxi cab to pick her up; a
couple in their mid-twenties are sitting on the curb sharing a cigarette; and
you and Ryan are trying to decide where to have breakfast.
“Wanna go to Denny’s?” Ryan asks
“No, they’re always packed.”
“What about the Chicken and Waffle house?”
“No, they’ll be packed too.”
“Oh, I know,” Ryan says as if he just remembered where some
treasure was buried, “Unico!”
“Unico,” you repeat with an impish grin. “Yes, that sounds
perfect.”
Tacos el Unico, which roughly translates to “The Only Taco,”
is a food truck which you and Ryan agree serves the best tasting grilled
beef antojitos ever made. The only problem is its location. It can be
found every Friday and Saturday night, parked in an empty lot in a terrible
area of town. The lot is next to Pancho's Night Flight, a Chicano nightclub
known for illegal drug trafficking, gang activity, and frequent stabbings. Most
victims of the latter offence received the sharp end of a knife for simply
looking at someone the wrong way. Regardless, the operators of Taco's El Unico
serve the best food available after 2:00 A.M. and you both believe the risk is
worth the reward.
There is no doubt in your mind that you are too drunk to
drive, so you don't argue when Ryan says "Come on, leave your car here and
we'll come back for it later." Funny thing about it, Ryan must be as drunk
as you, but you go along with the plan.
Fifteen minutes later, you are both standing in a crowd of
drunk strangers waiting to order tacos through the little food truck window.
You silently marvel at the costume-like outfits worn by the
patrons of Pancho's Night Flight. The girls are wearing insanely high heeled
shoes and very tight - and very short - dresses which sparkle in the lights of
the passing cars. Most of the girls are not built to wear these dresses, but
their novios and sanchos don't seem to notice. All of the men wear one of three
uniforms: There are the guys with outdated leisure suits; the ones wearing the
jeans with lots of metal sequins on the back pockets and an untucked long
sleeved shirt with some sort of eagle, or dragon, or lion printed across the
back; and the guys with the 1940's-era zoot suits, with the long jackets,
high-waisted and wide-legged pants with tight cuffs, black and white shoes, and
the three-foot pocket watch chain hanging from somewhere under the coat. And
here you are with your buddy Ryan. You are out of place. However, it's after
closing time and you are at the best taco truck in town. You have this earnest
understanding that Unico is the great equalizer. You are certain that, somehow,
this place is immune to the kind of violence you read about in the morning
papers. However, just in case this theory is driven by your blood alcohol
content, you limit your eye contact with the other customers.
You spend the next fifteen minutes standing around, watching
the cultural freak show, and eating delicious Carne Asada tacos off little
paper plates.
3:10 A.M.
You find yourself in a very nice garage, which is attached
to a very nice house. And you are making drinks for about twenty or thirty
other bartenders, waiters, busboys, hostesses, and cooks.
Ron “The Sooker” Sukiewicz is a colorful 30-year-old
character who you both know from the Moonlight Lounge. He’s not a bartender or
waiter. As a matter of fact he doesn’t work at all. He’s a trust fund drunk
with at least two Bachelors degrees and no desire to put them to use. As far as
you know, he’s not really good at anything except throwing parties. And all of
his friends are people who either serve him drinks, or people with whom he
drinks.
The Sooker’s house is a 2,500 square foot mid-century
bachelor pad, complete with framed lobby cards for late 50’s and early
60’s movies, a coffee table crafted from the deck of a sail boat, and harvest
gold appliances. He’s got a terrific patio with a big pool, and he’s converted
his two-car garage into a lounge. The bar is actually an old repurposed upright
piano. The place where the keys should be has been turned into a speed well and
the part that used to slide open to access the strings now opens to reveal a
well-stocked supply of booze.
And here you are standing behind the bar mixing drinks.
