A series of interesting events took place in O' Reilleys Pub over a short period of time. Spitzpatrick had recently married. His ex-girlfriend ,who was a junkie, was now living in Hollywood with the inventor of a famous doll. Spitz's new wife had also been recently dumped by her millionaire boyfriend, so their's was a classic double rebound marriage. One night Spitz was in O'Reilley's with his new wife and Algren was sitting with some of his female fans in the booth opposite McQue's corner. I was standing in the middle of the bar talking to Trash and Paul Goesaway. Goesaway was one of Spitz's few so called friends. Goesaway also boasted that he was best friends with several other well known Sun Times columnists - Bob Gangrene and Roger Solomon. Goesaway was a decent writer, but he had very little confidence in his own abilities and so he vicariously drifted toward his more well known colleague's. This bizarre star fucking syndrome was rather embarrassing to Paul's other friends because Paul was a folksy amusing companion with an aw shucks oakie persona. So Spizpatrick walks over to us and says he thinks he'll introduce his new wife to Algren.  I did notice Spitz approaching Algren's table with his wife in tow but didn't pay much attention. Spitz was immediately back at our sides. His beefy face even redder than usual, his mean tiny watery blue eyes now somewhat dilated which made his blunt nose seem even blunter. He said Algren had insulted his wife. When Goesaway asked how, Spitz said that he said he didn't want to meet Spitz's wife. The cause of Algren's ire seemed to be a result of the fact that  that Spitz  hadn't  plugged  Algren's  latest book, The Last Carousel. Spitz was incensed at the humiliation he'd suffered in the presence of his equally inebriated  wife. When Spitz said he was going back and give Algren a piece of his mind, Goesaway cautioned against it. Spitz was not to be deterred. This time Goesaway , Trash and I watched with great interest as Spitz started shouting at Algren. Algren yelled back. Now Spitz was somewhere in his fifties at the time, and Algren had to be seventy something, so it seemed improbable that Spitz would resort to violence, especially since Spitz was a well known coward and had never won a bar room  fight in his life. But Spitz was a known  spitter and spit he did. He leaned forward and  spit in Algren's face. Algren was great. He jumped to his feat with a shot glass in his hand, cocked his head, took aim and proceeded to bounce the shot glass off of the middle of Spitz's blunt forehead.  Spitz backed away in terror. He grabbed his wife's arm and fled the bar. The next time I saw Spitz I told him how proud I was to hang around a bar where the toughest guy was seventy-five. Spitz wasn't amused which pleased me.

  Shortly after this incident Trash had finished a new book and was in O'Reilley's with his publisher. The publisher had booked Trash an appearance on the Johnny Carson show in a few days. Of course Trash was shit faced. Once again I was standing in the middle of the bar chatting with Goesaway . Mike Tooleys husband, Jim , was standing nearby.  The fact that Tooley was in a constant state of penury never seemed to stop him from either drinking or dressing nicely. He had to spend a nice buck on his haircuts alone. So Tooley was minding his own business when for some reason Trash walked over to Tooley and grabbed him by the lapels of his freshly pressed suit coat and started screaming at him.  Tooley was a good foot taller than Trash and so this spectacle seemed quite ridiculous. And Tooley, being a very easy going fellow simply shrugged it off and resumed his drinking.  Trash had accused Tooley of  "destroying more young writers " than any other human being in the history of Chicago.  The basis for this pronouncement escaped everyone present. Twenty minutes later Trash had once again grabbed Tooley by the lapels and was again screaming at him incoherently. Goesawy leaned over and said to me that he thought Tooley might punch Trash. I said I certainly would. And sure enough, after a few buttons on Tooley's Brooks Brothers shirt snapped off, Tooley pushed Trash away, steadied himself, and  aimed a downward blow directly at the middle of Trash's snarling face. Trash immediately went down in a heap. Now this was Trash at his best. Laying on his back he looked up from the bar room floor directly at Tooley and said in his Cagney voice , "nice punch Jimmy." Perfect. Tooley backed away and brushed himself off. Trash's shocked publisher and Goesaway helped Trash to his feet. So far Trash could not have handled the situation better. Tooley even looked a little sheepish after hitting the much smaller Trash . Unfortunately Trash then proceeded to destroy his reputation forever by walking over to the pay phone and calling the police. When Tooley was alerted by the owner that Trash had called the cops he ambled down the street to the Gin House.  

  Aside from everyone buying Tooley free drinks for the next month,  there were other repercussions beyond the tarnishing of Trash's manly reputation . Grafiti immediately appeared in the washrooms of all local bars such as:  "Hemingway never called cops."  "Trash calls cops." " Trash is a cop caller". I must admit I was the author of more than a few of these washroom postings. But most pressing for Trash was his upcoming appearance on Johnny Carson. He had a major black eye.  

  The night of his appearance we all gathered around a TV that was expressly  brought into O'Reilleys for Trash's  appearance . Trash lucked out . He was bumped the first night by a kid that did bird calls. Carson loved the kid. So Trash's eye had an extra day to heal and by the next day with the aid of plenty of TV makeup, you could hardly tell Trash had a discolored eye. Trash, by the way , was a huge success. He had a new theory. Capone didn't die of syphilis, but was instead poisoned  by a young priest that was outraged by Capone's criminal ways. This was a breakthrough for Trash seeing as he'd gotten all of the mileage he could possibly get with his theory that Dillinger was still alive.  

  One amusing sidelight to the Dillinger - Trash saga. One night Ebert asked Trash if he'd ever spoken to Dillinger. Trash, after pausing for dramatic affect, his cigarette still dangling from the corner of his lips said, "yes, yes I did. I went up to his house and rang his doorbell. " Trash now had everybody's attention. "So Dillinger came to the door and - ".

  "Yeah, " Ebert said impatiently, "so what did you say?"

