The Last Gasp of the Regal Tavern Copyright 1994 by Dave Laird The new day rode into Springdale wearing satin boots with four inch spurs and carrying a big baseball bat as a subtle reminder that payment for the previous night's excesses of beer and whiskey was now due and payable. At the Corner Cafe, an impromptu meeting of the Highly Irregulars, which was what most people called the early hangover crowd, was convened and in full session. With the smell of freshly-brewed coffee and breakfast on the prowl, Freddie the Logger, and Charlie Redfern were commiserating over their hangovers and coffee. They were cautiously listening to the ebb and flow of the morning's gossip around them without actually contributing a single word, which for them was highly irregular, in itself. They both were in terrible shape, even based upon their past excesses. They were both nursing the most severe hangovers either one of them had seen in many, many months. Were an ordinary hangover to come slouching in the door, after dragging its nose in the dirt outside the screen door and try to beat either of them alongside their temples, they were men that would laugh uproariously. They were Warrior-class drinkers, by God, and as proud of their bloodshot eyes as one of the local farmers would be if he just bought a new tractor, with red trim, smothered with chrome and a stereo tape deck thrown in for good measure. However, despite their affliction, they both sat abruptly up in their chairs when Billy Talbot, on his way to the sawmill for the morning shift on the green chain, came running in the door with the news. "Did you guys hear Marshall Goldstar permanently closed the Regal Tavern last night?" "You'd better get some new wiring for your hard hat, there Bubba!" Freddie snorted, almost spilling his coffee down his front in the process. "Charlie, here, and I were in there drinking until closing time. We never saw hide nor hair of Deputy Dogbreath the whole time." "Nah, this was like four o'clock this morning, after you guys probably staggered home. He caught Paulie, his wife, Johnny Perkins and his girl all havin' beers. Caught 'em right in the act, with the front door of the tavern open 'n everything." "What the hell were you doin' out at four in the morning, anyway? Don't you have a wife or some sheep to go home to?" Billy flushed, ignoring Freddie's pithy comments entirely. "I had to go feed my dad's cows while he's out of town, and was just driving through town when the shit hit the fan. Goldstar must've called in the Liquor Inspector because there's an official- looking sign on the front door right now that says The Regal is closed until further notice." "Oh shit." Charlie muttered, to no one in particular. "He caught Paulie?" "Oh, yeah. They were all sittin' in there, drunk as skunks, shouting and a'raisin' cain." The news rippled through the crowded cafe like bad news already gone to seed. Nearly everyone knew Paulie, the owner of The Regal Tavern. Probably three-quarters of those sitting stock-still in their chairs, contemplating their coffee cups or just gazing out the windows, had bar tabs at The Regal, not to mention were either on the pool team or played darts there on Sundays. By nightfall, the entire town seemed transformed, at hearing the news. The Reservation Tavern, next door to The Regal, was strangely quiet, even for a weekday night. Shortly after ten o'clock, when Marshall Goldstar made his customary appearance walking through the tavern and the liquor bar behind the Corner Cafe, the entire town was as outrageously subdued as it once had been outrageously drunk. Trapped inside the vacuum that his passage created, as he walked through the rundown storefronts that passed for the town's primary means of recreation, Goldstar felt a spot of color growing on his cheek. Hostile glares and stony silence paved his path, instead of the occasional nod or a smile from the people he knew so well. Within half an hour after Goldstar completed his rounds of downtown Springdale, and parked his car in its customary spot, beside the Grange Hall, the entire main street was empty. The rez cars departed, clattering and chattering their way back out town in a mass run for the reservation. Freddy the Logger's familiar old log truck that had been parked all evening in his self- appointed place in front of the Reservation Tavern, sadly sloped its way back up the road a piece and sighed into Freddie's front yard. Five minutes after the last bewildered patron left the Reservation Tavern, the Mayor of the Town, in his secondary role as owner of the tavern, unplugged the juke box, turned off the neon beer signs that hung in the windows on both sides of the door and pulled the curtains shut. As he closed and locked the handmade front door, he realized, with a start, that it was the first time, to his knowledge, that the Reservation Tavern had closed before midnight in nearly 60 years' time, and the first time in over 80 years' time, that The Regal Tavern was closed. The night rode into town with less bluster and fanfare than had the day. It was like someone had hung a mourning cloth over the streets and alleys of Springdale, and as the gibbeous moon hiked its britches up for the ride over the bluffs, the only thing that stirred in the hamlet were an occasional coyote looking for a quick meal or vagrant dogs on the prowl. As the night edged over into early morning, here and there an occasional whimper could be heard, coming from behind darkened curtains across the town.