What Would Sam Do?

Ending my newspaper deliveries at about two in the afternoon on Friday at the Tahoe House, Paul asked if I wanted a beer. Being 88 degrees and a bit warmish without a Zephyr to cool things down, I did not hesitate to respond in the affirmative.

It wasn’t until about ten in the evening that I finally stopped drinking, but by then, it was too late. And yes, it was all my fault.

Though people kept giving drinks between the beers, I could not stop bending my elbow for fear of being a poor recipient of other people’s kindness. Aside from the eight or so beers I imbibed, I had untold numbers of whiskey, rum, gin, and vodka shots throughout the eight hours I was visiting the bar.

Amid the flowing alcohol, there were also ongoing conversations. In my years of writing and collecting stories, I have found that bars, saloons, and public houses are the best places to gather local and often time personal intel.

Throughout the afternoon and the evening, I spoke with and listened to several people share their tales, big and small. And if you are one of those persons, fear not, for my lips remain sealed.

Among the many was Kelli from Oregon, who loves Jesus and her horse ranch, chatted up by a fellow who wanted to pick my brain about politics, and a woman looking for her Sugar Daddy, of which I assured her I was not.

Maybe she thought I had money after learning I work for two newspapers and a radio station. Then again, perhaps just being employed is enough to qualify as a “Sugar Day” these days.

After the last call, I headed out the back door and down B Street on foot to Carson Street to clear my head. I did fine on the paved roadway, but after I turned onto C Street and the uneven wooden planks of the boardwalk, I found myself having trouble.

In front of the Red Dog, I tripped and nearly fell. I knew folks saw me trip as I heard the laughter from those inside enjoying the music.

So finding no love there, I crossed the street towards the Cigar Bar, but the odor wafting from the place affected my stomach, and I had to rush away before I got sick. I also passed up the Union Saloon because I knew too many people there and feared my elbow disease would relapse.

It was easy to see that the Silver Dollar and Delta Saloons were locked up tighter than a virgin’s chastity belt. And they sounded like they were having too much fun at the Bucket of Blood, whoever they were.

Tripping again, this time in front of the downstairs entrance to the Silver Dollar, I knew better than to attempt the assault. Uneven, narrow steps on a belly full of beer and other liquor are not a good combination, besides I had already bounced to the barroom floor once, and I hadn’t even taken a drink yet.

Zig-zagging from one corner to the next, I found myself near the Ponderosa Saloon, where outside was Miss Looking-For-A-Sugar-Daddy. I turned north.

As I passed the Mark Twain Saloon, I saw Sierra, who I had promised often to visit when she was on duty but hadn’t. When she saw me, we hugged, then she told me to sit down, and she began pouring me cold water to rehydrate my wobbly butt.

While sitting there, gulping down water, the guy sitting next to me was gambling. From his pocket hung several one-hundred dollar bills and I told him that they looked like they might fall out.

He grabbed them, then peeled two Ben Franklin’s and laid them down in front of me as his way of saying thanks. I declined, then watched as he won twenty-four hundred dollars.

Licking my wounds for saying no to his offer, I took a sip of water only to find my friend Denny standing by me.

“Give me your truck keys,” he said. “If you do, Paul has a room ready for you ’cause you can’t drive home like this.”

“Give me a while, and I’ll be fine,” I said.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he said. “So give me your keys, I’ll get whatever you need from your truck, and I’ll return with a room key.”

“Okay,” I said.

A few minutes later, he returned with my briefcase and a key to room three at the Tahoe House. I took them and said goodnight, finished my water, blew a kiss at Sierra, and headed south down that blankity-blank plank walkway.

On my way there, I stopped at the Ponderosa and went inside to find Paul, his girlfriend Tatianna, and his brother Woodie enjoying karaoke. I shook his hand and thanked him for the room, reminding myself that I needed to offer to pay for it in the morning.

Heading for the door, Miss-Looking-For-A-Sugar-Daddy stopped me. She wanted me to dance and get on stage to sing with her, to which I said no because I wasn’t sure if I was too drunk or not drunk enough to make a further fool of myself.

When she turned her back for a second, I darted outside. I stood at the doors, confused, unable to remember which direction I was to walk to get to the Tahoe House.

It took me two turnarounds, looking up and down the walkway, to conclude, “Go South Old Man.”

Upstairs, I entered “Rosie’s Room,” known as room three, peeled off most of my clothes, lay on the bed, and quickly slipped into a deep sleep. And there, I remained until 4 a.m. when I woke because I was chilled.

Getting up, I took care of some bathroom business and climbed under the blankets this time. I slept until 7:30 a.m., got up, showered, redressed, and joined other guests for breakfast.

Along with three large cups of coffee, I ate a banana and five hard-boiled eggs. My hunger defeated, I would spend the next three hours talking with Gary about our military experiences before finding my truck and heading home with the sun at my back.

After a fourth cup of Joe, I’m sitting at my keyboard, sober as a Judge, writing as if nothing happened. However, I am still mourning the loss of 200 bucks.