Dave Douglas (left) at Jazz Standard
As we hit the 2nd month of this post, I’m aware that readers may not have the patience for digressions; but I think its necessary to my story to mention that trumpeter Dave Douglas is one my favorite musicians. While I never learned enough music theory to describe what he does beyond layman’s terms, I’ve seen and heard enough trumpeters to know he's got great tone, writes great compositions (at a very prolific rate), and is an outstanding ambassador for both jazz and his instrument. He started New York’s annual FONT (Festival Of New Trumpet) at Jazz Standard, as well as the Undead Festival of 2010. And his original Keystone project--which features Fatty Arbuckle’s pit bull Luke, is one of my favorite soundtracks. I really admire the guy, and his music’s blared in the background while I’ve written many of the posts contained here at Intermission.
In other words, the guy inspires me, and his opinions on a wide range of subjects--including Lodo Grdzak, would matter to me.
So with that said, let’s return to Tuesday night at the Jazz Standard, where Jules and I have now returned to our table. Being the third wheel is common for me, but still an odd number; so I sat with Buttons on her side of the table, while Jules sat on the other to face us. Course I don’t like to rush, so we were at the club kind of early, with plenty of time to drink and smoke and eat--and drink (and drink) some more.
At some point Buttons and I got involved on a topic, which left Jules free to engage our neighbors at the adjacent table. Initially I only heard fragments of the conversation, but even at that early juncture I became concerned.
“Well Perry’s just a...”
“Course Ron Paul’s older than...”
“ I could move a hundred pounds tomorrow if this freaking war on...”
“Obama got handed a plate of shit, so how’s he...”
Political talk! Its rude to talk politics with strangers reader, it really is. This used to be common knowledge--or at least I thought it was. No matter your intentions, you’re bound to offend or rub someone the wrong way. Just like the minefields of race or religion. Talk about your life before you discuss your mindset. That’s an established, golden rule. And when the subject’s Barack Hussein Obama things become even more charged since he’s both President and black. America still doesn’t seem entirely sure what to make of that.
But Jules knows what to make of things. Got ‘em all figured out. And he was glad to tell the middle-aged, black couple seated next to him.
Again, I didn’t hear the start of the conversation, and what I did hear was mostly Jules’ side since his volume was so loud. Still, as things progressed I began to listen with a bit more than half-an-ear.
“At least Obama won the election, right? Even I voted for him--I didn’t care that he’s black. Screw old man McCain and his war machine, Navy bullshit. We’d be in another war right now with that guy. Another jerk’s son. An Admiral's.”
It was the woman of the couple who sat closest to Jules. If I say she looked like Phylicia Rashad you’d probably call it a cliche, but with this post is on its 10th installment its a shortcut description that serves my purposes. Phylicia nodded slightly, though hesitantly; but I could already see she wanted out.
Course Jules had more to say.
“And now these Repubs won’t even acknowledge the guy. Like he’s the pretender, when he actually got the votes. 'Where’s your papers?' Where’s your fucking papers Rick Perry? This guy actually won the election before he became President. Your guy couldn’t do that, but he got to be president for a decade. Why? Cause of his DADDY!”
Now reader, as an investigator I’m taught to report only on what’s termed “outward signs of behavior.” Tangible things or behaviors that can be directly observed. I’m not supposed to comment on what I think motivates that behavior or what might be on a subject’s mind. Not without a direct inquiry.
So if I had to write a report on this conversation, I’d describe Phylicia Rashad’s behavior to this point as polite, though uncertain. She’d scooted back in her seat a bit, but nodded her head in affirmation of certain points Jules made and would sometimes flash a tight smile as she stole a glance towards the man I assume was her husband. But as Jules continued...
“I’ll tell you, these Repubs disgust me. It’s like an old boys club. And now that they can’t have their way they don’t even care about the process. It’s like they had a meeting and decided “Hey--we’re gonna freeze this ni__er out,” you know? Make it impossible for him to pass anything. But the guy seems smart to me. I say...”
Jules said a lot of things after that, but you can bet the only thing Phylicia heard was that N-bomb he’d dropped. Her eyes blinked rapidly as she continued to monitor Jules and his comments. Curious perhaps as to what to make of him.
