Night Of The Living Fred (#16)

We ran across Fred last night! Actually, we almost ran him over. He was crab-walking down the center of the road near the Dockside Tavern. After the near miss, we pulled over.
“Fred!” we hollered. Without saying a word, he yanked open our rear door and flopped in. “Where to ol’ buddy?” we asked.
“Let’s head back to Dockside for a beer. It’s too damn hot out here for walking.” So we spun around and headed back to the bar.
Things had improved tremendously for Fred. He’d hooked up with “this old broad I used to live with. She ain’t much for the eyes but she’s got her own condo.”, which was where he was headed before we almost clipped him. 
“Where’s your dinghy?” I wondered aloud.
“It’s behind the bar” (not the one with the rum bottles but at the little docks they build behind these joints for alcoholic yachtsmen, which is a synonymous term).
“Then why were you walking?” I added.
“You kidding?” he answered. “I’m too drunk to steer a dinghy”.
Understanding now why the water taxi biz here is so lucrative, we downed a few drafts with Fred matching ours 2-to-1. He must’ve figured we’d be paying. Once he’d said goodnight to his dinghy, we rode him over to the condo.
“You gotta come in and meet the old broad” he insisted.
So we trudged up four flights of stairs and met the “old broad”. (I’ll call her “Wilma” in order to protect her innocence and virtue, although if there’s anyone innocent in Marathon I haven’t met them. Ditto on the virtue.) 
“Wilma” was…. Jeez, I don’t know what Wilma was. South Park’s Mrs. Hanky is the closest I can get. Gregarious, yet generous, she’d probably offer you the shirt off of her back which in her case wouldn’t be such a hot idea.
“Come on in guys and have a drink” she hollered in our ears. It was obvious Fred and her were compatible in the spirit consumption category of their relationship. “What’ll you have?”
The walls were stacked with wine bottles. Full ones. There had to be over 100.
“She’s in the wine business” Fred proudly exclaimed after we sat down while fiddling with the cork in a wine bottle stuck between his legs.
“That’s right” she piped in and plopped down next to me on the couch. “Say, you’re cute” she spat into my face. “I like the way you dress”.
I was wearing the same sweat-stained clothes I’d had on for the past couple of days. I smiled back at her and felt my pocket for the car keys while calculating the distance between the couch and the front door.
“Yeah” Fred continued. “She kept getting fired for drinking on the job until she landed this”. He gestured across the wine-filled walls that a Trump would envy.
“What did you do before?” I asked while inching away.
“Tended bar” she replied.
“But this is the Keys. I thought you were allowed to drink?” (Hell, I thought it was a requirement here.)
“You are” Fred interjected. “But there’s a limit.”
“Yesh” Wilma sloshed back in affirmation.
“So now she spends her day going around to all the hotels giving wine tastings” he continued. “It’s the perfect job. She’s getting paid to drink!”
Damn if Fred didn’t have a point.
“And I’m helping her” he added.
I’ll end this here because the rest of the night is a blur. But if you’re visiting any resorts between Islamorada and Key West, keep an eye out for a glassy-eyed, sun burnt couple sitting behind a tasting table somewhere. If you spot them, take a moment and introduce yourselves. I guarantee you won’t leave there sober. And while you’re at it, take a picture. The way these two are going at it, they aren’t going to be around much longer.