When you and Ryan showed up, someone honked one of those
aerosol air horns and the small crowd cheered. You know the drill. When any
bartender shows up, they must tend bar until another bartender shows up. So you
are making drinks for anyone who needs one. But, for the most part, you are
simply standing around in the garage drinking with the rest of your friends.
You look around and realize that there are at least eight
bartenders that are part of the $100 Tip Club.
When you are a bartender, you tend to get to know lots of
other bartenders. And you tend to have bartender friends come in to your bar to
drink. The unwritten rule is that you never charge them, and they leave you a
one hundred dollar bill as a tip. But it’s nothing to get excited over because
you will end up leaving that very same one hundred dollar bill for one of them.
That bill makes its journey from bar to bar and back again. You often think
that each “tipper” should sign the bill, or put a date on it, or at least some
sort of mark. But why start now? This tradition dates back to before you were
in the business and it will be around long after you are gone.
So you continue making drinks until TomTom shows up. Someone
blows the air horn, everyone cheers, TomTom takes over at the bar and you head
inside the house to see what’s going on.
3:45 A.M.
For the past five minutes, you’ve been sitting on a
uncomfortable dark brown leather sofa, under a
giant poster for the 1958
B-movie Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. The Sooker is standing at the open sliding
glass door, looking out at the handful of guests sitting with their feet in his
pool. You wonder if anyone is actually having fun, or if there is simply
nothing else for bartenders to do at 3:45. You are not sure that you are having
fun either. But you are there, drinking someone else’s liquor, and you are
surrounded by about two dozen people with whom you have one thing in common:
you all share an odd lifestyle.
From where you sit, you hear the aerosol air horn blow, and
a small crowd cheering from the garage. You wonder who showed up. A few moments
later, TomTom and Ryan appear in the living room, both taking up the rest of
the space on the sofa.
“Joey’s here,” says Ryan.
“Is he loaded?” you ask.
“Yep,” says TomTom. “He showed up with Ten Pin Tom.”
TomTom turns to The Sooker. “Don’t worry,” he says
reassuringly, “Ten Pin is handling the bar.”
Right on cue, Joey staggers into the house. “Pistyoresme.
Pistyoresme. Pistyoresme,” he says as he sloppily shakes hands with the rest of
the guests.
Joey Greenly works at the Captain’s Brig and is kind of a
legend among the bartenders in town. Not so much because he’s a great
bartender, or a particularly great guy on any level. But more because of his
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. When he’s undrunk, Joey’s a quiet,
introspective, mild-mannered guy. He’s a good bartender and is one of the best
marketers for any bar in which he works. He keeps phone numbers for all of his
regular customers and often texts or calls them, casting invitations to come
drink at his bar. But Joey is a black-out drunk. Once he starts drinking he
doesn’t know what he’s doing, where he’s at, or how to speak English. For some
reason, he thinks it’s clever to say “Pleased to meet me” as a greeting when he
shakes hands with friends and strangers. But the more he drinks, the more he
starts speaking what you and your friends call “Greenlese.” By the time
“Pleased to meet me” turns into “Pistyoresme,” you all know that Joey is
trashed. To top it off, Joey has realized a look that sets him apart from most
other people in the local food and beverage industry. He wears his sideburns long
and his hair carefully coiffed into a pompadour. Although you are pretty sure
he thinks of himself as resembling Brian Setzer from the Stray Cats, he more
closely resembles David Spade’s title character from Joe Dirt.
About a year ago, Little Tom let Joey move into his house, a
roommate situation which lasted less than six weeks. According to Little Tom,
Joey was fine for the first couple of weeks, but then started going on extended
benders. Cabinet doors became broken, carpets became stained, appliances became
dented, and curtains became ripped. The final straw – or perhaps straws – came
on the same night. The story is that Little Tom came home from working a late
shift and found Joey passed out on the sofa with a cigarette slowly burning a
hole into the couch cushion. Rightfully, Little Tom yelled for Joey to wake up,
then snatched the cushion from beneath him and quickly took it into the
bathroom, where he promptly threw it into the shower stall and turned on the
water. When he returned to the living room, he found Joey standing in the
kitchen, in front of the open refrigerator, pissing on the floor.