“Excuse me,” she eventually asked him when she managed to get a word in edgewise, “what did you say about ‘freezing Obama out?’”
“What?” Jules asked flippantly as he grabbed a rib off his plate, “Oh yeah, I was saying its like a conspiracy, you know. Like these guys all got together and were like “This guy’s just some ni__er we don’t have to work with. This is our country. We’ll freeze him out so he can’t get anything done. ”
Phylicia sat silently. Contemplatively for a moment.
“Know what I mean?” Jules asked as he pointed his rib in their direction. “It’s like...”
“Yeah,” the woman responded as she slowly turned her back to our table, “I get it.”
But Jules didn’t get it. Least not right away. But then...
“...Hey,” he said to Phylicia as he softly tapped her shoulder, “I’m not sure you understood me. I didn’t call Obama a ni__er. I wouldn’t do that. I’m saying that’s what they call him. I’m saying...”
“I understand what you’re saying,” the woman responded with a roll of her eyes towards her partner as she turned her chair to an even greater degree. “Let’s just leave it alone now. It’s no problem.”
Yet it was still a problem for Jules. I can see he didn’t like the woman’s sudden attitude and reacted to it. Like a dog responds to energy, it wasn’t even about what was said anymore. Phylicia exuded an energy Jules didn’t like and I don’t know if his jail-time forced him to respond or if he’d gone to jail for responding to shit like this in the past. But he wasn’t done.
And it wouldn’t have been so wretchedly bad if the lights hadn’t suddenly started to dim. But they had, and as they did so, the crowd quieted; and it was just in that moment that Jules--louder than everyone else of course, had to confront the woman a final time and say,
“I just don’t think you’re understanding me, cause if you did you wouldn’t have turned on me like that. When I said 'freeze the ni__er out'--that’s what they’re trying to do. Not me. I don’t think he’s a ni__er at all. I actually think he’s sma...”
A collective groan from the deep could be heard throughout the crowd.
“She’s not mad at what you said, its how you said it!” the woman’s husband suddenly chimed in. “There’s different ways to make the same point.”
Well, luckily Dave and his band took the stage, which should have put a stopper in the drain of where that conversation was headed. Except that Jules and Mrs. Huxtable had been arguing throughout the pre-performance announcement where they remind you to turn off your cellphones and not to use any flashes or recording devices. New Yorkers know the drill, but out-of-towner's drop the ball on this one all the time. Not that Jules would have turned his phone off anyway; but Dave and the band took the stage. Greeted the now eager audience. And then,
...as a hush took hold.
Dave quietly counted-down to the band,
“...Okay, one,
two,
one, two.."
Ring, ring,
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring,
Ring, ring.
Dave’s shoulders instantly drooped. Tsk’s of condemnation could be heard throughout the crowd as all eyes fell on Jules and his cellphone that must have been turned up to 11.
But as always, Jules was completely oblivious. He inspected the phone’s window display in his own little world, then turned towards Buttons.
“I’ve gotta take this,” he said in his volume for the deaf, standing from the table to leave.
“Yeah, why don’t you!” several members of the crowd exhorted him. “Don’t rush!”
Jules stepped outside, which left all eyes on Buttons and me to take the brunt of their fury. Even Dave Douglas stared me down, ‘til order and the proper mood was restored.
“...We ready now?” he asked the crowd.
More than ready.
“Okay then.
...One,
two,
one, two, three...”
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into some more parts. Next installment (or news on its status) in a few days.
*ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images and are used simply to enhance the story. Copyrights may exist.
Bay Ridge, Brooklyn:
"This is everybody's fault but mine!"
You think Beyonce really rides the B train?: 
"Just let me do the thinking."
"Well, you're me--right?
I can only assume that everybody relaxed and Amir Khan’d the fuck down, because I woke up the next morning unbruised, in one piece; and that cab ride never came up again. At first I was discombobulated and unsure as to where I was. My tongue was sandpaper dry. My eyes crusty. But then I heard Jules’ voice in the background--already up and on the phone; and I began to rewind the events in my addled mind.
Someone must have requested an extra bed since I was on one of those hotel cots with wheels, and I remained there with the skanky blanket over my head as Jules barked into his cheap Samsung.
