POINT ARENA, CALIFORNIA | 1971
Floyd Anderson opened the door to the Quonset hut serving as the temporary home of the Point Arena Veteran’s Hall since the historical location on Shoreline had suffered a small fire. If he was pressed, Anderson preferred the corrugated metal building to the mustard-colored stucco affair that looked like a Swiss chalet doing a stretch in San Quentin.
As he and Gloria Lynne approached the bar, a country band in the corner was doing their best to work with the fact they were essentially playing in a giant tin can by leaning hard into the unnatural reverb. The guitarist was throwing out lead Telecaster lines like sharpened knives as their singer embraced the mournful wail of a somnambulant who had suddenly found himself at the bottom of a dry well.
“What are you drinking, beautiful?” Perigo asked from the stool he had been keeping from flying away for most of the morning.
“If you’re buying, I’ll have a Harvey Wallbanger,” Anderson said, licking his lips.
“I was taking to the bird,” Perigo pointed at Anderson’s parrot who was currently giving him the stink eye.
“Sorry, Charlie,” Anderson bemoaned. “I’m afraid she’s driving.”
“Pity. I was looking forward to hearing what she might say after a couple of drinks. I guess you’ll have to do, Floyd. Benita, bring our baron o’ the beacon a Harvey Wallbanger, por favor.”
“We are fresh out of Galliano, gentlemen,” Benita Palacios announced with a flair of feigned regret. “Let me pour you a beer on the house, Floyd.”
“My favorite!” Anderson declared, letting Gloria Lynne hop down to the redwood burl-topped bar.
“I tol’ you, that bird is not supposed to be on the bar, cabrón,” Palacios warned as she pulled a tap.
“And I told you, Gloria Lynne is better trained than most of the ground pounders you let in here,” Anderson argued.
“Who you calling a ground pounder, old man?” Perigo joked. “RTOs spend more time pounding ground than a stick ever will.”
“Here we go again,” Anderson took a deep draw of his draft. “Benita, can I buy another so Charlie here has something in his mouth besides bullshit?”
“Pounding ground! Pounding ground!” Gloria Lynne entered the conversation.
“Floyd, you aren’t getting anything until that bird gets off of my bar. It’s unsanitary.”
“Alright, alright,” Floyd pulled up another stool and the parrot hopped down on it as if following the conversation. “No need to get personal. I’ll have you know that Gloria Lynne is fastidious in her grooming. Unlike Charlie, here.”
Perigo shrugged at the fair point and accepted the beer from Palacios with a warm, “Gracias.”
“Drink up, Charlie, I have something to show you back at the lighthouse. I think you’ll like it,” Anderson drained his pint glass and reached for a peanut for his parrot. “Benita, these are the unsalted ones, right?”
“Not to worry, Floyd,” the bartender offered her warmest smile, “your friend there licked all the salt off of those before you got here.”
“I am as God made me, Floyd,” Perigo avowed in response to the looks he was getting from both man and bird.
Román Leão 
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