"Coffee and Cigarettes" ~with Jim and Tom

To Serve and Protect

He's driving alone, very late at night, and he's totally shit faced.

Bombed.

Hours and hours of drinking were followed by a critical decision. The question he faced,...."Am I too drunk to drive?"

He decided he could make the run. What the fuck, it isn't that far. And so he loaded his weapon.

Now he's driving alone, and the white lines are wiggling back and forth, blurred by the booze. His efforts to stay focused and in the center of his lane bring his vision from a thousand yard stare to a 50 foot fixation. He keeps it pegged at 55. He makes promises to God. Never again, if you get me home just one more time.

He glances to his right, and sees the ballpark. Major leaguers play over there. The Big Time. His concentration wavers for just a moment as he thinks of the young men who have graced that field over the years. The grand slams.The no-hitters. Oh the life of the major league baseball player, he thinks.

And then it happens.

There is no time to react. No time to swerve. A car in his path. A red Dodge. He's on top of them before he knows it, and the impact is horrific. The explosion of tangled metal and body parts shakes the pavement. The inertia of a moment ago gives way to deadly rest, and a sick hissing noise fills the air. The steam jets from under the hood of his mangled Lexus SUV, but he can't see it because the airbag has deployed, saving him from a ride through space, saving his life.

He staggers from his vehicle, and sees the full extent of the carnage. He has obliterated the other vehicle to the point of being unrecognizable.

And then the fire starts. Both cars burst into flames.

He briefly considers a heroic act, and then decides against being the hero. A passerby, Marcus Copeland, tries in vain to pull the victims from their crematorium, but the heat is too great. The drunken survivor panics, and decides to take a walk. It seems like a run, but it's a zigzagging stumble.

He's picked up within blocks of the crime. He's obviously drunk, but the cops do the job they were hired to do. Field sobriety tests indicate a fucked up person, and the breathalyzer confirms the fact with a blinking .24.

.24

.24

Three times the legal limit.

But not dead.

Dead, are 23 year old Andrew Cazares of Summit, and 21 year old Fausto Manzera of Chicago. They were in sight of Comiskey Park, southbound on the Dan Ryan at 18th Street, at 4 o'clock this morning, when their car broke down.

Alive, and charged with two counts of aggravated DUI, one count of leaving the scene, and two counts of reckless homicide, is 41 year old Joseph Frugoli of Bridgeport.

And Joseph Frugoli, the drunk who rear ended the disabled vehicle, the coward who walked away from his victims, leaving them trapped and condemned to die, the killer who blew a .24, was an off duty Chicago police detective when he decided he wasn't too drunk to drive.

Royko at The Goat

With all the talking and writing I do about Mike Royko, one of my real heroes, it occurred to me that some people may not be familiar with the guy. If you want a neat little insight into Mike, and the way he loved this city.....



I clipped that from an article in today's Sun-Times, a great piece of work by Roger Ebert. I'm sure Roger's health issues have him reflecting on his years here, and the characters who he came to know, but I think Roger may also be reading the writing on the wall vis a vis newspapers in general.

The Sun-Times has joined the Trib in Chapter 11 bankruptcy, the New York Times is taking a second mortgage on their building to stay afloat, The Boston Globe is in trouble, and other old newspapers are closing up shop for good.

The bad economy and the internet are conspiring against newspaper publishers, and it may not be long before the electronic media, the internet and cable "news", become not only the primary sources of information but the only sources. The days of guys like Royko and Ebert, of Dear Abbey and Kup may be coming to an end for good.

Animals

Up at 5 AM and out the door by 5:30. Ken P picked me up in his yellow Gremlin, named Ozzy, the fancy one with the luggage rack. Two others, Mark and Carl, were already in the car. Within blocks we had several joints burning at the same time, and by the time Ozzy hit the Eisenhower, we were entirely loaded.

Traffic is normally light on the inbound Ike at 5:45 on a Sunday morning, June 19, and that day was typical. Everybody out on the road at that hour was either delivering bread, delivering newpapers, or driving downtown for a day at the beach.

We on the other hand, were going to a Pink Floyd concert.