“No man, were here for three more days. Everything went thru. ...Um hmm. ...Um hmmm. ... I’m not sure what we’re gonna do, but $30,000 dollars should still buy some fun-- even in New York. ...I don’t know, its almost 11:00 now so I’m not...”
Almost 11:00?--what?! I looked at my watch. Shit! This was now Monday so I had appointments. Course I never schedule my Monday stuff too early, so my first appointment wasn’t ‘til 1:00 that afternoon. Still, I had to get home to Brooklyn, put on a jacket and tie, then go all the way down to Bay Ridge. And I travel by train, which meant I had to hump it.
But if there’s one thing I hate (hate!) to do in life its rush. Sure I live in New York, but I take things at my own pace. That’s my life mission. Some guys wanna be rich, others want pussy; but I want to sleep-in as late as I like and take things at my own rhythm. Like my man Wayne. If I have to be at the airport, I get there two hours early; and in the morning I make sure I have time to sip my coffee. Those intermission’s are the best part of the day--so don’t harsh on my buzz.
But stupid life never leaves you alone. I had to run out the hotel; wait on the B train for 15 minutes, all the while my eyes glanced at my watch as my foot tapped on the platform. Course as Homer Simpson would say, “This was everybodys fault but mine.” No way my sour stomach and dried-out sponge of a mind could fuel its way down to Brooklyn without an enemy. Hungover anger was just the ticket to propel me thru the morning til I could shower.
Stupid freaking Jules and his cab rides. You’re a walker Lodo! Since when do you take cabs? But he’s got Buttons and you know she’s gonna wear heels. Alcoholics the two of ‘em. Completely. And Jesus, the guy’s already up? Why man?What do you have to do Jules? Amir Khan down, man. Manic motherfucker. Like Jake used to be. No peace. Gonna get you into a fight before the week’s over. Or arrested. Watch yourself cause he’s reckless. And Buttons encourages him.
Those were my thoughts as I waited impatiently on that platform; but shortly after the train arrived and I got settled into its motion, my bloated belly burped-up a faint taste of vomit to my throat. Vomit, yet also the slightest essence of the red wine sauce from my pheasant under glass. And a bit of briny oyster flavor coupled with the smell of Alaskan King Crab legs, the stank of which must have still been on my hands. I pulled my pocket hand-sanitizer out my jacket and worked it into my palms. Massaged them slowly and gently as I thought about...nothing. ‘Til suddenly a new stream of thought took hold of my mind.
Pheasant under glass--how good was that? And how many Johnnie’s did you have? They bought you a hundred dollar meal last night. And that’s on top of the fight. Plus you got to feel-up on Buttons big titties.
Yeah, that was fun; but lets not count money all the time.
I’m not saying to count money, but we need to be appreciative. That was a hot weekend they showed us.
Alright, but he sort of set us up at that bar too. It wasn’t cool the way he sent us into the unknown like that. Who knows what we could have walked into. And I know there was something ‘bout that credit card, the way he wouldn’t go to the will call.
Whatever, lets just cool out for a bit.
I closed my eyes and sat quietly again as the train descended back underground. My thought's returned to nothing in particular, which of course is when my best thinking’s done.
...He probably didn’t want to call that guy using his own phone.
What?
Jules probably doesn’t want any connection between his phone and that guy Danny’s. That’s why he used us. But think about it, he gave us $20 dollars for the drink plus all that dinner. Hell, he must have paid for that cot at the hotel too. They don’t just give you those.
...It was the phone he was concerned about. I didn’t think of that.
Yeah, well, let me do the thinking.
Well,...you’re me, right?
Lets just cool out ‘til we get home.
To find a calm, quiet place in Manhattan is hard, but in Brooklyn its a lot easier. I dragged my foggy, tired ass thru Bay Ridge like Michael Jordan with the flu. Not a wasted gesture spent as I worked. Complete economy of movement and laser-beam focus if for no other reason than the reserves weren’t there for anything more. I killed at my job that day, but when Buttons called later that evening, I was out of juice and had an appointment the next morning.
“I’m sorry Buttons, but I’ve gotta stay in tonight. Lets get together tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night? Okay,...but, do you have any ideas for Jules and me?”