  "I  said," Trash paused  exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, "John Dillinger."

  "So", Ebert said even more impatiently , "so what did Dillinger say to you after you said John Dillinger?"

  "Dillinger said," Trash paused again, this time to take a deep drag on his cigarette,  squinting his eyes and  again  exhaling , " Dillinger said -  J..... Robert.....Trash!"

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  Of all of Trash's unique qualities (his encyclopedic knowledge of crime and movies, his love of jazz, his ability to produce thousands of words a day, an unusually fine singing voice to go along with his dancing  skills) none was more remarkable than his self confidence. Trash truly believed that he was not only  one of the finest authors that Chicago had ever produced, but that he was right up there with his pals Hemingway and Steinbeck.  The fact that the world had not as yet appreciated his genius was of small matter. As long as he produced the torrent of words that exploded from his type type writer each day it would only be a matter of time that his greatness would come to the fore. Of this there could be no doubt. 

  By sheer force of will Trash would insinuate himself into the company of Algren and Royko. He treated them as equals even if they didn't treat him as an equal.  Although nobody appreciated Royko's genius more than I did, I made it a point whenever our paths crossed to treat him with derision. He was such a nasty obnoxious drunk under any circumstances, but when he was surrounded by his fawning fans he was unbearable. I'm not even sure what specific thing I'd done to cause him to try and have Sam bar me from the Billy Goat, but for several years if  I walked into the Goat and Royko was there, he pointed me out to the bartender and I'd have to leave. However, if I was with either Trash or Michaela Tooley, Sam would not make me leave. Sam loved Trash and Michaela. Now this was not a big problem because I really didn't frequent the Goat that much, and it gave me some perverse pleasure knowing that I'd gotten under Royko's skin. 

  So one Friday evening Trash and I walked into the Billy Goat together. It was during the printers strike and at least fifteen or twenty striking printers were sitting at the tables. Royko and his fans were at he end of the bar where the Wise Guys usually sat. When Royko saw me he signaled to Sam. Sam shook his head negatively. Trash and I sat down about five stools down from Royko. Trash was explaining his latest colossal business deal to me - which I  found extremely boring  - when I said to Trash , just to break the boredom, "how many picket lines do you think Royko walked through to get over here?"  Trash's face darkened into a severe frown. He turned slowly on his bar stool until he was facing Royko.  "Mike", he said in his best Cagney voice, "did you just cross the picket line?" Royko spun around on his bar stool .  His face was filled with anger. "What's it to you what I do, asshole?"

  Trash stood up and straightened his suit jacket before speaking. "I knew a man, a hod carrier by trade, a union man, who would be turning over in his grave if he saw his son ", he was now pointing directly at Royko, " crossing a picket line."

  I couldn't resist. "Yeah," I added ,  "Scab Grobnik." This insult was too much for Royko to bare. He demanded that Sam toss me out immediately or he , Mike Royko , would be leaving ! Sam told everyone to calm down. Royko would have none of it. Standing at the top of the stairs he once again demanded my removal. Sam stood his ground.  Exit Royko.

  This scene, although leaving Royko's hero worshipping crowd of fans in stunned silence, had  seemingly made no impression on Trash because without missing a beat he resumed explaining the details of his boring business scheme.  Then , suddenly a meek young man tapped Trash on the shoulder. He was barely 21 and he seemed near tears. "Excuse me," he said to Trash, "but that was Mike Royko you just insulted." Trash looked at the young man for what seemed like an unusually long time before he took his cigarette out of his mouth, placed it in the ashtray, and then violently grabbed the young man by the lapels and literally shouted the words, "don't you realize you people are ruining him! What we did was an act of love, do you understand me! We love him! " With those words he shoved the terrified young man away and once again resumed  boring me. As I listened to Trash babble on I thought about what he'd just told the young man and I thought, "Trash is absolutely right, what we did to Royko was really an act of love. We are trying to save him from himself. Of course."

  A few minutes later I noticed a line of five or six empty shot glasses  in front of each of us. I asked Nick who had bought us the drinks?  Nick pointed behind where we were sitting at the striking printers. The night ended with me leaving the Goat with Trash sitting with the striking printers regaling them with the stories of his almost signal handedly organizing the coal mining workers back in the forties. As I walked out the door on Lower Wacker Drive I saw Royko coming down the stairs from Michigan Ave.. As I walked down Rush Street past Ricardo's I had to admit that Trash was truly a remarkable man. Unique. 

 

  Street Jimmy said he was sleeping in the hallway of the place with the orange doors the other night when he woke up with a start and said to himself, "fuck, I gotta get out of here. What if the cops grab me and I got this warrant bullshit to contend with." He's trying to be super cool until he sees the judge Monday. I really have no idea about whether or not the judge can do anything to quash the warrant once it's been issued, but it's better than doing nothing.

  Jimmy is still pissed at Marie. He said the first time he went in to see her at the Flies on Shit Club meeting she was all lovey dovey and showed him the new diamond engagement ring Satan had just given her. However, the next time he went in she screamed bloody murder and told him to get the fuck out. Ruben told Jimmy that she was just acting on behalf of the owners of the bar. This explanation did not satisfy Jimmy one bit. "She treated me like shit." I've never known Jimmy to hold grudges for very long, but he seems unusually bitter about how Marie treated him.

  The last time I saw him Saturday night he was stoned out of his mind.

 When  Faggypants came down Friday his cheeks looked like he was part hamster. When I pointed this out to him he ran into the mens room and checked himself out in the mirror. He was alarmed enough to run over to Walgreens and have the nurse take a look at him. She said he had an ear infection but thought that it would go away with out antibiotics. His mother insists that he see a real doctor and get antibiotics. He's not sure if he'll feel up to being in the talent show Sunday.