Parked outside Soldier Field by 6, and strolled up to the west side entrance expecting to see a smattering of early arrivals but not many, the concert didn't start until 8:30 PM. I'd guess that there were maybe 8-10,000 people there already. It was ridiculous. A mob scene at 6AM. Chicago Police barricades (construction horses painted blue) were used to keep the line confined to the sidewalk circling the stadium and people were leaning against the wall, laying on blankets on the sidewalk, sitting on the barricades smoking joints.

We had a cooler with several goodies inside, including 2 fifths of JD Old #7, and a case of Old Style. Being 17 at the time, we were more worried about the cops cracking us for underage drinking than we were about the 2 ounces of pot. Everybody had pot, and had brought it. Ken had also picked up a quarter ounce of Lebanese blond hashish , two grams apiece of that, which we planned on eating and smoking over the course of the day.

Jack, Old Style, reefer, hash, rolling papers, 8 inch mini-bong and 2 Frisbees. That's what was in our cooler.

That's right, we were completely fucking insane.

We stood near the very front of the line and surveyed the situation. Ken pulled out one bottle of Jack, cracked the seal, and passed it around. A very nice young man with a dago-T, baggy grays, and hair down to his ass called from behind the barricade asking for a pull on Jack. We explained that we were out here on the bad side of the blue horses, and he was on the good side, no more than 200 people from the front of the 1/4 mile line. It would be very difficult for us to pass the bottle all the way over there, but if we were somehow on the same side of the blue horses.....

Dude smiled, pulled one of the barricades aside, and invited the 4 of us to essentially cut to the front of a 10,000 person line. The initial outrage expressed by our new queue friends, the people immediately behind us who'd been there for a day, was quickly quelled by the second bottle of Jack. These people actually showed up a day in advance for a concert, but had forgotten to bring the proper supplies. Sure they had food and snacks and stuff, but not the proper liquids.

We were instantly popular, which is a good thing if you're going to spend 4 hours waiting in a line with people you just cut, and the guy in the dago-T and baggies introduced himself as Murray. Turns out Murray had come to the Pink Floyd concert alone, and had camped out overnight to be in front.

General Admission seating for a crowd that was estimated to be between 65-75,000 people.

Old Soldier Field held about 55,000 in the stands, and they figured to fit another 10-20,000 on the field itself. Murray explained that the stage was in the north end zone, and that as soon as they opened the doors at 10AM we should run like hell out onto the field, and make a bee-line for the area directly in front of the stage. No hesitation, said Murray. The gates on the opposite side of the stadium were going to allow another 10,000 people to come pouring in at 10, and the hard core Floyd fans had the General Admission thing down to a science. Blankets encircled by coolers marked off their Soldier Field homestead, and once the lines were demarcated, and the crowd filled in the spaces between plots, they could roam around the stadium and see the sights. But first, stake the claim close to the stage.

For the next 4 hours, we talked to Murray about Pink Floyd while we drank Jack Daniels and smoked joints the size of petite coronas wrapped with pink strawberry flavored rolling papers. The west side of Soldier Field was the better side to be on that morning. As the June sun started heating things up, we were in the shade of the building, but you could tell it was going to be a hot motherfucker. By the time the doors were set to open, there was a hum in the crowd. Caged animals waiting to dash through a hot, dank, dark, 150 foot tunnel and emerge into daylight like Maximus at the Colosseum. Only drunk and stoned, and ...without the lions and swords.

They had initially planned to open the doors at 7PM, but reconsidered. They hadn't expected the huge AM turnout. Apparently they wanted all of the animals inside the cage as soon as possible.

Murray picked up his blanket, folded it up, and shook hands with us. Maybe we'll see you inside Murray. Happy hunting. As he turned to face the front of the line, Ken picked up the cooler and tossed it on his shoulder, preparing for the mad dash. At exactly 10AM, the double doors flew open, and we all pressed towards the narrow tunnel. The funnel effect of a 10 foot wide line of humans trying to squeeze into a 6 foot wide doorway was instantaneous, and by the time I was inside it was all I could do to keep my feet under me.

We were jammed into that tunnel and the 200 or so people in front of me were moving more slowly than the 10,000 people behind me. The crush from behind was terrifying, and I vividly recall the sensation of being carried along by the wave of humans, with my feet barely scraping the floor for several paces at a time. I wasn't walking, I was being propelled. It occurred to me that if someone in front of me falls down, we are in for some very serious trouble. A human stampede.

