Up, Down, and All Over The Map w/ Buttons and Jules--Part 6* (*Scroll Down for Parts 1-5):

“...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.