Sleeper in shithouse seven

In the early 70's, Alex and Pete, two brothers from Toronto pooled their resources, and with the help of a second mortgage from their father, bought a run-down tavern in the Bowness district of Calgary. Dad had a successful restaurant on the Danforth. The boys had worked there since they were old enough to sweep the floor. He had full confidence.

By the time I landed in the Rundle neighborhood a few years later, Pete and Alex had a thriving business, running what was called at the time an "Indian Bar". That wasn't because you could get a nice plate of daal curry there. No, it was because they made it their practice to over-serve their clientele till the clientele was either spent out or passed out. They found that with the proper pacing they could get the ideal situation, where the clientele achieved passed out and spent out at the same time. No point having a fella passed out on the floor if he still has twenty bucks in his pocket.

Couple of friends of mine from Ontario managed to get the scratch together to buy a little raised bungalow in Rundle. I joined them a little later. It was kind of a drop-in centre for travelers from back east and local friends and acquaintances. We brought a bit of  hillbilly atmosphere to what had been a suburban family neighborhood. We were the first people on our street to do car repairs on the front lawn.

I found work in a little fab shop in the south east of the city. Had my 77 Impala at the time, the one with the Corvette motor, the 350 four barrel. My commute from the job to our place in the north east was about 45 minutes. Then I found a short-cut. I could get home in twenty minutes if I cut through the gravel pits. Just drive around the NO ENTRY signs, dodge the gravel trucks, and you were good.

Alex and Petros, or Pete as he now styled himself, were making a good go of the bar. Most of their clientele were natives from the reserves west of the city. Minimum overhead. If you wanted to eat, there's a jar of pickled eggs on the counter. Twenty-five cents. But people don't come here to eat. Just keep the beer and liquor flowing. By the time I was living in Rundle they had picked up a couple other properties on their street, for investment purposes.

Life in Rundle was a lot of things but it was never dull. The regulars who actually pitched in for the overhead were only three or four, but most evenings there was at least a dozen people in the house. One of the guys was an absolute master of the blue angel. He'd get home from his ten or twelve hour shift behind the wheel of a gravel truck, and spend the rest of his waking hours sitting in front of the TV in his underwear, swigging Jack Daniels straight out of the bottle. Every half hour or so he'd lift his legs, hold a lighter in his crotch, and blast forth a fart that would send a blue flame half way across the room.

Turns out I wasn't the only one driving around the NO ENTRY sign at the gravel pits. It was a hotbed of action for the local motocross community. Every day you'd see guys tearing around in there, kitted out in full-face helmets, shoulder pads, knee pads, motocross boots, beating the hell out of their Kawasakis and Suzukis and Yamahas on the jumps and whoop-de-doos. I imagine more than a few motocross leathers were soiled when future world champion wannabes were passed by a 77 Impala on their practice track.

Life was good for Pete and Alex. In a flash of genius Pete took the doors off the bathroom stalls. It made it so much easier to splash a sleeping customer with a pail of water when you didn't have to lift the bucket over the top. By the middle eighties they were sitting on half a dozen commercial properties in Bowness.

A thousand years before Alex and Pete bought the bar the Blackfoot Nation roamed the Bowness area. Unfortunately, when it came time to sign Treaty 7 back in the 1870's they couldn't prove clear title, and so had to settle for reserves west of the city.

Pete and Alex were hands-on managers. I guess you have to be when you run a bar. People will steal you blind. They worked long hard hours. They knew how many pickled eggs they sold in a day. Last time I was in there I was buying a twelve pack from the off-sales about midnight. I'm standing at the bar, Pete comes along and announces sleeper in shithouse seven. Alex mutters, sighs, and starts to fill a bucket.

Went through Calgary a couple of years ago. The Rundle neighborhood has really changed. Scruffy looking Pakistani and Somali guys fixing their cars on front lawns all over the place. Pete and Alex sold their real estate holdings a few years ago for many millions and moved back to Toronto.

I was told they have a really nice holiday place in Greece.