When we broke out of the dark tunnel and into the glare of the sun, we all ran as fast as we could, although Ken lagged under the weight of an ice-filled cooler. We wound up by the left hash-mark around the 15 yard line. 45 feet from the front of a stage that was elevated about 15 feet above the stadium floor.

We sat on the unprotected Astro-turf, as Steve Dahl's Disco Demolition at old Comiskey was 2 years away, and the Park District was therefore unaware of the damage that can be done to a playing surface by insane crowds of drunken stoners.

For those not old enough, or those who don't remember, Dahl invited his radio listeners, an anti-Disco army, to show up for a Sox game and watch as he detonated a charge destroying thousands of Disco records in center field between games of a Twi-Night Doubleheader against the Tigers in July of 1979. The Sox normally drew about 10,000 fans for night games back then, but Dahl's army, "The Insane Coho Lips" had the old barn packed to capacity, 55,000, with tens of thousands of more people outside partying. Absolute mayhem.

The hook was that you showed up with a disco record, and in exchange for the Donna Summer vinyl, you got $2 off on your ticket. The bin in center field was huge, and it was filled with thousands of LPs. When the time came for Dahl to set off the explosives, the place was completely out of control. Teenage stoners, drunk and amped with adrenaline. Dahl apparently over-did it with the explosives. Picture Butch Cassidy standing outside the box car. That's the kind of explosion Dahl set off.

What resulted has entered Chicago lore. Thousands of Insane Coho Lips charged onto the field, some jumped from the upper deck, people threw empty beer kegs from the 2nd level down onto the field, fires were started ...one on the pitcher's mound....huge chunks of sod were torn up....the batting cage was tipped over....the tarp was unrolled. At some point, the police showed up in riot gear and began herding the partiers off the field while a thin layer of gray smoke hung over the entire stadium, the result of the explosion and the fires started by the Cohos. Once the smoke cleared, literally, the playing surface at Comiskey Park looked like the lunar landscape.

The field was declared unplayable, and for the only time in Major League Baseball history a team (my White Sox) forfeited the second game of a DH due to damage caused by fans.

But that hadn't happened yet in June of 1977, so we were allowed to bake like lobsters in the sun on the same turf that Walter Payton had run 6 months previous, and would run on again, 6 months later.

Around 2 in the afternoon, Floyd's crew began doing a sound check. The enormous speakers on stage were dwarfed by the monolithic stacks of them strategically mounted around the upper perimeter of the stadium. In 6 different spots, pointing slightly downward to direct the decibels, they'd placed sets of the biggest speakers I've ever seen. If the stage was at 12 noon, the speaker banks peering down at us were at 2,4,6,8,10, and 12.(behind the stage for the people with those seats.)

The first clue I had to the sonic assault I was in for came with a simple blast of white noise. Warming up the speakers, Sound Guy just shot some amps at us.

And then, I heard dogs barking down at me. Arf Arf Arf Arf!!! Then Soundie ran the effect around the stadium, taking one bank of speakers at a time to bark at me. The effect was amazing. An enormous dog running around the stadium barking. The place went nuts, and it was only a sound check.

Next came the pig.

Oink....oink.....oink.......at sound levels not safe for the human ear. Then the pig ran around the perimeter of Soldier Field oinking....and the place went nuts again.

And then the sheep.

Maaaaaaa.....maaaaaaaa......the sheep orbited above us.

The sensation was disturbing, and the drugs and alcohol didn't help.

Just before the concert began, I looked at Mark, Carl, and Ken and asked them "Were you guys a little scared coming in here today? In the tunnel?"

Carl looked me square in the eye and said..."I was just thinking the exact same thing. That was fuckin' dangerous man. Like a bunch of sheep." It wasn't until December of '79, at a Who concert in Cincinnati, when 11 people died in a similar crush that the problem of general admission seating was finally addressed. I'll never forget hearing about those 11 lives lost, and flashing back to the panic I felt at Soldier Field in the spring of 1977.