  Street Jimmy showed up this morning in plenty of time to keep his doctors appointment. I advanced him his five dollars and before he left I remembered to give him his anti-depressent medication to take with him. The doctor needed to see it. About five hours later I ran into him on Sedgwick Street on his way to score for some crack. He said he'd just finished sweeping the cigarettes and that everything went smoothly at the doctors. He said the doctor said he needed glasses. I pointed out that if he had glasses he'd immediately lose them. He agreed. 

  Later this afternoon I ran into him again. This time he said he'd been alerted that the cops were looking for him. I didn't have to remind him that I warned him about not going to see the judge and giving him a story about why he didn't keep his last court date. He said, "you was right." I then suggested he go to see the judge Monday (if they don't catch him in the  meantime) and tell the judge he tried to commit suicide and they put him in the nut house. Jimmy thought this was a brilliant idea. "You smart, you real smart." I told him in a very self deprecating way that it didn't take a lot of brains to come up with that story.

  Faggypants cleaned in Hyde Park for Tobi. She said he worked very hard  , but had trouble following directions. I suggested to Faggypants before he left that as long as it was free month at all of the museums, that given the fact it was right down the street,  he should go to the Museum of Science and Industry when he finished cleaning. He thought that was a great idea.  He called me in the evening to tell me what a great time he'd had. He said he was there for almost four hours. His favorite attraction was the German Submarine. He said a bunch of people with German accents kept asking him to take their pictures in the submarine.

  Street Jimmy just came in very upset. He tried to walk into the Flies on Shit Club meeting down the street but Marie yelled for him to get out. "She had no cause to treat me like that."  

  Street Jimmy arrived back in the hood early this afternoon. He was in fine spirits. Had a great time at the institution. When questioned about what the name of the institution was he claimed ignorance. By late this afternoon the story of his actual whereabouts was starting to emerge. It appears that he went to a rehab somewhere on the North Side. When they refused to admit him he announced that he was going to commit suicide. This worked. They called an ambulance and drove him to a mental institution near Hines Veteran's Hospital. He said there were a lot of nuts there. One guy kept banging his head on the wall. He played a lot of ping pong.  The only person who could beat him was a hot black chick. He couldn't bang her because they lock the doors at night. He could dine with her , though. The food wasn't bad, but the plates were "kid size." Hence, before every meal Jimmy would announce that anyone who didn't want their food, he, Street Jimmy,  would be more than happy to take care of it for them. He said a lot of the patients didn't like to eat so he had plenty of food. The group meetings bored him. "Of course I'm a mutha fucking addict, and I like to get higher than hell. "  He told the administrator that he had a doctors appointment Friday so he had to leave. They gave him some anti-depressant medicine. When I asked him why, after he got done laughing, he answered, "'cause I told them I was depressed." This made him laugh all the more. After I assured him that nobody had swept the cigarettes since the last time he did he seemed greatly releived. With my five bucks for sweeping and a little street begging money he was soon heading toward Sedgwick St. to buy a rock. 

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  Needless to say Igenue was not happy about his bosses (really, the man he worshipped above all else) growing friendship with yours truly. I tried not to rub it in to much, but such a course of action was so against my nature that I couldn't help directing the occasional silly, mocking face or mean remark to poor hapless Ingenue. Whenever he'd alert Trash about what I had just done, I'd simply shrug and tell Trash that I had done nothing of the kind and I just couldn't understand why Ingenue resented our being friends so much. More than once this resulted in Ingenue getting a slap from the much smaller Trash. Apparently this tension boiled over one night at a German restaurant on Halsted St. . There were only a couple of witness present, Brian Boy being one of them. According to Boy, Trash was giving Ingenue a particularly hard time. Of course both of them were very drunk, even by their standards. Words were exchanged and then in a shocking turn of events Ingenue punched Trash. There was no patching this up. It was a classic case of the slave turning on master. This was war. Word had it that eventually, when Ingenue realized that he was nothing without Trash,  he had made various overtures for purposes of a reconciliation. To no avail.  Although Trash prided himself on his liberal spirit, forgiveness was not one of his special qualities.  I've often thought that the fact that I felt obliged to report to Trash all of the nasty , insulting lies that Ingenue was telling everyone and anyone willing to listen about Trash's perfidious business practices, might possibly have in someway had something to do with Trash's unwillingness to reconcile with his former loyal side kick. Trash would listen in shocked disbelief as I reported the nightly list of slander attributed to Ingenue. Some of the slander concerned copy right issues that could potentially harm Trash. Trash consulted his legal team. After a couple of frightening letters from Trash's lawyers, Ingenue, who was easily intimidated, ceased and desisted his mendacious charges against the wronged Trash. I must admit that I almost missed Ingenue. It seemed like the break up of Martin and Lewis. They , Trash and Ingenue, seemed to complete each other . They were a team. Life would never be the same.

  To be contind.

  

  Street Jimmy called Gracie this afternoon from rehab. She said he sounded great. He's been playing a lot of ping pong. He can beat everyone there except for a chick. He says he's had a swell time, showered every day, and can't wait to come home and see everyone. They are giving him a bunch of medicine , and he has an important appointment Friday with his disability hearing. He also confirmed that he will be performing with Gracie and Faggypants at the Old Town Ale House 66th annual Talent Show this Sunday at three.

  This all sounds great except for a couple of small problems. Problem number one: he has no place to stay; problem number two: he'll be right back in his crack environment; problem number three: he has absolutely nothing to fill his time with; he has no hobbies, and no interests other than procuring and taking crack.

  Other than these tiny problems, things look good.

  The Adventure's of  J. Robert Trash, contind.