I gave Buttons about a half-dozen suggestions, one of which was to visit Battery Park and take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. That was the last one I actually expected them to take; but they told me ‘bout it when we met at Jazz Standard on Tuesday.
Truth is I never thought Jules or Buttons would want to see jazz either, but it turns out that Jules’ son is a drummer in his high-school’s marching band. Jules got all wide-eyed and excited when he spoke of his son, and in those moments I began to genuinely like the guy. Particularly at one point as we stood at the bar and Jules turned to me,
“Lodo, listen. I wanna thank you for yesterday and that idea to take the ferry. Particularly when you told us to go at sundown. That’s exactly the way to do it! You’ve got eyes brother. We bought a beer at that little bar on board and (here Jules gestured with a sweep of his hand) passed right by the Statue of Liberty. Beautiful. Then all that red and orange sunburst off those glass towers. Pow man! Like fireworks off the river. We rode it twice, so yeah...that was a great idea. And it didn’t cost a dime!"
Wow reader. I really did come around to Jules in that moment as we stood at the bar and clanked glasses.
So what does he go and do? 
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm gonna split it into more parts. My back's been hurting, but I should be back in a few days with next installment.
* ADDITIONAL NOTE: With the exception of the photos of me, all pics stolen off Google Images. All rights reserved on my pics (why would you want those anyway?).
"Lodo, Lodo, Lodo, Lodo..."
"Amir Khan,..you hear?" 
Recall my intention in going to _____ was simply to say goodbye to Buttons in person and maybe thank Jules again for the Cotto ticket. Then I was gonna be on my way.
But time became convoluted once I got inside: the oddness of Danny behind the rich oak bar; the unexpected smile of recognition; yet another free cocktail to sip as I followed my stylish hostess through the burgundy, candle-lit room. My ice-cold mood was in such polar opposition to the warm atmosphere of the place that the windshield of my perceptions got all fogged-up.
Or maybe it was just the booze.
Buttons was alone at the table since Jules was apparently outside on another phone call.
“You didn’t pass him on the way in?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Well whatever--look! We’ve got wine. And oysters!”
Buttons grabbed the magnum of red wine and bounced happily in her seat as she reached for my glass.
“Oh no Buttons, the bartender gave me...”
But Buttons shook her head in protest as she poured me a glass and gestured for me to sit next to her on the leather bench.
“You’re gonna wanna drink this Lodo--trust me.”
“Well maybe, but listen..”
“Ah--ah! You haven’t had an oyster yet. Come on sweetie, we’ve got two-dozen here. They’re delicious--and they make you hard. I know you like that honeybunch. I know I like it.”
Buttons was very drunk. She hand-fed me an oyster with one hand and reached under the table with her other to rub my junk.
“Lodo, Lodo, Lodo, Lodo...” she whispered in my ear with glazed eyes as she continued to rub my inseam. “We love you so much.”
Buttons fed me more oysters--one after the other. Then there were big Tiger shrimp. Then chunks of fresh white crab meat. Then Alaskan King Crab legs. We laughed. Felt each other up in the cocoon of our booth. Drank wine. By the time Jules showed up I’d lost a lot of my edge.
“What’s up brother?!” he yelled when he saw me, “You meet my man Danny?”
“Uh, yeah Jules.,” I said somewhat hesitantly, “What about that? Did you know that gu...”
“Listen Lodo, I really appreciate your getting ‘em on the phone for me. I had to go run that errand with Buttons, but you were able to just go right in there and..put ‘em on the phone. And that’s great. So anything you want tonight brother ‘cause all my business went through.”
Jules gave my shoulder an eager clasp as Buttons ran her fingernails up and down my leg. I finished the rest of the oysters. Jules ordered more wine and then we got entrees. Veal for Jules. Chilean Sea Bass for Buttons. (heavy sigh). I ate crazy stuff like a pheasant under glass and two different kinds of creme brulee for desert. Stuff I’d never expected to eat when I woke up that AM. It was a special meal. I even began to enjoy Jules’ company a little bit. I got an education of sorts.