Pink Floyd's Animals concert was, by a mile, the best show I've ever seen, and I've been terrified of large crowds ever since.

Doors

I've written about this job before, and a mention of it to Rundeep recently made me think of it again.

Gotta be 5 years ago or so, I got a phone call from a guy named Adam. Seems prudent to not mention his last name. Adam was an old customer whose house I'd worked on when I was in my 20s, back when I actually did this stuff rather than paying people to do this stuff.

Adam's house back then, late 70s-early80s-ish, was located in one of the most expensive suburbs of Chicago, Winnetka. North Shore. I seem to recall it's also one of the most affluent suburbs in the US. Everything in Winnetka costs a million bucks. A 3 bedroom ranch costs a million bucks up there.

Anyway, Adam was gone for 20 years, but I remembered him, because I remembered his fancy house on Lake Michigan. I'd installed French storm doors, double doors, on his bedroom balconies overlooking the lake. (yes balconies, plural)

Adam called to tell me he needs doors again. More doors.

"I thought we did your doors already Adam."

"You did Mike, but we've moved."

"I love when you folks move. More work for me! Where'd you move to Adam?"

"Outer Drive and Irving Park."

"Downtown? Oh boy, that's trouble Adam."

"Why?"

"Parking, traffic, the Lincoln Park Pirates, the alderman, permits, gotta make two trips, one to measure, one to install....oh, it is a major project doing anything downtown Adam."

"I'll take care of all that. I'll have a parking spot for you, the Pirates won't tow you, don't worry about the permits."

"What floor are you on?"

"The 17th."

"Freight elevator?"

"Yep. It's all yours."

"How many doors?"

"Nine...oh and we don't need glass, just screens. The wind would pull the doors off if they had glass in them."

"Nine?"

"Yeah, there's three sets of double doors on two balconies, a single off of the kitchen balcony, and two singles out by the BBQ balcony."

"Wow."

"Oh,....and the singles by the BBQ....they aren't square on top. They aren't round either, they're just kind of curved."

"That's called a segment top. That's totally custom Adam. I have to bring big pieces of cardboard and make templates for those. Then I UPS the cardboard templates to the door manufacturer, and they hand build your doors. Ridiculously expensive, just so ya know. Oh and they take like 12 weeks to get."

"No problem,....When can you measure the job so we can get started?"

"Tomorrow. 10:30AM."

"The doorman will be expecting you. Thanks Mike."

"Oh no, thank you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So I went to Adam's building, and sure enough the doorman was expecting me. One parking spot by the driveway, actually on the front lawn of the building, where delivery trucks and mail trucks sit idling, only today it was mine!!

"Hi I'm here to measure Adam's doors. He told me he's on the 17th floor, but I forgot to ask him which unit."

"It is the 17th floor sir. The elevator's right there, just push the top button."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



So that's Adam's building in the middle there, and those balconies that he was talking about are those set-backs at the top of the building. The one in the picture is facing south towards the Loop. that's the BBQ balcony, ....there's the exact same balcony facing north on the other side, and another facing west in the back of the building.

The entire upper floor, plus the part that sticks up above that, is his house. The big window at the crown of the building is at the foot of his bed, looking out at Lake Michigan.

Not a bad view.

Anyway, I got to the penthouse, and sure enough he had segment top doors, 2 of them on his "BBQ Balcony." (That's the balcony visible in the picture facing south. )


So I got out my cardboard, and made my templates. Very careful on this one, because you don't want to buy segment tops twice. Measure once, cut twice I always say....or something like that.

And while I was up there with my camera, I figured I'd take a few extra pictures from the job for my company website.


That's the view looking north up the Outer Drive. Chicago Muni golf course and Montrose Harbor.

Not a bad view.




That's looking west. In between the nighboring building and the building in the distance, you can just make out Wrigley Field. Adam's house is one of the houses you see in the background when looking out from home plate at Wrigley.


About 3 months later, we went back and installed Adam's screen doors. Without a doubt the most expensive job, proportionally speaking, that I've ever done. I think his doors were something like $7000, and they're just screens. Really friggin' custom screens, professionally installed on the 17th floor, but still.....7 Gs for 9 screen doors.





Professionally built and installed segment tops. Some of us know what we're doing.