As Joey makes his way into the living room, you turn to see
The Sooker’s reaction. He looks undisturbed and calm. Your host and the rest of
the guests know that if you can get Joey out to the patio, and into a chaise
lounge, he will pass out and all will be well for the next few hours.
4:15 A.M.
Joey was officially passed out. Yet, The Sooker, TomTom,
Ryan, and you remained on the patio. You all sat in expensive patio furniture
and nursed your cocktails in silence. Within a few minutes, you were joined by
Ten Pin Tom.
“Is he asleep?” asked Ten Pin.
Yep. He’s out,” answered TomTom in a hushed voice. “Jesus,
he’s a mess tonight.”
The rest of the members of your small group nodded, and
grunted in agreement.
“Well,” said Ten Pin, “He deserves a pass tonight. He had a
hell of an evening. Jimmy Lester was killed tonight.”
Jimmy Lester was a name you and your friends knew well. He
was a notoriously mean drunk who made his way around the bar scene and left a
trail of being unwelcome in most of the bars you know. He was about 55-years
old but, with the exception of a full thick head of dark wavy hair, looked at
least 70. You aren’t sure if Jimmy had a job, or a family, or a car. You really
didn’t know much about him except that you had to ask him to leave Guiseppe’s
on two different occasions. One time was because he fell asleep with his head
on the bar. The other time was because he showed up shit housed drunk and
started yelling “I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU” when you refused to serve him.
Then, he turned to a pair of young ladies who were trying to enjoy a quiet
girls-night-out, and called them “cunts”. Then, he picked up an empty shot
glass from in front of them and threw it across the bar. Strangely, the glass
didn’t hit anyone, didn’t damage anything, and didn’t even break. However, you
immediately rushed to his side to “assist” him out the door. But by the time
you reached him, he was already heading for the exit on his own. You considered
yourself lucky; Jimmy was notorious for putting up a pretty good fight when he
was in the process of getting 86ed. As a matter of fact, Big Tom has a similar
story about Jimmy, but his tale ends with Big Tom getting his nose broken.
Ten Pin Tom explained how Jimmy Lester met his end.
“Jimmy started drinking at the Captain’s Brig at around
seven. Joey said he was already pretty shitty when he showed up. After a couple
hours, Jimmy pissed on the floor without even bothering to leave his barstool,
so Joey kicked him out.
Apparently, he walked to the Firehouse Pub and tried to
order more drinks. Tommy took a look at him and said ‘no fucking way, Jimmy.
You aren’t supposed to be in here.’ So Jimmy said ‘FUCK YOU’ and left without
starting any other shit. Then, I guess he decided to take a shortcut home, or
to go to another bar or something, and decided to walk across the freeway.”
“Wait,” said Ryan, “he tried crossing 41?”
California State Route 41 is a 185-mile, six-lane freeway
which connects Yosemite National Park with Pismo Beach and runs through town.
Its approximate mid-point happens to be located right behind the Firehouse Pub.
“Yep,” Ten Pin continued, “he must have hopped the fence and
tried running across all six lanes. He almost made it too. I guess a truck hit
him right before he got to the last lane. Fuck.”
“Holy shit” was the only reply you could think of.
“Joey’s pretty shook up,” said Ten Pin. “He’s a little upset
that Jimmy got killed, and a little worried that he’s going to get some shit
for over-serving the poor son-of-a-bitch.”
There was a long silent pause.
“Here’s to Jimmy Fucking Lester,” announced Ryan as he poured
a little bit of his Gin and Tonic on the concrete patio floor.
You and The Sooker and Ten Pin Tom and TomTom all laughed a
little and poured some of your drinks out too.
