"...I was dead for a minute and 52 seconds in that ambulance."
"You think they're gonna put my face on the cover of God-damn Fortune magazine?!"
Readers can take what they will from the respective stories of Buttons and Jules, but I think our bartender put it best. He’d listened as they told their tale (the bar still wasn’t too busy then); and when Jules left to answer a call and Buttons got up for the bathroom, we shared a moment.
“So today’s the last day?,” he said to me with his thick Irish accent.
“For them,” I answered, “I live here.”
“...Right. You know them from out west then?”
“Yeah--Buttons I know. A little bit. Jules I just met.”
The bartender smiled and nodded in a manner that suggested conspiracy.
“...They’re wild,” he finally said a bit hesitantly.
But he got no argument from me.
It was Jules who returned first. He plopped himself down on the stool beside me. Gave my back a slap.
“Lodo, what’s up motherfucka? Where’s Buttons?”
“She’s over there,” (I pointed toward the back), “lined up for the bathroom.”
“Oh good, good brother. This’ll give us a chance to talk.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah man, listen. I don’t know if you remember the other night--at dinner? You remember what you and I got to talking about?”
“...Maybe,” I answered grudgingly, hoping he wouldn’t go where I feared he was going.
“ ‘Cause listen buddy,” he said as he threw his arm round my shoulder and spoke into my ear, “Buttons tells me you ain’t got no job right now.”
“That’s not true Jules--I work for myself. I’m not tearing it up, but I’ve got a pair of clients. I’m alright.”
“Yeah, well, listen brother. One thing I’ve learned in this life is you’ve gotta live now. I was dead for a minute and 52 seconds in that ambulance--did I mention that? Shit like that makes you think. We’ve all got an expiration date. And you know what? I like it! Makes you get up and do shit. If you’ve got the balls! Know what I mean?”
“..I think so.”
“Ha! I think so. I know you do Lodo! I saw that right from the start. Let me ask you something else. ...You know where _____ is?”
“Yeah that’s probably five or six hours from here.”
“Five or six hours, eh? So that’s what--ten, eleven hours roundtrip? How’d you like to make ten grand for ten hours? How’s that sound? A thousand bucks an hour?...”
I began to shift on my stool and look ‘round for Buttons toward the bathrooms. She was laughing with a group of guys and hadn’t even gone in yet. Oh you betcha!...
“No, I mean it Lodo!” Jules insisted as he pulled me closer, “plus you’ll keep an ounce or two for yourself. Listen. Its just like I said. My problem’s distribution. I’ve got all the product you want--enough for half the east coast. Killer stuff! From the Pacific Northwest. You’ll see, I’ll get you some samples, but I need to find a way to move it. That’s my problem. I’ve got a good pilot--hell, the best. But I need a driver who can pick it up and bring it inland...”
I sent out all the non-verbal cues for Jules to stop, but all he saw was green lights.
“...I’ve gotta fly a certain number of pounds before I make money, but not so much that I draw attention. Gas is a bitch and my pilot’s top-notch. I don’t get any breaks there. You pay for that, but its worth it. Just like I’d pay for a good driver Lodo. Like you brother! Someone I could trust. Can’t be cheap on that shit. You see the business considerations that run thru my mind? I crunch all the numbers, but you think they’re gonna put my freaking face on the cover of God damn Fortune magazine?!”
Jules leaned back in his stool to allow his words to sink in, but now he’d grown excited. He clasped my bicep and drew me in close again.
“What I’m saying is you’ve got yourself a chance to get real rich here, so think about it. You could do a run every couple of months once we get this thing rolling. Even if you got busted you wouldn’t serve more than a hundred and twenty days. I know! Shit, by then you’d be so rich you wouldn’t care anyway. I’ll show you where to put your money. But you won’t get busted ‘cause even with the pounds I move I’m still not big enough for the Feds! I’m smart that way.”
Again Jules leaned back on his stool and took a dramatic sip of his whiskey and water. Like a born-again preacher he’d worked himself up, with beads of sweat visible near his temples as he rocked in his seat. To my amazement he still seemed to expect some kind of acknowledgment or even acceptance on my end. Despite all my mannerisms and gestures to suggest the contrary the guy had a zombie’s empathy.
We locked eyes.
“So what d’ya think Lodo? You wanna get rich?”
“..It’s a lot to think about Jules.”
We continued to lock eyes for several awkward seconds, ‘til Jules suddenly and unexpectedly dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
“...Ah! I should’ve known. Look at you. You don’t need it like I do.”