I went back to take my "after" pictures, and bumped into a guy on the elevator who told me Adam was completely gutting the entire place, and the doors were the first thing on the list. He said, ..."They bought the place for $2.1 million, and now they're going to spend another million fixing it up. Unreal! These people must be made of money."

Curiosity piqued, I did some research 5 years ago on my old customer Adam. Well I'll be damned. Chief financial officer for Chicago's largest hedge fund, which controls over $40billion in assets.

I thought of Adam again recently, when Vanity Fair did a fantastic piece on hedge funds. Turns out Adam's fund has lost 55% of its peak value.

Ouch!

And what's worse than that, is that Adam's fund isn't doing as badly as some others. I think the other shoe is about to drop folks. When the hedge fund numbers start coming in from the first quarter of 2009, people are going to freak out all over again. Hope I'm wrong.

Freddie

Within 20 feet of Mikey the Cardinals fan's newsstand is The Italian Deli. It goes by another name, but that's what I'll call it here.

The Deli is owned and operated by friends of mine, Vito and Maria. They're Italian.

About 10 years ago this beautiful blond, Maria, pulls into my shop and tells me she needs a new front door. Says she and her husband have spent about $12,000 on front doors in the last 10 years.

I'm not kidding. 12 grand on doors. So I ask Maria the obvious question....."Do you replace the front door every year because you like changing doors?"

"No!" she says " They keep falling apart! We buy these $2500 doors with these big fancy leaded glass windows in them, and within two years the damn things fall out and can't be fixed!"

"Fall out? The doors?"

"No. The fancy glass. The frame thing that holds the glass in the door gets heated up by the sun, our house faces west, and it gets twisted up so that it can't hold the glass in the door."

"The PVC moulding around the glass gets twisted up and lets the glass fall out?"

"Right, 4 times in 10 years we've replaced the door. And we like a nice front door."

"I figured that out already" I said looking out at her black BMW in the parking lot. "And these 4 doors in 10 years....let me guess....you got them all from the same door guy, and now you decided to try a new door guy."

"Right."

"Did the old door guy ever mention anything called an "HP Frame"?

"No."

"Kinda figured that out too, just thought I'd ask."

"What's that mean?"

"An HP frame is a "high performance frame". It's the same PVC moulding, but with a steel stiffener inside. It's used on doors that take a beating from the sun. Like...ahem... doors that face south and west. Especially for doors that have large pieces of decorative, leaded glass....."

"You're kidding me."

"No I'm not."

"Are you telling me that I didn't need to....."

"That's what I'm telling you."

"Why that.....oh .....that is just....." (Maria was pissed off. A rare occurrence as I've come to learn over the years.)

"So if I buy a door from you, and we put the.....HP Frame thing in it, this won't happen again?"

"Right."

"You guarantee it."

"I guarantee it."

"Okay...."

"Maybe I can find an HP Frame that I can use to fix your old door."

"No. We have duct tape holding in the window. I want a new door."

So we haggle a little bit, she looks at some catalogs, and Maria chooses a lovely front door. $2500 installed. Deal. Handshake. I start writing the contract and she says.....

"If this works. You'll have a friend and customer for life."

"It'll work Maria. I've been doing this for a long time. Trust me."

"Okay, I will."


That's the before picture. Nice door. $1000 worth of window in it, but it's worthless if the thing's falling apart. I think the entire entryway needs to be brightened up......


Aaaaats more like it. What a sweet entryway. Just goes to show you what a real fucking professional can do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So I got to be a popular guy with Maria and her husband Vito right away. Not long after meeting them 10 years ago, I discovered that they own a Deli right by Mikey. Not only that, it's a real popular, and fairly famous Deli. One of them neighborhood joints that attracts people from all over, the kind that make Chicago famous for its neighborhood charm.

I began stopping by the Deli to buy my meats.

There's something very cool about standing in a crowd of people holding their numbers and having the owners wave at me. Local recognition. I love the way Vito says..."Ay Mikey! 'Ow ya doin' my friend?" The old ladies look at me in awe, almost dropping their numbers wondering who this famous guy is.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vito and Maria became good friends of mine. And Maria was right. They've become friends and customers for life. Friends first, customers second. (I hate when that happens. Working for friends is tricky.) I've gotten to know their family, who all work at the Deli. Their two daughters, Josie and Jenny are both absolute knockouts with personalities to match, and their son Freddie is an absolute prince. Nicest fucking kids you ever met in your life. Young adults I should say, when I first met them.