 I was now an official member of Trash's inner circle .  As a result I was  privy to just how really  eccentric (nuts)  the man was. Having dinner with him was a nightmare. He treated waiters and bus boys like dirt. He only ate red meat which was anything but red by the time he was served. "Listen, my friend," he would say in his Cagney voice to the waiter, "I don't want to see any red on my meat. Got that? Now I know that you think you'll just give me any piece of crap you have back there (indicating the kitchen) but I'll know, understand, you, you cook me up the best steak you have."  On more than one occasion I explained what was happening to his food in the kitchen  as I had once been a bus boy for a couple of weeks and knew all to well what happened to asshole customers. But these warnings of food tampering were to know avail.  About half the time he was too drunk to eat his dinner by the time it arrived. (A couple of time's,  hating to see an entire forty dollar steak go to waste  I tried to take a few  bites but they always tasted like cinders.)   Yet  Trash was generally quite generous, and he usually tipped the beleaguered wait staff well.   

  Trash was also terrified of flying. Now this was really quite ironic given that most of his war hero exploits revolved around his having been parachuted into enemy territory. As was pointed out previously , my friend Lazar once calculated that Trash would have had to have been three or four years old when he performed all of his heroic feats during the Second World War.  So Trash had to take the train everywhere. This was difficult when he had to be on Johnny Carson or any of the other TV shows he occasionally appeared on. 

  One could hardly have been blamed for assuming that Trash would have been equally strange in his sexual proclivities, but from what I could glean from the half dozen or so woman I knew who openly admitted to having sex with Trash, he was pretty middle of the road in his desires. My favorite Trash sex story was told to me by Suzy Zax. Suzy was a fun blonde. She had a nice body, and had she had the benefits of a good orthodontist, she might have been considered pretty. She did , however, have a smoking hot daughter. Suzy told me that Trash had taken her out to dinner one night and of course they'd gone back to his townhouse. She then described in  very clinical details the manner in which she performed  fellatio on Trash. "You know Bruce, how when your giving a guy head , if your not careful, you sometimes trigger your gag reflex?" I told Suzy that having never actually sucked a dick, I wasn't entirely sure. "Well, it can happen. So anyway, I threw up , but he was totally cool about it. He got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He didn't close the door so I could see him in the mirror on the door combing the peas and carrots I'd heaved out of his pubic hair with a comb. He's really a very fastidious guy." I agreed that he was definitely fastidious. She then went on to say that they concluded their love making without further incident.  

  To be contind.

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

So Trash and I remained friends for over thirty years until our recent, and very permanent, estrangement. The question of why we quarreled is far less interesting than how we managed to remain friends for so long, especially since Trash had alienated pretty much everyone who knew him ; for the last several years  I was his only remaining friend.  Now , broke and friendless , he barely exists - a chain smoking pariah    in a ratty subdivision in a North suburb.

  The secret to our long friendship was really quite simple - I went along with his bullshit. And not only did I go along with it, I knew how to help him take his bullshit to greater heights. Most people would challenge his boasting and lies, but not me. A perfect example would be the time he marched into the Old Town Gin House and grabbed me by my shirt and announced that he was enlisting me to go to Iran with him in order to free the hostages. He was doing a sort of George C. Scott impersonation of General Patton. In order for Trash's plan to work I was required to provide ten dune buggies. His face was inflamed and the veins on his neck were now bulging. It was three in the morning and everyone in the bar was as drunk, or drunker than Trash and all of these drunken  eyes were now focused on the two of us. With Trash's hands still holding my shirt tightly , I looked Trash in the eyes and answered him in a very calm, measured voice, "Trash, the best I can do is five dune buggies, and five horses." Trash was incensed at my lack of discipline and outright impudence. "Forget the horses , buddy boy, I need ten dune buggies." I remained adamant.  We were going to need horses.  This conversation lasted at least ten minutes before I agreed to provide eight dune buggies and two horses. Trash and I , being both acclaimed horsemen, would dress as bedouins, and lead the mission.  (Of course the fact that I'd never been on a horse in my life, and I doubt if Trash had either, was by now irrelevant.) This was the technique I used hundreds of times to cement our growing friendship. I found this role playing not only very entertaining, but somewhat therapeutic . 

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, to be contind.

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, condtind.

  After I opened up Ingenue's forehead both Ingenue and Trash steered clear of  me. Occasionally Ingenue would give me a quick , furtive look, but as soon as I noticed his look he'd avert his eyes. Things went on like this for some months. In the meantime Trash announced that he'd written a play. When no local theater would produce it, Trash took the bull by the horns and leased his own theater on the corner of Clark and North. This had to cost some money. He then hired the top local actors, one of whom was also to direct . A week before the premier Trash fired the director and announced that he'd direct himself. 

  The night of the first performance the weather turned bitterly cold. All of Trash's media and bar friends turned out in mass, most of whom were quite tipsy by curtain time. Trash and Ingenue , decked out in tuxedo's , greeted almost everyone (yes , I was excluded from their gracious welcoming) in the lobby. It was quite obvious that a great deal of money had been spent on refurbishing the theater.  During the next several hours it was not at all uncommon before or during the play to hear empty bottles rolling down the concrete floor in the direction of the stage .  Not only was the theater unbearably cold, but the acoustics were so bad that the actors needed to be miked.  Of course the mikes would cut off periodically, which , considering the remarkable dialogue, was not such a bad thing. At first the audience stared at the chaos on stage in stunned silence, then gradually they became increasingly rowdy to the point that there were about as many laughs coming from what the actors were saying as to what the audience was shouting back. I'd never been present for such an amazing display of interaction between actors and audience, and this coming from someone who was present the night the Living Theater came to Berkeley in 1968 where it was reputed that one of the actresses, Judith Molina , was penetrated by a member of the audience in a sea of bodies on the stage of the Berkley Theater.  

  The actors some how got through the performance . When it was over the audience erupted in a standing ovation that lasted some minutes before shouts of author , author finally enticed Trash to walk up and onto the stage.  More shouts and applause. Finally, after Trash reluctantly signaled for silence,  he  gave a wonderful speech in which he dedicated his masterpiece  to his late mother. 