Jules let me off the hook with that last comment so I should have been relieved; yet it was said with such condescension and seeming disappointment I almost felt compelled to defend myself. We’d been together five days now, and suddenly all the fatigue brought on by Jules’ manic energy hit me at that moment. It was a force to contend with--tangibly felt, like the sour whiskey in my belly.
And of course now I saw what he’d been after. Or assumed I did. The fight. The dinners. The show. The compact discs. All business expenses for Jules I suppose. Marketing. If he were in another line of work he’d have kept the receipts.
“...Its a lot to think about Jules.”
With little else to say, we both looked for Buttons at the same time; but she was still laughing it up with the guys playing darts near the bathroom.
So we sat silently for awhile.
Jules removed his fedora and gently placed it on the bar. He wiped the sweat off his brow and ran his hand through his thin, grey hair. For the first time since the day we met I was struck by how old he was. He probably had 20 years on Buttons and me, yet he drank me under the table every night and was first one up in the morning. I never saw him sleep. The guy was animated. Or possessed. He’d broken almost every bone in his body, but was still infused with that wild spirit the bartender mentioned.
Only now, on this rare occasion where he sat quiet and alone--spent of ideas, he struck me as possibly tired. He didn’t approach Buttons, yet I could see that intermissions or alone time were not his friend. He was too restless for that. He had to keep moving. Engage. Go mano v. mano with someone, that’s what excited him. But with no outward thrust, his energies turned inward, where they bounced round the rubber-walled rooms of his mind.
I looked at my cellphone for the time.
“Hey Jules, I’m gonna step outside for a second.”
He acknowledged me silently, with a lift of his hand.
Outside I’d planned to smoke a one-hit. Or two, but now it was close to rush hour and I had to deal with the hundreds of commuters en route to Herald Square. Still, I needed the air since we’d been in the bar for hours, so I took a few deep breaths as I watched the skirts pass. Listened as ghetto chicks screamed into their cellphones and felt the sidewalk shake as the subway cars passed below. There were car horns. The hissing air brakes of a city bus. Hotel doormen blew metal whistles at passing taxi’s. I stood out there awhile.
By the time I went back inside the place had filled up. Patrons stood packed along the length of the bar, and my old spot next to Jules was now taken by a pair of big construction workers. Union guys, with the hard hat and local # printed on their hoodies. I could have weaseled my way in; but instead I kept a disinterested, investigator’s distance. But I could hear Jules.
“Man that Margarito is one tough fucking Mexican!”
“Yeah, I know he’s tough as hell,” responded one of the construction guys. “But I heard Cotto whipped his ass.”
“Brother, Cotto never even hurt Margarito! Cotto’s got nothing (here Jules poked the construction guy lightly in the chest with his index finger). "If Margarito got two more rounds he'd have won.”
Maybe reader. But if Jules had any EQ at all he'd have picked up on the not so subtle gesture the construction worker made when he’d been touched. The drop of his eyes to the spot on his vest. The look back at Jules. The guy may have been Puerto Rican himself. Or black. Could have been about a half-dozen ethnicities really; but Jules didn’t care. For him it was nothing but green lights. Luckily the worker let it go.
“Yeah, I know those Mexicans are tough,” he said as he exchanged a tacit look with his fellow co-worker.
“Mexicans and Filipino’s” the other worker said, “they’re toughest pound for pound. But they ain’t real big!”
All agreed on that deep point and emphasized it with a hit from their drinks.
“...Yeah, now you see,” Jules chimed in. “Now we’re really talking. I appreciate this brothers." (here Jules jabbed with his index finger again) “Like last nigh...”
“Hey, watch that finger buddy,” one of the workers said.
“What?” Jules asked. “Yeah, alright. Anyway, I like how we’re really talking here. Now listen, let me ask you guys, as long as were on this subject. I want your opinion on something. Last night we went to this concert--Dave Douglas, you know who that is?”
Of course they didn’t.
“Well, we go to this concert and I wind up sitting next to this real corporate bitch and her..”
Oh my god Jules, you’ve gotta be kidding me.
“...husband and we get to talking about these debates on TV, right? One thing leads to the next and somehow we get on Obama. Now I don’t know how you feel ‘bout this guy. I mean, seems like he’s got a stick up his ass and all, but at the same time he certainly got handed a pile of shit from old silver sp...”
If there was a time for me to intervene, this was it. Not only was Jules moving at breakneck pace down a possibly very slippery slope, but he’d already begun to fling that index finger around again. Wouldn’t be long now, one way or another. I watched things play out with a sort of fascination as I considered what obligations I may have to this wild brother of mine.
And the answer wasn't exactly immediate.
* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images and are included simply to enhance the story. No relation to the writer. Copyrights may exist.
Not exactly on point, but not so far off either (particularly with oil over $100 a barrel):
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