“I mean, if Ron Paul were to win he says he’d just legalize weed outright,” Jules said loud enough for the adjacent tables to hear. “And part of me’s thinking--'Yeah, of course, exactly right. No way anyone should go to jail for weed. But then I’m thinking, 'but wait? Does that even help me? I’m better off when its illegal. Keeps my price up and a lot of pussies out of the game. Make weed legal and what d’ya need me for? There’d be too much product out there. I’m sitting on pounds of stuff I can’t move already. Products not the problem. Everyone’s got product. The problem’s distribution. I’ve got good pilots, but I need someone who can driv...”
“No! (burp) No. No, no,” Buttons suddenly interjected as she vigorously shook her head.
“What?” Jules asked, “We’re just talking.”
But Buttons continued to protest. She said the room was spinning and insisted we had to go. I don’t know if it was a ruse, but I loved her for that since I really didn’t want to have to tell Jules I couldn’t drive for him ‘til the bill was paid.
But Jules paid. Laid at least three, $100 dollar bills down on the table. Jules always used cash (the only time I ever saw that credit card of his was at the will-call window of The Garden). We got outside the restaurant and things really were spinning. Least for me. Like an idiot I'd downed that last Johnny before we left, and despite the rich meal, I nearly stumbled into the street.
“Come on,” said Buttons, “you’ll go to the hotel with us.”
I can’t recall my response, I just remember being inside the cab.
“Where to Sir?” the cabbie asked as Jules slammed his door shut.
“The Pennsylvania. Herald Square.”
“Hotel Pennsylvania? Yes sir,” the cabbie said as he set the meter and we began to roll from the curb.
“Hey Habib there,” Jules said with a hard rap of his knuckles on the cab’s dividing glass, “you know how many miles i...”
The taxi screeched to an abrupt stop and the cabbie engaged Jules’s eyes via the rear-view mirror.
“Sir my name’s Mohammed. Why you call me Habib?”
“What?” Jules asked, genuinely hard of hearing. And drunk.
“My name is Mohammed, sir. See? (here he pointed towards his picture I.D. posted on the interior glass). “My name is not Habib. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else?”
“...Well, yeah,” Jules answered, “fact is, our last cabbie was named Habib.”
“Okay, but that was not me sir, correct? We're not all the same person.”
Jules and the cabbie locked eyes.
“...Correct. Alright, man. Listen Amir Khan, okay? Amir Khan.”
“Amir Khan?” the cabbie asked, What’s that? That’s something?”
“Yeah, man, that’s your guy, right? Amir Khan--that means cool out, everything’s cool.”
“It does, sir? I didn’t know that.”
“Well it does. So Amir Khan,...alright brother?”
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm gonna split it into another few parts. (heavy sigh). Whatever! See you in a few days. And thanks for reading!
** NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images. Copyrights may exist.
"Well get over here sweetie 'cause my panties are in a bunch."
"But things went funny when I got there."
I don’t know what my readers do for a living (actually, that’s not true--I know what a few of you do!); but if you were say...a mechanic by trade I wouldn’t ask you to work on my car for free; nor would I ask any other professional to do what they do as a favor. We’d have to be very tight before I’d do that.
So as I sat at that Bleecker Street bar I felt a little used by Jules and the way he’d sent me inside on what was obviously a pretext. Not that I’d done any actual investigation per se; and Jules did give me $20 dollars, but that big bartender’s face wasn’t particularly friendly. And he didn’t laugh or appear happy to hear from Jules. It brought to mind the night before at The Garden. The way Jules had been reluctant to approach the Will-Call window and instead insisted that I retrieve the tickets.
But this here was worse. Actually made me upset. I didn’t know what Jules was up to, but he obviously felt he had to feel things out with this guy and sent me inside to do it! On a pretext. Like a sucker. I was pissed and the only reason I stuck around was to say goodbye to Buttons in person. Her sister Rules means a lot to me. Things always need to be cool between us or I can’t see my dog Spiffy out in Denver. So I waited.
And I stewed.
Until suddenly.
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring.
The phone’s window display said Buttons.
(heavy sigh).
Ring, ring,
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring,
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring,
Rin..
“Hello?”
“Lodo! Where are you sweetheart?”
“I’m still at the bar Buttons, did you guys go back to the hotel?”
“The hotel?!--What?--No! We’re at the restaurant. Get over here, we’re buying you dinner.”
“Oh,...I don’t know Buttons. I think I’m gonna call it a night.”