  After the play the audience retired en masse to O'Reilley's for some serious after theater drinking. 

  Midway through the night while I was standing with Paul Goesaway, not that far from Ingenue and Trash who were accepting accolades at the bar, Ingenue turned to me truculently and said, "so Elliott, what did you think of the play?" I answered in a very measured voice, "Ingenue, I've been attending various and sundry plays since before I was a teenager, and I have to say that tonight was without a doubt the greatest night of pure theater that I have ever experienced." For a moment Ingenue stared back at me silently as if he was trying to absorb what I'd just said to him. Finally he nudged Trash and told Trash that he wanted him to listen to what I'd just said. So this time, with Trash staring at me attentively, I repeated verbatim what I'd just told Ingenue. Trash also stared at me for what seemed quite a long time; and then, suddenly he extended his arms and embraced me warmly . For the thirty or so years , much to the consternation of Ingenue, J. Robert Trash  and Bruce Elliott were to become intimate friends.

  To be contind.

  Street Jimmy called several times yesterday, and twice today from rehab. When he talks on the phone his voice sounds like he is trapped inside a grinding cement mixer. He wanted to talk to Gracie about what we're not sure. During his last call he just said "what's up."  

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  Trash's assistant, Ingenue, became increasingly bellicose as summer ended and autumns first frost turned the leaves in Lincoln Park to red, yellow and brown.  Trash had obviously sigged him on me.  Trash, in spite  of his tough guy demeanor was a legendary physical coward.  This was typical of most of the Chicago writers. Spitzpatrick was a notorious coward, as was Bill Grunger. Royko was also mostly talk and bluster. Most of the bars Trash hung out at understood that Trash's tough talk was all an act and just how craven he really was.  It was therefore understood that  allowances were to be made for him. Arthur, the owner of the Old Town Gin House told me that on numerous occasions he had had to rush to Trash's defense as somebody was about to beat him to a pulp.  

  Ingenue was close to six feet, burly, and slightly intimidating because of that constant seven mile stare. I had recently begun making faces at Ingenue to the extent that people were now watching my taunts and then watching Ingenue's reactions. It was something to do for a couple of laughs. On several occasions Ingenue would nudge Trash and then point at me as he explained to him what I was doing. I always acted quite innocent as soon as Ingenue alerted Trash, and Trash never witnessed any of my provocative antics. One extremely crowded Friday night in O'Reilley's I was standing by the front door talking to a young Sun Times reporter named Jim Warrenstein when Igenue and Trash walked abruptly into the bar. They were both toasted and this time Ingenue gave me a particularly nasty look which I returned in kind. This went on for about twenty minutes. I was now blowing kisses to Ingenue whenever Trash wasn't looking. When Ingenue started making his way toward me through the throng of people, I handed Warrenstein my beer and said , "I think Ingenue is going to make his move." I was right, Ingenue wound up and threw a wild , girlish round house which I easily evaded.  I hit him with enough of a left to bounce his head against he edge of the door jam. I didn't realize until I saw him later that night  that his head had been peeled wide open from the outer edge of his right eyebrow all the way to the middle of his broad forehead.  He made no attempt to come after me, and Trash only glowered  as he ran out the door to assist his wounded comrade. The immediate outcome of this brief skirmish was that everyone in my immediate vicinity wanted to buy me a beer. 

  Later that night at the Gin House Trash and Ingenue came rushing through the door yelling my name. Of course Trash made sure that there were numerous people between us to make sure things never reached more than  the shouting stage. It was then that I saw the damage I'd inflicted above Ingenue's eyebrow. There was an angry red gash which was very impressive. I felt pleased, to say the least. Arthur marched the two drunken, angry , defeated, suit and tie wearing buffoons out of the door. Once again there was no shortage of people wanting to buy me a drink. In fact the free drinks kept coming for close to a month.  

  To be contind.

  It would appear that Street Jimmy is still in rehab. Faggypants showed up and helped Tobi clean the house. He won't be able to watch the Bear game with us tomorrow because he has to drive his mother somewhere. Ruben didn't show up yesterday. He might be sulking because Tobi was rude to him.  The Flies on Shit Club did not meet down the street although it's possible they changed the meeting to Burton Place. Duane was so wasted it's hard to tell whether he was conscious of the fact that it was his birthday. Ruben won't sulk long, not as long as he has to pay for his own drinks down the street.

  The Adventures Of J. Robert Trash, condtinued.  

I arrived back in Chicago during the  summer of 1976. The California Department of Corrections had given me an early release with the stipulation that I go immediately back to where I had come from. I was only too happy to cooperate. The night I got back I went directly to O'Reilley's where McQue was sitting on his regular stool which was in the left corner, nearest the front door. The seating arrangements in O'Reilley's were very strictly adhered to. The journalists tended to hang around the front of the bar near McQue and Ebert, while the non-journalists  congregated at what Hank Oetinger described as the "toilet end of the bar." Hank usually was seated in the middle of the bar which is where the neutral regulars tended to sit, while the spectators usually sat in the pews along the walls . As Ebert's fame kept growing, he started taking over the pew nearest McQue to accommodate his fans and celebrity visitors . The journalist end of the bar always seemed to be having a lot more fun than the toilet end. McQue was surprised to see me, and bought me a beer. 

  I  became an instant fixture at O'Reilley's, arriving around eight or nine usually sitting next to McQue, and then drifting  down to The Old Town Gin House when O'Reilley's closed at two. I immediately learned who  was who at O'Reilley's from McQue. Of course Trash was a regular, but there were some other notables beside Trash, McQue and Ebert. McQue warned me about a sandy haired man with tiny watery blue eyes named Tom Spitzpatrick. He was a columnist of some note, he'd won a Pulitzer and was  constantly informing people of this achievement.  McQue explained Spitz, as he was called, was a sneak and could not be trusted. Another columnist, Bob Gangrene, had stopped coming in recently because he was afraid somebody would pull off his bizarre toupee.Gangrene's best friend, a reporter name Paul Goesaway, still hung out as did Jim Tooley and his wife Mike,  who were present every night; however, my old friend Lazaar was there less frequently because of an ongoing  feud he was having  with one of the owners. Of course Royko and Algren were there most weekends, Algren having the hots for the cute Japanese owner. 

