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“It’s harmless.”
“Seriously Frank, why bats?”
“You know why.”
“Man, I just don’t get it.”
Frank sighed and looked off wistfully into the dark distance. “Let’s hope you never do.”
8
Romeo left Frank on the roof soon after the bats had come out. Bats… he thought, shaking his head. Romeo had said he didn’t get it, but he did. Frank had never actually told him the story, but his dad had. It went something like this.
Father Frank and Monty, Romeo’s dad, had been buddies in the Marine Corps. Father Frank was an ordained chaplain stationed on the same base as Monty, who at that time held the rank of Staff Sergeant and was responsible for leading daily field ops out into whatever hot spot was flaring up at the time.
Father Frank had saved Monty’s life one night by giving him the Heimlich maneuver, of all things. All the dangers that lurk around the corner for an active marine stationed half way across the world and Monty had almost got taken out by a barbecue chicken sandwich at an impromptu, after hours, on base, cookout.
They became good friends after that, and many nights out together exposed Father Frank to temptations of the mind and body he had never really encountered personally before - alcohol, drugs, gambling, women…
In short, he fell in love with a luscious brunette with big, brown eyes, long auburn hair and a booty that could stop a tank. He left the priesthood for her, only to get unceremoniously dumped a few months later.
It was a crushing blow to Frank who, now with nothing left, climbed into a bottle of Jack and drank himself straight into the gutter. It was Monty who helped him out, cleaned him up and gave him a job when they all returned home. The bats were Frank’s attempt to have something real in his life. Something to take care of and care for, a pet as it were. But one that would never, ever, not in a million years, attract another woman.
Father Frank was doing okay these days, not great, but okay. He had been drinking again. More and more over the last couple of years. But, so far, it wasn’t out of control.
Romeo turned a corner and approached The Golden Rail, or just the Rail, as they called it. They had been hanging out there consistently since they’d all become old enough to drink and it had become their defacto place to go.
He nodded at Tim, the bouncer, who sat out front on a stool most busy nights checking ID’s. Funny thing though, Tim was such a little guy that it was doubtful he could bounce anyone who really wanted to come in, ID or not. Then Romeo pulled open the dented front door and stepped inside.
A neon sign bathed the place in a sexy, red light. But the stale beer stank and general lack of atmosphere immediately took whatever sexiness the light provided and tossed it to the curb. The Rail was a dump. A dive bar in the best sense of the word and those that frequented it as often as they did, loved it for exactly what it was. A low down, no good, dirty, rotten place to drink.
Romeo quickly found Marco and Benny bellied up at the middle of the bar.
“Hey! There he is,” exclaimed Marco, immediately offering Romeo one of the two shots sitting in front of him.
“What’s up?”
“Nada tostada my friend. Cheers.”
They drank in unison and Marco immediately ordered another round from Stacey, the buxom blonde bartender in the tight white tank who was right at the top of the many reasons they liked this place so much.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” she said.
“Hey.”
They had a little after work hookup one night last spring, but nothing ever really came of it. A few drinks followed by a street side make out session and a little light petting under a faded barber shop awning one unseasonably warm night in May.
They had all been at the Rail drinking that night, but Marco and Benny had left to grab a little snack at Tingo’s Famous Tacos. A food truck regularly parked a couple of blocks away. They went long on Tingo’s specialty - tacos al pastor.
Tingo’s tacos al pastor were a phenomenal mix of slow cooked pork shoulder marinated in chipotle, ancho and pasilla chilis, garlic, achiote paste and a whole slew of Mexican herbs and spices. The meat was pounded thin, stacked high, topped with fresh pineapple and then cooked low and slow on a towering rotisserie. The cooks sliced the meat paper thin and piled it up on freshly made corn tortillas. Finishing them with just a little onion, cilantro and a spoonful of their secret recipe salsa verde.
It’s not surprising that Marco and Benny never made it back to the bar that night. They probably ate a dozen each and then headed off to bed, well fed and nicely buzzed. Romeo had stayed behind for a final final. That last drink that, you swear, will definitely be the last drink of the evening, but rarely ever is.
He kept Stacey company and she kept feeding him free drinks while a string of high profile eighties rock bands looped out through the bar’s sound system - Rush, Van Halen, Aerosmith and Motley Crue among them. When it was time to close up, Romeo said he’d wait around a little longer and walk her home. Chivalry was, in fact, alive and well in their small corner of the world.
They chatted and joked and stumbled along together down the deserted streets, bumping into each other playfully as they did. Stacey easily had as much to drink as Romeo that evening. She’d matched him almost shot for shot and neither one of them was feeling any pain.
“This way,” she said.