“What! Why?! I told you I was buying you dinner. We’re here right now at _________. Its not far. You can walk. Or take a cab. We’ll pay for it.”
“...You’re at _________?”
“Yeah!”
“...I’ve heard about that place.”
“So get over here sweetie cause my panties are in a bunch.”
Buttons abruptly hung up the phone and I reluctantly proceeded to make my way to the restaurant. Torn as I made my way, yet still with the intention of simply saying goodbye in person.
But things went funny when I got there.
For example, when I walked in that Irish guy--Danny the bartender, was behind the bar. Working. In the same uniform/apron and everything as though we’d never left the other place. That kind of threw me. Only this time we shared a smile.
“Weren’t you just working at ________? I asked him as I approached.
“Yeah,” he said with a laugh as he located a bottle of Johnnie Black, “I work here too.”
“Oh hey!” I told him, “I hope that’s not for m...”
“No worries,” he said with a raised palm as he slid me the drink and had the hostess approach, “Cheers.”
Hmmm, I thought as I followed the tall blonde into the restaurant, that guy’s mood certainly turned for the better. And now I held yet another free Johnnie as I followed the undulating ass cheeks of my European hostess past the booths and crowded tables. She led me towards the rear of the space where before I saw her, I heard Buttons call-out despite the subdued and somewhat somber ambiance of the place.
“Lodo!” Buttons yelled as she stood up from behind her table for visibility, “over here sweetie! Whew hooo!!!! Over here!” she yelled again, as her heavy tits shook inside her too tight dress. We were still several feet away, but the hostess stopped on a dime, turned on her heels, and rolled her stuck-up eyes as she past me.
“I guess you were somehow able to find her--no?” 
"Over here sweetie--whew hooo!"
*NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into...I'm not even going to guess as to how many more parts! But there's gonna be a few more. Next one in a few days.
** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics (w/ the exclusion of the one of me) stolen off Google Images. Most are probably copyrighted.
“...Wait--what? No man, my dick won’t get hard for anything less than 50 pounds. And that’s minimum...”
“...Why don’t you use my pilot? He’s the best. Guy can land anywhere--in any weather. He’s flown hundreds of pounds for me. I trust him. We did time at...”
“...No, I’m here for another four days, but I don’t want to go to Jersey if I don’t have to....”
Jules gestured toward Buttons and me for a drag off our joint. He accepted it with his free hand while he kept his cellphone pressed to his ear with the other. He quietly took a huge hit that pulled the hots toward his lips ‘til his lungs finally reached their limit. Then he exploded into a coughing fit as he handed Buttons the remains.
“(cough! cough!)...What? No, that’s me busting a lung on this harsh New York shit. So listen, what’s the name of the place?”
Jules cradled his cheap, flip cellphone on his shoulder and proceeded to jot down an address on a matchbook cover.
“...Okay, got ya. Yeah, we’ll be over there. I thought that’s what you wanted, right? Well good then, we’ll come over there.”
Jules hung up the phone.
“You ever hear of ________?” he asked me.
“Yeah, sure,” I told him. On Bleecker, right?”
“Right,” he said as he winked at Buttons and grabbed her round the waist. “We’ll go over there after the game.”
I suppose this would have been an opportune time to ask Jules about his line of work; but after I’d caught those snippets of phone conversation I decided to hold my tongue and keep my ears open.
Not that Jules ever censored himself.
“Hey Lodo, think I can I get another hit off that joint brother? I’m used to California weed. This New York stuff doesn’t do shit for me. And its grown indoors. You can tell. There’s no taste. Warehouse stuff. I used to move pounds of this back in the day, but now that I’ve got my California connection, forget it. No one would buy this shit.”
Course that didn’t keep Jules from smoking my $120.00 per quarter, hydroponic, New York, "no-taste," kind-bud. In fact, he and Buttons basically smoked the rest of what I’d brought before we returned to the bar to watch the end of the game. Then, in what I assumed was a reciprocal gesture, Jules turned to me as he asked for the check.
“Alright Lodo, tell you what. Why don’t you pay the tip and we’ll pick-up the bill. Fair?”