  I noticed after a couple of days that there was a really psycho looking guy that never left Trash's side.  McQue said that his name was Jim Ingenue , and he was Trash's new assistant - flunky. Ingenue was a perfect companion for Trash. Wore identical suits,  his short hair slicked back, parted in the middle just like Trash's,  and was obsessed with old movies, and most importantly - seemed very obedient towards Trash. He was a dangerous looking: beady eyes, narrow unsmiling lips, and what McQue described as a seven mile stare. He seemed to stare at me a lot. So did Trash. Trash and I still did not acknowledge each other even though we were now in  constant proximity to each other.  

  To be contind.

  The Adventures Of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  A couple of years before I moved back to Chicago , on one of my brief return visits I ran into Kevin Moldy. He said he'd finally had it with J. Robert Trash and had resigned  his job as assistant and all around flunky. According to Moldy, the more successful Trash became, the more tyrannical and demanding he was to work for.  Trash loved playing the big shot and tossed money around freely in the bars, however, when it came to the people who worked for him , he was penurious. Moldy said that he  had to hand it to Trash, "the man can sit behind a type writer for ten hours and not even break a sweat. All he cares about is how many words he can produce." When he wasn't writing,  Trash watched old movies. Of course his favorites were the gangster movies from the 40's and 50's.

  Trash's personal life was sketchy. He had a wife for a while and  a couple of kids, one of whom might have been his wife's from another marriage , Moldy said Trash didn't talk much about his domestic life although he did confide to Moldy that he had gotten divorced at some point. Moldy said there had been some sightings of Trash with a few woman, but that Trash did not care that much about chicks. He was a lot more interested in how many words he could write each day, or what Bogart said to Huston in Treasure of Sierra Madre. He did spend lavishly on his wardrobe. His idea of casual clothes was a two hundred dollar pair of slacks, and a hundred dollar shirt from Brooke's Brothers. He was an old school suit and tie guy. Moldy said that Trash  didn't drink that much at home although he was  a three pack a day guy. Fridays he stopped typing at about five and jumped into his Caddilac and drove to the Billy Goat and would commence his drinking.  Moldy said said that Trash's Friday night binge drinking  was crucial to not only Trash's sanity, but everyone around him;  Trash would used his  Fridays to decompress.   He would  literally be ready to explode after having been cooped up all week long chain smoking, barking orders and typing.  After Billy Goat's  he'd go to  O'Reilley's and  then finish the night in a drunken, psychotic state, at the Old Town Gin House.   

  Since O'Reilley's  had become the new writers hangout, Trash had developed an occasional Irish brogue depending on his  mood. O'Reilley's  had also become the official hangout for Chicago's professional Irishman. A professional Irishman being anyone that could claim an Irish relative, no matter how obscure. They, the professional Irishman,  loved the IRA, got shit faced on St. Paddy's day, and played Irish music on the juke box. The owners of O'Reilley's  were a Jew, a Japanese and a very large Scandinavian . There were pictures on the wall of Behan, O'Casey, Joyce, and Shaw. Professional Irishman were not to be confused with authentic micks like McQue. In fact McQue and the other authentic micks were openly contemptuous of Chicago's home grown variety. Trash would change roles often. It was not unusual to see him go from Cagney, to Victor McGlaughlin , to a secret Jewish agent in a period of just a few hours. Trash was generally tolerated because he was both entertaining and bought drinks freely. Mostly, though ,  because he bought drinks freely.  

  To be contind.

  Last night Street Jimmy said he's going to try and get into rehab in order to stay out of the cold. Apparently he had a day of turmoil. He had some  kind of fight with the doctor at the YMCA, and he missed another appointment. Anyway, he didn't show up this morning.

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.  

During my nine year sojourn in California Trash's career took off. No longer writing tabloid drivel for the Tattler, he began publishing crime books. His first book of note was about Dillinger. He maintained that Gay Edger Hoover had not only gotten the wrong man that memorable night in front of the Biograph Theater, but  that  Dillinger was  still alive and currently living somewhere in Texas. Trash followed that book up with an attack book on Gay Edger Hoover. Thus Trash's bizarre legend was by now growing even faster than his successful career. He was a brilliant self promoter, and managed appearances on national TV shows like Johnny Carson and David Susskind. I saw him on Carson and he was quite good. The guy had balls.

  It was during my absence that the bar down the street , O'Reilley's Pub, became the new newspaper hangout thanks to my friend McQue and Roger Ebert. According McQue Trash had also become a fixture there. So what became known as the Bermuda Triangle was formed: drinking would commence at the Billy Goat or Ricardo's, move to O'Relley's, and then finish at The Old Town Gin House (which was now a four o'clock bar).

 

  It was during this time that Trash enlisted another friend of mind to be his assistant. His name was Kevin Moldy. Moldy was a tiny man, no more than five five (a good two or three inches taller than Trash), and less than a hundred pounds.  He had a hatchet shaped head, deep set eyes, and jagged teeth. For reasons I was never quite able to fathom, Moldy always had a couple of girls pursuing him. Clearly it was not for his physical attributes. He , however, had a very sly, clever, acerbic a wit. This wit, and the fact that he treated these infatuated girls with disdain, seemed to keep him in an endless supply of lost souls to abuse.  On my trips back to Chicago Moldy always had some great new Trash stories to tell me.  (To be contind.)