Got to a point where I'd park by Mikey's newsstand, bullshit with him a little, and then go in the back door of the Deli (famous!!!), and wait for Vito to come out on break and have a smoke. Half the time, I don't even buy anything, and they couldn't care less. I love these people.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About 3 years ago Maria and Vito decided they wanted me to replace all the windows on their house. Big job. Almost 11 grand. No arguments, no haggling, no nothing. Just go ahead and do it, and do I need a deposit?

"I could use half."

"Stop by the Deli tomorrow Mikey. I'll have your money." (My money. Already he's calling it "my money". I love this fucking guy. He's one in a million.)

So I stop by, we're having a smoke, and Vito hands me a fucking brown bag with "my money" in it.

$6000 in twenty dollar bills. Still smelling like calzones.

About a month later, we installed the windows. My guys did a beautiful job. They asked me if it was a COD, and I told them of course not. I'll stop by the Deli.

Waited a day or two, and called Vito.

"Hi Mikey."

"Hey V. Okay if I stop by?"

"No. Not today. I'll call you Monday. I can't talk."

CLICK.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It occurred to me instantly that this was very unlike my friend Vito. I was worried about him. Something was wrong. Fuck the money, I knew he always paid his bills, always, but something was wrong.


The following Monday, my phone rang and it was Vito, of course. Tells me to come by the Deli at noon to pick up my bag of calzone smelling twenties.

"Noon? That's lunch time. You're always busy at lunchtime. Why not later so we can smoke and tell each other how great we are?"

"I'm leaving at 1:00 to go to the hospital."

"For what?"

"To visit my son."

"Freddie? What the fuck's wrong with Freddie?"

"Leukemia."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was 3 years ago, and Freddie underwent 3 different treatments of chemotherapy. Each time, it seemed as if they'd caught it in time, and then it would come back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About 3 months ago I got a phone call. It was Maria calling me from her car.

"Hi Mike!"

"Maria, how are you?"

"Good. I was just driving up Milwaukee Ave., saw your shop, and thought that I never just call you to say hello. So I'm calling to say hello."

"Oh bullshit Maria. You want to tell me about Josie's wedding. How did it go?"

"Oh my God Mike it was fantastic! She looked gorgeous....the hall was fantastic....if we had more room we'd have invited you but she wanted it small."

"Yeah sure! You were afraid I'd show up with a hooker or something."

For about twenty minutes I smiled and listened to this proud mother tell me about this wonderful event. I thought of how nice it is to be a small businessman who gets to know his customers, some of them like Maria and Vito, on a very personal level.

"How's Freddie?"

"He's good Mike. Fingers crossed."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yesterday, some people came in my shop to buy a door. Nice folks. An older Italian lady, and her son.

She saw the stack of Italian Deli menus sitting on the counter (hey, I promote my friends), and she asked me if I shop at the Italian Deli.

I told her I sure do, and that those were some good friends of mine.

And she said..."What a shame about their son."

My fucking heart sank into my shoes. It was all I could do to compose myself and close the deal. Not out of selfish reasons, but because I wanted them out of the shop. I needed to search the internet.

And there it was in the Tribune obits.

Freddie D~August 1987- Feb 22, 2009.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Closed up the shop and made the drive to The Deli.

Walked in the back door and there was Vito leaning against a door jamb staring into space. He looked at me, and frowned.

I hugged him like a brother, and cried like a fucking baby.

Told him how sorry I was for his and Maria's loss, and how sorry I was that I had just heard. That I didn't even get to go to Fred's wake and funeral.

I felt like......bad.

Sad.

Mad, ....once again, ......at fucking god.

"Aw, that's no problem Mikey. Lots of people still don't know."

Went out back, and smoked a few cigarettes with my friend Vito.

Cried some more, and talked about Freddie.

My friends just buried their 22 year old son.

Fuck.

Frank

Frank Lloyd Wright~ 1867-1959