W Is for Wasted

he’d have one of them get on it first thing. He’d call when the tire had been fixed and was ready to be picked up. In the interim, the spare tire, while not optimal, was sufficient to get me around.
    That issue out of the way, the job I assigned myself was to round up Dandy and Pearl, who by all accounts were using Felix’s precarious medical state as one more excuse to misbehave. I was reasonably certain the sports bar where they played darts on weekends was one called the Dugout I’d seen on Milagro, a block and a half past the minimart where I’d bought the three packs of cigarettes a lifetime ago.
    I found street parking around the corner from the Dugout and hoofed my way back. A judiciously placed waste container had done double duty as a trash can and as a barf receptacle for a patron who’d almost managed to reach it.
    The place was open, of course. Ten in the morning on a Sunday was the same as church to some folks. As this was the Pacific time zone, football games being broadcast from the Midwest and the East Coast would soon be underway. The bar itself looked like every other sports bar you’ve ever seen. Booths, free-standing tables and chairs, six big-screen television sets mounted at intervals, each tuned to a different sporting event. The bar itself extended the length of the room on the left-hand side, with stools lined up smartly, most of them occupied. A second room was furnished with foosball tables and pool tables. I caught a glimpse at the rear of a series of dartboards, but no one was throwing at that hour. Twelve men at the bar turned to look at me as I walked in and then went back to their drinks.
    The bartender ambled in my direction. He was a middle-aged man, short and stocky, wearing chinos and a vintage jersey of some vague hockey-like sort. He placed a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me. I said, “I’m looking for Pearl.”
    “Too late. Her and Dandy came in yesterday, kicking up a fuss. Now they’re eighty-sixed.”
    Being eighty-sixed was the drunkard’s equivalent of being barred for life, though most bar owners would eventually relent.
    “You know where they went?”
    “Shape they were in, it wasn’t Harbor House. Curfew’s at seven. Last I saw ’em it was two A.M .”
    “They were here all that time?”
    “They went out for a while and then came back in. Spreading the joy, I guess.”
    “What kind of trouble did they make?”
    Mockingly, he put a hand to his chin. He twiddled his fingers and looked skyward, as though trying to remember and calculate. “Well, let’s see. Second time they showed up, they started knocking back shots. Dandy’s not a maudlin drunk like she is, but he gets in everyone’s face. He’s a guy who wants to engage in long, rambling chats. Folks don’t want to deal with that. The two of ’em tried throwing darts but neither one could see straight. Pearl fell over backward and busted up a chair and then he weighed in and broke a second one for good luck. She got sick and then he fell down. I should have called the cops at that point, but I got too big a heart.”
    “I heard they were on a bender.”
    “I can testify to that. Here’s the deal: I like Pearl. I wish her the best and I mean that. Who knows what put me where I am and put her on the street? Call it the Fickle Finger of Fate, but she’s wanking on about how everything’s so unfair. I got no patience for that. Like I said to her, I didn’t invent the game and I didn’t make the rules. Maybe it all stinks and I’m sorry as hell, but I got a bar to run.”
    “She’s a tough one,” I said, hoping to defuse his irritation and sidestep an argument.
    “She says she’s down on her luck but luck’s got nothing to do with it. She makes choices the same as I do. I don’t know if she’s lazy or stupid or mentally ill, and I don’t care. Point is, I got fifteen employees dependent on me, but how the hell can I run a business when Pearl and her ilk come in here and puke all over the place?”
    I shook my head, saying, “I hear you” in what I hoped was a sympathetic tone. In truth, I was more interested in their current whereabouts than a history of their bad behavior.
    “Fact is, my taxes pay for her room and board and her medical care. You ever think about that? And you know what? My wife got sick and ended up in St. Terry’s for ten days. You want to know how much that cost me? Ninety thousand bucks. I kid you not. I’ll be paying that off until I’m ninety