Back to Birch St. in Montara. One night âDirty Ernie,â?
âFast Eddyâ? (a 300- hundred- pound Hispanic friend with a giant
mustache and a Panama hat on his head) and me were drinking Shilitz Malt liquor with wild Turkey whiskey shots poured in the top of the can
where there was room after the first couple of sips.
There was a knock at the front door but nobody ever waited for us to answer. They just strolled on in and on this late night it was none other
than Joe âthe Bartender.â? Drunk as a skunk was Joe, and distraught
as he could be over his girlfriend who had just broken up with him.
He kept saying, “What am I going to do?”, as he paced from
the dining room where we were trying to sit upright in our chairs
with our aforementioned drinks, into a bedroom through a bathroom,
into another bedroom, rejoining us in the dining room .
“What am I going to do?” he said.
This went on for five or six laps.Then he started heading out of the kitchen towards the back porch. This was a mistake, and we all knew it , and in a slurring voice I said, âJoe don’t!â? but started laughing at what was going to happen if he kept going in that direction.
Dirty Ernie shook his head, and âFast Eddieâ? lowered his hat over his eyes like he was getting ready to take a siesta but he was really getting ready for the inevitable, and what was going to happen.
…to be continued…