Yesterday was indeed a marathon drink-fest for me, and apparently many others, gauging from the turnout at Blackthorn's in Rockville Centre and at 1762 . I made it over to BT's before the 1 o'clock kickoff of the Jets-Giants game. I was accompanied by two former co-workers, partners actually. I worked with Ike and Ryan back in the mid-1990's through the early part of this century. We worked plainclothes together, protecting the good people of the Rockaways, well, from the bad people of the Rockaways. Admittedly, at times it was hard to tell them apart. We spent many tours together as part of an anticrime team, kicking ass on occasion, but mostly just taking names. These are guys that I have real history with, guys that I have trusted my life with, and vice versa.
We stayed at BT's for the entire game and some of the next, chatting it up about past, present, and futures. Ike is becoming a father in a few months, his wife six months pregnant with their first child. Ryan, a dad twice over already, groused on about PD protocols and procedures. He does a lot of grousing. Seems he is not happy unless he's miserable these days. But we love him anyway, 'cause he has a good heart, most of the time.
Midway through the game we decided to get a change of venue. I reluctantly asked them if they wanted to head over to 1762. Reluctantly I say, because of their current employer, and the fact that drug use ranges from sporadic to pervasive amongst some of the 1762'ers.
When we got there I was thrilled to see a good sized, sports loving crowd, gathering to watch the Yankees. Candy and Lily were outside on this unusually warm October night. Shelley was pouring, and many regulars were drinking. I warmly greeted my co-conspirator, who I haven't seen in a while, despite our continuous email contact.
I made some intros of my friends of my past with the friends of my present. I was feeling pretty good by now, but not drunk. Ryan and Ike were pretty good as well. In theory, the night could have been pure magic from this point on. In reality, it was a disaster. Well, maybe not a disaster like the Titanic, but certainly uncomfortable.
Ryan, who as I mentioned earlier, has earned the nickname of grumpy in our circle. He just is. While it has traditionally been at tolerable levels, his flair for being rude at inappropriate moments reached a previously unattainable pinnacle last night when he said some very off color things to one of my 1762 friends. There was no justification for it. I am not going to go into details, since I don't want to embarrass or single out the person who was privy to his comment.
After making the statement that he did, I took Ryan aside and chastised him for his behavior. I told him that he certainly embarrassed me and probably embarrassed another through his demeanor and statements. I could see in his countenance he knew I was right. He issued a barrage of Michael Vick apologies, of which I am no fan. Thankfully, my friends of old departed soon thereafter. I apologized to those affected by the behavior. And if I missed anybody, I'll say it again here. Sorry for the rude behavior. If I even suspected that there would have been behavior exhibited by my friends that was anything less than that of gentlemen, last night would not have happened.
10.08.2007
A Long Sunday
9.27.2007
El Vaquero
As soon as he "John Wayne" sauntered into 1762, I could see a rather large chip on his shoulder. He looked around at everyone, sneered, and took a seat at the vacant end of the bar, closest to the front door. He ordered a "Heiney-Keen" from Shelley, and raised his voice unnecessarily as he did so. Shelley served him his cerveza, and came back down to the "regular's" end of the bar. A moment or two later he starts La-La-La'ing something that I could not understand. Obviously he wants attention. Maybe his momma took him off the teat too young. Shelley goes down there, assuages whatever it was that put a hair in the caboose of El Vaquero.
A few minutes later, El Vaquero starts to raise his voice again, looks around the bar to make sure he is getting the attention he so craves. We all looked at him with that blank stare that is intended to let you know what we really think of you.
Obviously there was a language barrier here. Ellie happened to be in the bar with Hector that night, so we had no shortage of Spanish speaking translators. Ellie offered to translate for the misplaced cowpoke, and this seemed to calm him for uno momento.
When I look back down his way, he is holding Shelley's hand. Kinda tight. Not letting go. She's playing it cool. Finally, El Vaquero lets go. Again, he starts mouthing off again, this time to Ellie. I see Hector, who is shooting pool, look over and patiently process what is going on, and what may need to be done. Jon goes over, tries to talk to the guy, gives him a smoke, and genuinely tries to disarm a heated situation. Hector goes over to El Vaquero next and lets him know that if he continues to be loud and disrespectful with Ellie, that he will have a problem at 1762.
El Vaquero had all of us a little "raised up", as we could not predict what the intentions of this patron might be. Discreetly, I went to the back door and retrieved a fire extinguisher that was mounted on the wall. Nice weight to it. Not so heavy that it was unwieldy, but heavy enough to knock a rude El Vaquero out.
El Vaquero starts to reach out and grab for Jon, who's back is turned at this point. I raise the extinguisher, thoughts of Arnold Schwarzenegger saying "I extinguished him" running through my mind, and begin to lunge forward at the back of El Vaquero's cranium. In a split second I hear him say to Jon, "Cigaretto". Lock up the Brakes! I snatched back on the fire extinguisher less than a foot from my intended target. He was asking Jon for another cigarette! I whisked around, extinguisher at my side thinking, "Man, that was close".
El Vaquero smoked that cigaretto, had one more Heineken and left, not knowing how close he had come to being "extinguished". But I think he got the message. Haven't seen him back since.
