Reginald

Reginald was drunk, again. He was camped under his favorite Budweiser Clydesdale lamp and was nursing his old fashioned, or at least what he thought was an old fashioned, unbeknownst to him, the bartender, Esmeralda, did not know what the hell an old fashioned was and would just serve him Jim Beam with an orange peel haphazardly tossed in. Reginald didnt seem to mind though; he would tell anyone who would listen to him that Esmeralda was the best-damned bartender in town because she made the best old fashioneds.

Reginald was long in the tooth. At 73 years old, he valued his independence above all things. He insisted on driving his impeccably clean 1992 Buick LaSabre anywhere he went. Everything about Reginald was neat, he never untucked his short sleeved oxford shirts which draped over his bony frame. Moreover, his whispy fine white hair was always close cropped and never seemed out of place. He did not wear glasses. To him, such devices were a sign of frailty and he was desperate to show the world that he was alive and well and still had a say in whatever fate happened to bring upon him. Reginalds skinnyness was accentuated by his height, he was a strapping 63- which made him a giant in Victoria. His trousers were always pressed and pleaded, albeit one size too big. This problem was alleviated by the Philmont leather belt his grandson had made for him.

For some strange reason, all the girls loved Reginald. They would rush to him on slow days when the club was dead just to hear his antiquated form of flirting. His jokes and zingers seemed chivalrous when compared to the random ass slaps they would get from the less articulate customers. Since Reginald was camped at the end of the bar by the front door, the dancers would all stop and give him a hug whenever they entered. Sometimes they would even share whatever food they happened to bring for lunch with the old man, who would insist they finish their meals or risk looking too damned skinny.

This attention did not go unnoticed. Who the fuck is that guy, Jim said as he saw Reginald gropingly hug stripper after stripper. Oh, thats Reginald replied Esmeralda. Does he own the place? How does he have all the dancers hanging all over him? Jim wondered aloud. Nah, he is just a retired locksmith who comes in everyday, I really dont think the place could function without him Esmeralda replied. Huh, must be loaded smirked Jim. Jim could not have been anymore wrong. Reginald collected social security and that was about it. He lived in the house he built in the 50s which was old, falling apart, but clean and paid for. He hated being home alone, mostly because he was surrounded by maintence projects which he could do in his younger days but was unable to do in the twilight of his old age. Rather than hiring a handyman and thus raising a white flag in his bitter fight against father time, he did what most men do best, he distracted himself from his problems with booze and women.

With his wife gone to the great hereafter and his kids relocated to Dallas, Reginald trasured his interactions with everyone at the club, although you would never get him to admit it. Play some goddammend music for a change, dont you got any Franky Sinatra! he cried out to Pat the DJ. Pat was enclosed in a both and thus hidden from the naked eye, however Reginalds shouts attracted his attention. Franky who? Franky J? That is way too old school my man, but here check this out Pat then proceeded to play Ludacris Southern Hospitality. There ya go Reggie, an old school joint! Reginald was so angry he stood up...then immediately sat back down and ordered another old fashioned. And this time easy on the bitters! Si senor Reggie,replied Esmeralda, with a smile wondering to herself where one goes to even buy bitters. Reginald then proceeded gaze upon the HD LCD tv and have sports highlights flash across his pupils until he finally doozed off for his 3 oclock nap.

**SLAP** Reginald was under attack. His assailant had taken the upperhand and rendered him disorientated. The faint taste of baby lotion was on his lips and for some reason, he was slightly aroused. By the time he opened his eyes, everyone at the bar was having a good laugh. Buenas dias Reggie! cried out Marisol, a woman from Matamoros with gigantic 37EE breasts, one of which was in Reginalds face pinning his head to the wooden bar. What in tarnations! screamed Reginald. Will if I had to die, I guess suffocating on your titty is as good a way to go as any

said Reginald with a sly grin. Reginald then proceeded to sink his teeth into the breast until Marisol screamed and began cursing at him in machine gun spanish. At this point, everyone at the bar lost their shit and could not stop laughing for atleast 5 minutes.

Reginald then got a hankering for a ciggarrette, so he picked up his pack of Parliaments from atop the bar and made his way towards the hallway at the back of the club. The hallway was dark and possessed 3 doors- one for the ladies room, one for the mens room, and one that lead to the porch. Porch was a generous term to describe the outdoor accomadations. In reality, the porch consisted of a giant concrete slab that appeared to jet out from the floor of the club. On the concrete slab was an old run down leather couch that was full of dead leaves and acorns. The couch, which contained numerous cigarette burns, faced a plain wodden fence that was no more than 6 feet away and enclosed the patio. Reginald plunked himself comfortably on the couch and began to fish for his ligher in his oversized trousers.

Reginald could not light a cigarette. It was a windy day and to make matters worse his hands were trembling throughout the attempt. He fiddled with the lighter for several minutes before throwing it on the concrete and cursing it for its insolence. Piece of shit lighter he muttered. Reginald then renetered the club and made his way towards the mens room.

Reginald could not piss. He stood in a crummy bathroom stall adorned with graffitti. He stood before the toilet for several minutes without a drip of relief. He gazed at the graffitti to kill time...couldnt make a word out of any of it. Finally, he zipped up his pants and cursed his body for its insolence. Peace of shit prostate he muttered to himself as he made his way out the bathroom.

By now Reginald was feeling crummy about his age. Here he was incapable of smoking or pissing whenever he wanted when in the distant past he played tight end in high school football. As he defeatedly shuffled his feet towards his seat at the bar he was lost in thought over how his body had betrayed him in old age.

Hey Reginald, you hungry? shouted Bella from the bar. Bella was a stunning raven haired beauty who was sitting next to Reginalds vacant chair at the bar wearing yoga pants and large t-shirt that was cut around the neck to expose her shoulder. Her long dark hair was up in a cute playful bun sitting high atop her head. Her brown eyes were magnified by her thinly framed glasses. She was, without a doubt the prettiest girl at the club.

What was that? said Reginald.

I bought us some tacos from the gas station for lunch. Lets Eat! replied Bella.

Reginald immediately snapped out of his daze and ceased wallowing in his self pity. He pulled up his chair next to the lovely Bella and placed his arm around her exposed shoulder. Her skin was smooth and flawless as usual. He examined the tacos on the table and said with a smile, Bean and cheese, my favorite. He began digging into the food and was flirting between bites. Every time he made Bella laugh his spirits rose. Reginald was content.