Fair to me. Normally at a bar, I’d order a shot of Powers with a pint of something off the tap. The John Powers is good Irish stuff my buddy Jake turned me on to. Its almost always cheaper than Bushmills and a lot less than Johnnie Walker. I’ll pop a shot of that, then sip a pint for awhile as I stretch out time.
But money being no object, my drink of choice is Johnnie Black, and Jules got me started on those Johnnie shooters the night before. So I’d stuck with the Johnnie Blacks all day. Twelve dollars a pop and I’d had at least four of ‘em (not including a round bought by the bartender), so Jules’ offer to buy was an appreciated trade-off for what we’d smoked.
But then the bill came and it was for $152.00. Jules and Buttons combined for eleven drinks, and then there were my four Johnnie’s. Proper New York etiquette is at least a 20% tip, but we’d been comped a free round as well. So while I should have been up $30 dollars or more, I barely broke even and was out of smoke.
“What’s the matter brother?” Jules asked as I leaned over the bar and struggled to calculate the math.
“...Nothing,” I said.
“Come on,” Buttons said into my ear as she mashed her tits into my back, “we’re gonna take a cab down to that place. Jules wants to buy you another drink and then I'll get you dinner.”
“Really?”
“Sure!” Jules screamed in his half-deaf manner and that point of his finger, “My first--and at my age--probably last time in New York City?! I’ve gotta show this young gal a good time don’t I? Come on man, let’s go!”
So we took a cab down to _____ and my mood began to lighten once again. Course I figured we were all going for a drink together; but when we got close Jules quickly led me across the street, reached into his pocket from which he flippantly pulled out an obscenely fat bill-fold, and peeled-off a $20 dollar bill.
“Listen Lodo, do me a favor,” he said as he handed me the bill, “why don’t you go inside there and order yourself up what you want. Buttons and I’ll see you in a minute.”
“...Uh,...okay. You don’t want anything?”
But Jules and Buttons were already walking away.
Well alright. $20 dollars and a sense of purpose are all I need in any given hour. From what I’d heard of Jules’ phone conversation, I assumed he was off to handle his business--perhaps was even late for it, so I settled in at the bar to watch the rest of the games. Until a few minutes later:
Ring, ring,
Ring, ring..
My cellphone’s display window said Buttons, but when I answered it was Jules.
“Hey brother, you there?”
“You mean at the bar?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I’m here. You coming over?”
“...Do me a favor. Ask the bartender if his name’s Danny.”
“Danny?”
“Yeah, man. Ask him his name.”
“Uh,...okay. Hang on.”
I waited for the huge Irish bartender to make his way towards me, then asked him.
“Hey man, your name happen to be Danny?”
The bartender’s dark brows furrowed a moment.
“That’s right. Who are you?”
I held up a finger in request of a moment.
“It’s him” I said into the phone.
“Put him on,” Jules said.
I handed the bartender the phone. I could hear Jules’ shrill voice screaming through the receiver, though couldn’t distinguish what he said. As for the bartender, he stared at me in a way I definitely didn’t like before he turned his attention out the window and across the street. Then he tossed me back my phone.
“Hey Terry!” he called out to his co-worker as he removed his apron and walked round from his side of the bar, “fill in for me for a few minutes would ya. I’ve got something I need to do momentarily.”
As he walked out the door I could hear Jules’ truncated voice squeaking out my tinny cellphone. I put it to my ear and listened with a sort of wonderment.
“Hello? Hello? Anyone there? Danny? You there buddy? We still on man?”
I don’t know why I didn’t answer right away, but it felt like an almost timeless moment. An intermission if you will. ‘Til I remembered the hard look on the bartender’s face.
“...He's on his way,” I said before I abruptly hung up the phone. 
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into at least one or two additional parts. Its a slow mover I know, but...hey, all posts come free of charge and advertising is not accepted. See you in a few days y'all!!
** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images and are used simply to enhance the story. I have no relationship to anyone depicted; nor am I aware of ever meeting them.
"He wasn't even hurt!" 
"My God I'm so wet!" 
Olympic Silver Medalist and Light-Welterweight Champion of the World--Amir Khan:
Whether it was thwarted blood lust or just unresolved curiosity that so disappointed Jules was hard to say, but it was obvious what excited and motivated Buttons. She’d clutched at her herself on every Cotto connect and bounced in her seat as Margarito shrugged off each punch and advanced. And when the fight was stopped, it was Buttons who seemed the most disappointed at being denied the opportunity to watch a man get beat unconscious.
