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.