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

   During the early half of the 60's Old Town was much different than it is today. Of all of the many attractive features  that Old Town possessed in those long gone days ,  the fact that you could live there for almost nothing was the most enticing for me.  My first good friend in Old Town was a large Irishman named John McQue. He was an authentic mick, spoke with a brogue, and drank Johnny Walker Black like it was water. After a brief job of cooking hamburgers at the Last Chance Saloon, a new bar on Wells Street, McQue got a job as a reporter for City News Service. Soon after McQue was a fixture in all of the local journalistic circles. One day he invited me to join him at the Billy Goat after he got off of work. It was one of the main reporter hangouts and was located on lower Wacker Drive between the Tribune and the Sun Times buildings. I'd never been there before and walking down the stairs for the first time was an eye popping experience. McQue was sitting next to Royko, who was sitting next to Studs. When McQue introduced me to Billy Goat, the Greek owner, he instantly hit me over the head with a kids plastic toy hammer. J. Robert Trash was also present. We exchanged our normal angry glances as I sat down next to McQue. McQue pointed Nelson Algren out to me. He was sitting next to Studs. Trash , decked out in a three piece suit, was sniffing around Algren. Years later Algren described Trash to me as " a nasty little chihuahua who was always nipping around my ankles."  McQue said that the only times he ever saw Trash at the Goat was on Fridays.  The other journalist hangout, Ricardo's ,  was located right around the corner on Rush Street. There were no printers there, in fact it was probably filled with more candy assed add agency types than reporters. McQue fit in both places. Because he looked and acted like he was twenty years older than he was (he was my age)  the veteran reporters immediately befriended him. The fact that he was an authentic Irishman sealed the deal.  

  After Trash left the Goat to go to Ricardo's the conversation immediately turned to him. Studs said that Trash had the worst short guy complex he'd ever seen. Royko said that he could never figure out which actor Trash was mimicking each time he saw him. Algren said he thought he was doing Cagney most of the time.  Studs felt that his Leo Gorcey was his predominant character. When McQue mentioned that I'd recently punched Trash in the face, Royko immediately bought me a beer. 

  This was pretty much my relationship with Trash until I left Chicago for nine years in 1967. I would see Trash, mostly on Fridays at either the Gin House, or the Goat, and we would always exchange threatening glances. When I came back to Chicago in 1976 things would change -significantly.

  Back to the Adventures of J. Robert Trash. 

  Yesterday I described the first meeting between Trash and myself. Word of our altercation spread swiftly throughout  Old Town, and I was inundated with Trash stories. At the time he was editor and publisher of a weekly paper called Literary Crimes. I'd seen a few copies around. There were a few articles about Hemingway and Steinbeck, a couple of terrible poems, and a large full page add for a rug company. (The owner of the rug company was apparently his father in law.)  Now this was at the height of the Beat Generation and the Angry Young men, and yet Trash was disregarding these writers while recycling boring tidbits about the twenties. Needless to say, Literary Crimes was short lived.  

  Les Gagari, the instigator of the brawl between Trash and myself,  had invited a bunch of  us to his fathers restaurant the following day. It was called the Empire House, and it was common knowledge that the Empire House was a mob joint. It was located just off of Rush Street. Word had it that Les' father was a front man for the mob .  Les was the day bartender. Our group consisted of Natalie Noodle, Lazaar, Patti Waife, Lowell the bartender, and Joe Bosco. When we arrived at the restaurant Les was behind the bar and the only customers were seated in the restaurant at a back table. I immediately recognized Big Tuna and Giancana. Les said the other men were Caifano, Cerone, and Jimmy Alligretti. Les introduced us to his father who spoke in a thick Italian accent .Les said we could have anything on the menu.  

  When Bosco and I ordered lobster Les' dad rushed into the bar and made a fuss about the lobster. Les went bonkers, and at one point was screaming so loud at his father that the mobsters stopped talking and were staring at us. It was extremely uncomfortable to say the least. 

  During lunch the conversation turned to Trash. Lazaar had some great stories. Trash was a workaholic. He produced thousands of words a day, every day. Natalie Noodle said it was a shame he wasn't a good writer, it wouldn't have taken any more effort. Lazaar said when Trash was drunk he had a tendency to exaggerate. Natalie and Bosco said exaggerate seemed too mild of a word. Trash had told everyone he had a Congressional Medal of honor. The problem with this assertion was that if he was indeed awarded this prestigious award, according to Lazaar's calculations, Trash would have had to have received it when he was only two and a half years old.  This would have made him the youngest Congressional Medal of Honor winner on record. Not only did Trash exaggerate his military exploits, but some of the descriptions of his literary friendships seemed questionable. Natalie Noodle was skeptical of Trash's claims to have run with Hemingway through the streets of Barcelona narrowly avoiding being maimed by the bulls. 

  The lunch was excellent, Les and his dad patched things up before we left , and Mr. Gagari thanked us all for coming.  As we left the restaurant we were all in agreement about one thing - J. Robert Trash was a fascinating man.

  To be contind.

  Street Jimmy showed up at eight on the dot. He said he'd slept at Starbucks without incident. He was still chuckling about waking up in the middle of the wedding last Saturday at St. Michael's Church. "They was thinkin' who's that rascal jus' woke up back there. I gots my sorry ass outa there fast. My shoes was off and I had to walk on the backs of them 'cause I got out so fast. Father Tom looked real surprised." Jimmy is a little pissed off  ( actually irate)  at a local dog owner. It seems that some little bitty dog almost bit him. "Snagged my pants." And the owner only said he was sorry. This did not satisfy Jimmy one bit. I told him that he should probably let it go, and certainly not do anything to the dog. 

  Jimmy doesn't seem concerned about missing his court date. When once again I suggested he go to court and talk to the judge before they issue a warrant, he said they weren't going to do anything to him. When pressed he said County Jail wasn't that bad for misdemeanors. "They puts you in a dorm and they aren't hardened criminals, once in a blue moon there's a fight. All in all it ain't that bad."