“Oh my God I’m so wet!” she said to no one in particular as Jules felt up her dress in the cab to Chinatown.
“Jesus, she is Lodo--feel this!”
“Maybe later Jules.”
“Well what about you?” Jules asked the cabbie, “You wanna feel how wet my girlfriend is?”
The cabbie stole a glance at Button’s open legs in his rearview mirror.
“...I have to drive sir.”
“Course you do!” Jules exclaimed, “Just testing you Mohammed, you’re a good man!”
“Thank you sir,..but my name’s Habib.”
“You don’t have to thank m..”
Jules phone suddenly rang. One of his buddies from California. One of his Mexican buddies.
“What? No, man--no! He wasn’t even hurt. His eye was a little swollen--that’s it. He could’ve easily fought two, three more rounds. Christ, Buttons was just getting good and worked up too, you oughta feel her over here, right Mohammed? I mean...What?--no, I was talking to the cabbie. I told him he should feel Buttons’ box cause she’s hot as a hellcat, but I guess he’s gay or something...”
Jules. Freaking guy. What a pleasure it’ll be to take a cab to Chinatown, I’d thought when he first brought it up. Usually its the subway or bus for me; but a paid cab ride from midtown? That’s good living.
That is ‘til Jules insults the cabbie.
“Hey Moha--I mean, Habib, how come there aren’t any great Muslim boxers? There’s like a billion of you guys isn’t there? And you’re always fighting somebody. Seems like there should be some good fighters.”
“But there is sir. Amir Khan is world champion. From Pakistan--or actually, London; but he is Muslim sir. And world champion too.”
“Ahmeer Conn?” Jules asked his Mexican buddy over the phone. “You know who that is? ...Um hmmm. Hey Habib--my buddy here on the phone says that Amir Khan’s a faggot and that he punches like a girl. I hope that’s not true ‘cause I really like you brother.”
Yep, fun ride. But Jules paid for it. Plus he bought my food, three beers; and even gave me cash-money for the tickets--including mine. So no way around it, he and Buttons showed me a special night.
Next day we met at our usual pub to watch the Packers/Giants game. Buttons is originally from Wisconsin (you betcha!) and big into football, so her and Jules were already at the bar with drinks when I arrived.
Actually they’d had quite a few, which shouldn’t surprise you if you know anything about Wisconsin. Biggest lushes on the planet with the exception of the native Irish themselves. In fact, booze is serious business for Buttons. She doesn’t just pound the cocktails, she holds court at the bar. Chats everybody up and monitors their alcohol choices as they stare down her dress and consider their chances.
“You know what?” she asked a young couple seated next to me at the bar, “I like the way you guys drink. What are those?--Greyhounds?”
They both nodded in agreement.
“These two,” Buttons said to me as she gestured toward the couple,” have been here since we got here. And we haven’t slowed down yet!” she said as she reached across me to give them each a high-five. “Let me guess, you came here from church, right?”
Indeed they had. Course at this time Jules was outside on another of his super-numerous phone calls despite it being Sunday. We rarely talked more than 15 minutes at a time before he’d have to step outside to respond or make another call.
“What’s he do again?” I asked Buttons after Jules stepped-out for the the 3rd or 4th time.
“Who Jules?” she asked with a dismissive wave of her hand,”he’s always wheeling and dealing.”
“Wheeling and dealing what?”
Buttons just shrugged her shoulders as she watched the Packers drive downfield.
“I don’t know Lodo, you’re the investigator. Ask him.”
Um hmm. No offense reader, but I don’t think you need to be an investigator to find out what the guy you’re sleeping with does for a living. But God forbid Buttons should ask a follow-up question to someone paying her way!
Only later, when we were all outside smoking a joint did I get the chance to ask Jules. 
A little like Jules (above):
* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into at least one or two more parts--sorry!! Hope everyone had a great holiday and that 2012 proves to be your best year yet. Next part in a few days ya'll. And thanks again for reading!!
** ADD'L NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images. Copyrights may exist. All pics are used simply to enhance the narrative. I've never met anyone depicted; nor do I know their real identity.
