As soon as Bobbie stepped inside she said to Fin, “Wow! This is a serious saloon. Bet you could get a terminal case of Smirnoff flu with this crowd.”
“Or Napa Sonoma virus,” Fin said, “if we stick to wine like we should.”
“Not in here,” she said with a grin. “This is the kinda place where you grog it up!”
It was a typical beach saloon: low ceiling, redwood paneling, and a large four-sided bar in the center where one could look across at alter egos and always find somebody in worse shape than oneself. There were many women drinkers, all of whom were older than Fin. Two of the women had helmet-head blunt-cuts, sprayed so they wouldn’t ruffle in gale-force winds or if they got conked by a beer bottle.
Even though California beach communities were into outdoor sports and health, saloons like this one were havens for those few smokers left. These people had worse fears than death: aging, for instance.
Fin was in a semi-rollicking mood. He said to Bobbie, “Until I ran into you today, I was feeling that my life had the value of a disposable diaper, a used one. Now I think I’m ready for some fun. So where’s my grog?”
Bobbie boldly wiggled through the drinkers standing two deep at the bar, and yelled, “Make a hole, shipmates!” The mustachioed bartender wore a tank top and shorts, and she said to him, “Two double brandies!”
An old coot sitting at the bar turned to her and said, “You old enough to drink brandy?”
Bobbie winked at the bartender, and said, “Make that one brandy and a double Roy Rogers on the rocks!”
This close to the election, there were lots of political debates going on in the saloon. Bobbie stood next to a guy who had navy written all over him. He was arguing with another old geezer whose belly was big enough to make the cover of Vanity Fair.
The old sailor said, “A liberal Democrat’s always against capital punishment, but for killing fetuses.”
“So?” the other geezer said, after a horrendous belch.
“It’s not consistent. Don’t you see that?”
“What’s your point?”
“Mother Teresa’s consistent. She doesn’t wanna execute guilty murderers or innocent fetuses. I’m consistent. I wanna kill Death Row murderers and innocent fetuses as long as they come from the inner city and would probably grow up to be guilty murderers.”
“What’s your point?” the other codger repeated, belching again.
“I got more in common with Mother Teresa than any candidate does!”
Bobbie paid for the drinks, tipped the harried bartender a buck from her change, and wriggled back through the crowd to Fin, who was trying to play some not-so-oldies on the jukebox, even though it was impossible to hear the music over the din.
Bobbie looked at the dollar bills she’d been given in change and said, “Gnarly!”
Each was nearly faded to white. One was Scotch-taped.
Fin said, “Beach-town bucks. Those dollar bills’ve been in the pockets of shorts during surfing, swimming, Laundromat cycles, and maybe even bathtubs when their former owners were fully clothed.”
Bobbie kept the limp rags of currency separate from her other money, intending to leave them as tips.
They began watching a woman with dye-damaged hair, who’d probably graduated from high school during Eisenhower’s presidency, weaving in little circles with a geezer in flipflops, jeans, and a T-shirt that said “Canardly” on it.
Fin explained that all “Over-The-Line” players knew that it stood for “Canardly get it up.” This as opposed to players in the other divisions like “Cannever,” or “Canalways,” or “Caneasy.”
Bobbie learned that this saloon was an official hangout of the OMBACs, the Old Mission Beach Athletic Club-or if one preferred, the Old Men’s Beach Athletic Club-a group that had made the zany sport of OTL world-famous since it began in 1954. Now, thousands attended the annual OTL Tournament on Fiesta Island, and money was raised for worthy causes while men and women tried to bat and catch softballs after having consumed enough Bacardi rum to make Puerto Rico not even need statehood.
The annual OTL Tournament attracted packs of aspiring models, actresses, strippers and other exhibitionists, who vied for the honor of winning the tit tournament, thus becoming “Ms. Emerson.”
Bobbie was interested to find out that the most recent Ms. Emerson was an ex-marine her own age.
When she asked one of the old duffers why they called their beauty contest winner “Ms. Emerson,” the geezer said, “Knock-knock.”
Bobbie looked warily at Fin, but said, “Okay, who’s there?”
The codger said, “Emerson.”
Bobbie said, “Emerson who?”
The old coot said, “Em-er-son tits!”
Then all the fogies had a good snuffle and cackle, and Bobbie found herself with three Bacardis and two more brandies, compliments of the geezer gang.
Bobbie was told that some of the teams participating in the OTL Open Division had names like Dicks With Stix, Titty Clitty Gang Bang, and Tongue In Groove. The Women’s Open Division had teams named No Flat Chicks, Our Team Sucks, Penis Envy-Not, and George, Stay Outta My Bush.
Bumper-sticker team names were plastered to the walls, alluding to Hollywood movies, such as, TWAT’S UP DOC? HANNIBAL ATE JODIE AND SILENCED THE CLAM, DANCES WITH WOOL, and DANCES WITH VULVAS.
There were political statements stuck to the ceiling that said: ARKANSAS WOMEN ARE SO FAST THEY NEED A GOVERNOR PUT ON THEM, and a reference to Bill Clinton’s ex-paramour, Gennifer Flowers: ROSES ARE RED, VIOLETS ARE BLUE, CLINTON INHALES FLOWERS TOO.
The motto over the smoky hamburger grill said, IF IT DOESNT GET ON YOUR FACE, IT’S NOT WORTH EATING.
On the door to the women’s rest room Bobbie read, WE SNATCH KISSES amp; VICE VERSA.
By 11:30 Bobbie was ripped, and sitting in the lap of a retired San Diego cop called “Bub” who’d also been a commander in the U.S. Naval Reserve, thus bridging the two worlds of the two drunks at his table.
Fin’s head was starting to loll, and he said, “That is it! No more rum!”
“Don’t be a wuss!” Bub said. “You sound like one of those Secret Service guys last week chasing around after the vice president with spiders in their ears, saying, “I can’t drink when I’m on duty!”
“They don’t make Feds like they used to,” Fin had to agree, scratching his chin but not feeling it. “Only reason the FBI and CIA even exist anymore is so every putz in Hollywood can make movies claiming their leading man is the target of government agents.”
Bub literally bounced Bobbie on his knee like a child, and said, “Put on some tunes, will ya? But nothing by Ozzy Osbourne. It sounds like sea gulls chasing a trawler. And nothing by that crotch-grabbing, former human person, Michael Jackson.”
“Okay, Bub!” Bobbie said, heading for the jukebox. Her cotton top was a mess from spilled rum. The former pink shell now looked like a paisley.
“I either gotta go home or make a dying declaration,” Fin said to Bub, but he knew that before leaving there’d be the long sentimental goodbyes required in such places.
When she came back, Bobbie overheard an old redhead with big hooters whisper to Bub, “Do you like to talk dirty to your wife when you’re having sex?”
Bub answered, “Only if there’s a phone handy.”
When Bobbie questioned Fin about the age of all the fun-loving fogies, coots, geezers, codgers, duffers and biddies she’d met in the saloon, he didn’t know how to tell her that the oldest fossil in the joint wasn’t fifteen years his senior.
All he could mumble in their behalf and his own was “Because of all their fun in the sun, crow’s-feet are badges of honor. Sorta like the face paint on Alice Cooper and Amazon headhunters. They’re really not as antique as they look.”