But at a price
We had our day off, so today is our day back on, so we say the hell with it and go to Andrew’s in Podil – a place we haven’t been to in a long, long time – and we’re having some drinks.
There are reasons why we haven’t been to Andrew’s, an Irish-styled pub, mostly due to me, as I’d gotten sick of that stupid open-mouthed smugness of Andrew himself, plus those flamingo-colored pants he wears no matter what the season – winter, spring, summer; you name it.
It’s like every time we’d go in there, this Andrew’d come into the hall and look at us, as though not looking, his head cocked up at a tilt for some reason, the mouth stupidly open, and with a look in his eyes like A) he doesn’t recognize us and B) he’s doing us some kind of favor.
So I told Dickerson a long time ago, fuck it, I’m not going in there anymore, otherwise I’ll clobber the guy. And of course it makes all kinds of, like, contrary sense that Dickerson is all for the guy. Or maybe he’s not all for the guy but every time I don’t like somebody, thinking Dickerson’d agree with me, he for some reason can’t help but say something like, ‘Aw, he’s all right…’ Taking this giving someone the benefit of the doubt attitude.
So here we are again. It’s been a while – a long while. And that fucking Andrew’s doing it again. There he is, wearing those flamingo pants. Right now he’s just come in. He’s looking at us… and not looking at us at the same time. The guy’s fucking infuriating. We haven’t been here for months, no, a couple of years now, and it’s not like he’s happy to see us, but he’s doing it a-fucking-gain. A) He doesn’t recognize us. B) He’s doing us some kind of fucking favor.
But this time I just decide to ignore the asshole.
But with Dickerson, things don’t work that way. In other words, he thinks this Andrew guy’s not bothering me, so he suddenly takes a stand against him.
“That guy’s some kind of fucking asshole,” he says.
I smile wryly into my drink. Fucking finally.
“Look at the way he’s looking at us, Step.”
“Wha-da-ya mean?”
“Wha-da-ya mean wha-da-I mean? Look at the guy. He’s some kind of fucking asshole. We come in here, we bring him our business, and he comes in here not like he’s happy to see us or anything…”
“Uh-huh…”
“But, fuckin’, fuckin’… like, I don’t know, like… he doesn’t recognize us and he’s doing us some kind of favor…”
“Really? Yeah, maybe you got a point, Dickerson. Maybe there’s something in what you just said.”
“The fucking asshole. I’m gonna lay that fucking prick out.”
“Look, just have your drink.”
“I’m gonna fucking –”
“What about what Mack said?”
“What, of all the things that Mack’s said, are you referring to?”
“About checking out, I don’t know what it is – some heeb place…”
There’s a silence. Dickerson’s thinking. He looks annoyed. A moment for me to enjoy my drink. Johnnie Walker. Red. Black, Double Black – more expensive, and even more expensive, but they’re just not as good. Most times it pays to keep things simple. The simpler, the better. Dickerson says:
“You mean the Hasidic Strip Bar?”
“The very same.”
“It’s kitty corner from here.”
“Is it really? Don’t know the first thing about it. I hear the girls in there dance around wearing sheets with holes in them. Maybe we should do like Mack says and check the place out.”
“I’d rather be caught by my Aunt Martha beating it to a picture of Mrs. Claus.”
“Mrs. who?”
“Mrs. – never mind. Mack threw a bunch of notes at us that Smith took the other night when he staked out the joint. You got ‘em? Any idea what they say?”
“Nah. Ferret goes in. He’s with someone. Exactly two hours later, he leaves. Notes say he got the boot. His unidentified companion’s outta there too.”
“Yeah. Thing is, how does Smith know this? I mean, from what I read, you can’t tell if he’s inside the place or out. First it sounds like he’s keeping an eye on it outside. Next thing you know, it’s like he’s been inside all along and after The Ferret gets the bum’s rush, leaves through some back way.”
“I don’t know, Dickerson – you wrote the story.”
“Doesn’t matter. You think it’s easy watching someone watch a place and write a story about it at the same time.”
“No – I know what you mean. I’ve done it plenty of times myself.”
“My point exactly, Step. So it’s not that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Smith’s some kind of arrogant prig, that’s what it is.”
Dickerson doesn’t go around slagging off someone we know as well as we do Smith behind their back, so it’s pretty serious. Dickerson drains his glass and daggers his eyes around the hall in search of a skirt for another drink.
Instead, a pair of flamingo pants strides in and Andrew’s head is attached to the top of them. And again this Andrew starts doing the same thing.
“What is it with that guy? I’m gonna knock his fucking block off.”
I’m turned halfway around and see Andrew persisting in projecting that smug open-mouthed look of his – like he doesn’t recognize us and he’s doing us a favor – projecting it over our heads and past us, even though the next thing behind us is a wall. The way we’re sitting, Dickerson’s looking right at him.
“I’m gonna, I’m gonna fucking –”
“Anyway, Dirk, maybe we should go in there – you know, just for the hell of it.”
“Where’s that… where… Shit, I can’t believe that fucking guy… I’m gonna take his fuckin’ head and fuckin’ –”
“You know, the Hasidic Strip Bar – maybe we should go in there anyway, whether Mack wants us to or not.”
Wh-why? I mean, what for, what the fuck for, I swear, I’m gonna take his fuckin’ ass and –”
“I mean, I hear if you pony up the cabbage you can take one of those Kosher Girls in the back and tie her up.”
“Tie her up?”
“Yeah. I hear they got all the supplies you need. So you take her in the back, tie her up and slap a swath of tape over her mouth, or you could stuff her mouth first, like with a rag or a pair of underwear, and then slap the tape –”
“Tape her mouth?! Wha… wha… Look at that fucking prick, Jack, the way he’s looking at us! The way he’s… I’m gonna fucking –”
“Oh, yeah, Dirk, they love that shit! You can’t imagine how much it turns them on – having their mouths taped shut. They want to know that you think they’re beautiful. They want to know that their bodies alone drive you to such a frenzy of desire for them that you want to tie them up and slap their mouths shut with tape. It’s amazing how their imaginations run wild. I mean, after you get that tape across their mouths, Dirk, you barely have to do anything to get them to –”
I see none of it, but the noises around the corner of the wall outside our drinking hall are enough that I can make, I think, a reasonably accurate guess as to what Dickerson has just done, and continues to do to Andrew.
As I watch flamingo pants fly several feet above the floor from behind the wall back into the drinking hall and the blurry head that precedes the pants smash into the bar, I receive a call from Mack, who tells me he has just put John Smith in charge of our sorry dumbbell loser asses.
Filed by Jack Step, CTFSA, April 18, 2016