Monthly Archives: August 2011

I Can’t Write Left Handed

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Here I go again, back at the cigar shack, standing behind the counter next to Thomas. It’s a Thursday night I believe. It’s another slow day, some sales are good, some sales aren’t. Some are a waste of time and others are just tire kickers.

Nearby the slutty women’s store is having an event and loud club music is playing. Right now We Will Rock You by Queen is on, supposedly mixed by an in house DJ but I can’t tell. Fuck Me pumps seem to be the footwear of choice for those shoppers and Calvin, Bradley and Thomas like watching the women walking in and out.

Actually not so much for Calvin since he’s a married and loyal man, plus his wife would probably kick his ass. Calvin & Bradley have left for the day leaving Thomas and myself.

Did not sleep as well as I would have liked last night. And it was odd, usually when I am trying to sleep, scenes from my past come to the surface and haunt me between the click of the light and the start of the dream, generally horrifying me and making me feel guilty. Shit from 35 years ago, why did I do that?

Last night was different. It seemed like I was watching coming attractions which are fun to watch most of the time, but last night it seemed there was no feature presentation, just previews. After a half hour I had to get out of bed and get some melatonin in me. Finally I was able to sleep only an hour and a half after I went to bed.

And after all that, the day to day dragged in parts. Good team to work with and I have to admit it was tempting when I saw a customer sniffing illicit powders away from the eye of the camera. No I did not partake, that is certainly not my scene anymore. No fun, and not worth the after effects which are ill advised. I’ll pass and shred the rain check thank you.

35 minutes left here, Thomas is closing freeing me up to leave a little after 9:00 which is nice. Tomorrow I do the same for him. One hand washes the other, only his hands can be quite filthy at best.

Moonlight Mile by the Rolling Stones plays on here and it’s one of my favorite Stones tracks. And speaking of tracks I have to get started on Annemarie’s present asap. Her birthday is Monday.

Now I am back home, just had a crappy slice of pizza which turned out to be the right thing to do since there was nothing to eat at home. Bill is already ni bed and asleep. He had a doctor’s appointment since he sliced open his hand a week ago during rehearsal and though it seems to have healed somewhat he has been having difficulty typing as well as playing the keyboards. Damaged tendon is what has been said, ultrasound and x-rays were performed, results should be coming.

One more day, then off Saturday which I hope will be nice.

I Can’t Wake Up

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Another day, another doofus again. I am the doofus, the day is the same yet somehow different. I am cigar shack bound, yesterday flew by- today not so much. Still somehow I did better than I expected sales wise. I was dragging ass, not through anything of my own doing, circumstances dictated how things went.

I had a customer and was walking into the humidor when it turned out to be an old customer of Calvin’s so that meant the customer went with him. I was fine with that, content to do half of what I did yesterday. But things being what they are, and leaving just Jerry Vale and myself in the shack, somehow I caught up on things. A flurry of customers helped as well as an out of state shipment.

Just had a nice chat with my favorite customer, (or one of them (sorry my friend my friend- you’re still top ranking) Jimmy Seltzer who said that I was a good writer which made me blush and flustered. Still a good thing to hear. As I was writing about my friend my friend, my friend came in, back from Southern California. Not a good trip, close relative passed away.

Good to see him, and though he and his close relative weren’t THAT close, I still offered my condolences. It can’t be easy even if there is distance between 2 people.

Now I am home again, Bill is at Le Poisson Rouge in Destinations tonight. That means he won’t be getting home until late, and then he has to wake up and go to work again. He’s done it before so we know it can be done, but sometimes he does it so often, perhaps too often that he has a physical breakdown and winds up crashing and having to spend a day or two in bed.

The other night as we were driving home, we drove past one of Hyman Gross’ haunts and I mentioned to Bill that I missed Hyman. Bill agreed and said he did too. Tonight as I waited at the gate at the bus terminal I found myself missing him. And now with Patrick Morrissey possibly dead as well, well I suppose that this is how the future will be.

Remember so & so? Well they’re dead. And wakes become social events. I wrote the other night how seeing a flamboyant bird like Patrick walking down Washington Street unmolested made me decide that Hoboken was the place for me.

About a year after that, I was a living on the floor above Patrick and his then boyfriend Alphonso Portillo. I had a car at the time and in early 1985 or 1986 I was driving home on a winter evening and slid on black ice through a stop, hitting a car driving up Adams Street. I hit my head, and my car conked out.

I restarted the car and a huge flame shot out from under the hood. I got out of the car and ran to the fire station a block away. It was all within sight of my apartment building, two blocks away. The firemen put out the fire and of course the police arrived on the scene.

My paper work was a mess. My license, my registration and my insurance had three different addresses on each one. The police officer started giving me a hard time until Patrick showed up. Patrick told the officer to knock it off, to leave me alone.

The cop turned and said, ‘He’s a friend of yours Patty?’ And Patrick said I was. The cop backed off and Patrick walked me home after my car (my last car) was towed away to the junk heap. Patrick invited me down for dinner, meat loaf with a cream cheese filling (the only time I ever had that) as well as possibly the first time I had white wine. It was certainly a bonding experience.

Patrick and I had further adventures and escapades which I will write about some other time. If the news is the worst about Patrick, I certainly hope he is at peace. If not, I hope to see him again. I figure if someone living in Peru can read about Hyman Gross on this here blog, then someone in this world might be reading about Patrick Morrissey.