  Faggypants just arrived . He's going to help Grace clean her car. Jimmy wants to help out. They all just left.

  In an average mans life he might meet four or five unforgettable characters.  Being a genius and a legendary (and unique) character in my own right, it has been my good luck to have known probably ten times that many unforgettable characters. But of all those bizarre , often off the wall freaks I've known, none was more memorable or freakish than the legendary author, J. Robert Trash.  The first time I met Trash was in 62 or 63. I was sitting at the bar in the Old Town Gin House having a beer with Les Gargari, the son of a local gangster restauranteur when in walked Trash and his two side kicks, Brian Boy, and Thane Kildeer. They were all dressed alike: freshly pressed suits, short, slicked backed hair, white shirts, and conservative cravats. This is the 60's and their outfits were completely inappropriate .  Trash was clearly the leader. He was diminutive , even in his four inch heels, no more than five four or five.  There were less than ten people in the bar and and Trash gave each and every one of  us the evil eye. He had an almost Hitler like mustache and he struck me then as a kind of combination  Cagney, Robinson, and Leo Gorcey, all rolled into one. He stood poised in the doorway glaring sinisterly.  Gargari, a flaming homosexual stared back at him. "Well", Gagari said to Lowell the bartender, raising his eye brows effeminately,  "who are those girls"? Gargari understood the insult instantly. His voice dropping several octaves for dramatic effect, before announcing to his accomplices, " I want the big guy." He was  pointing at me even though I doubt if I was any bigger than Gagari.  He took a few menacing steps toward me and then stopped. I got off of my bar stool and took a few steps toward Trash. He had a square face, and a square jaw.  "Don't push your luck buddy boy ," were the words he said just before I gave him a very nice workmanlike left jab directly to that square jaw. His too larger companions did nothing more than watch as Trash slowly got to his feet. After he slicked back his oily black hair he announced as he retreated out the door of the bar, "you haven't seen the last of J. Rober Trash, Buddy boy." Although I would see him on numerous occasions after this unusual introduction, it would be over fifteen years before we would ever speak to each other. 

  Street Jimmy said he slept real good behind Moody Bible. He needed to catch up on his sleep. As soon as I gave him his five bucks he went directly to McDonold's for a big breakfast. Pancakes, sausage, eggs, hash browns , biscuit and jelly,  "the whole nine yards." He just spied my three bananas and said "what's up with the banana's?" I said he could have one. He said monkeys eat banana's and "they strong as hell." Jimmy said banana's are good for your heart. He thinks he'll being going over to St. Michael's and do some more sleep catching up. He said Samson killed the lion. It's in the bible. When I asked him why Samson killed the lion he said it because the lion attacked him. "He killed it with his bare hands. They say he was the strongest man in the whole world." 

  Last night before I left the bar  Street Jimmy said he thought he'd go to the hospital. He looked bad and sounded bad, especially when he coughed. I told him it was probably a good idea. The Turk drove him. For reasons too hard to fathom, the Turk and Jimmy have some kind of tacit relationship. Perhaps it's just an outcast thing?

  This morning Jimmy showed up  at eight. He said the hospital took a chest Xray . After they gave him a quick exam and checked the Xray they told him his problem was that he was smoking too much crack. They did , however, let him sleep for a while in the waiting room. Unfortunately Jimmy said that they had security watching him while he was sleeping . He didn't  like  that one bit. "It's creepy, mutha fucka's starin' at me. I finally jus' rode the El."

  When I told Jimmy it was Martin Luther King's birthday he became nostalgic. He said he was real young when they killed King. He said he was living with his mother and his brothers at the time. He had a nice place to live, then. He wanted to know what happened to the guy who killed King. When I told him that the guy died, he said that he hoped the guy got his ass kicked a lot in the joint. I told him that he was obviously in segregation, but I'd bet every meal he ever ate had spit in it. Jimmy said he hoped so. When Jimmy asked me who killed Malcolm X I told him Farakahn. This troubled him. He said Farakahn's filthy rich. He'd seen his house and it was a mansion and he had lots of body guards out in front. I said I've gone by it many times. The security guys always seem very friendly.  Jimmy agreed with me that it was ironic that Farakahn lived just a couple of blocks from Barack.  The next time I need to take Jimmy to Hyde Park I  promised him I'd take him near Barack's house on 51st Street. You can't go down the Street in front of it because the Secret Service has it blocked off. 

  Jimmy didn't know anything about the massacre in Tucson.  When I told him about it he said that was seriously fucked up. Just then Faggypants knocked on the door. Gracie needs him to help her with who knows what. When I told Faggypants that he bore a striking resemblance  to the Tucson murderer, especially when he smiles, he threw a tantrum. I warned Gracie about letting him have anything more to drink until he gets done working for her.

  Street Jimmy just got done sweeping. He said he slept behind Moody Bible until it got too cold, and then he went to Starbucks until he got tossed out of there. He said he slept real good. He only had one rock yesterday. He was real tired. Real tired. He's concerned about how he's looking. He's got bags under his eyes. I told him that he's really aged in the last six months. He says crack will do that to you. He says when he got out of the penetentiary the girls were like grasshoppers. "They was all over me. You wouldn't know me from then. I was cool. I had a lot of money, used to steal cars and rob gas stations. Been taking crack since 87. I coulda been rich. I think I got some pictures of me somewhere. The cops busted me on Belmont. Beat the shit out of me, I don' really remember why." 

  Yesterday he got some pretty good sleep at the church. He slept so good he woke up in the middle of a wedding. "It tripped me out. Nobody said anything. They was all in front." He said he's going over to the church right now all though I'm pretty sure he's off to buy a rock.

  Faggypants has been calling me a lot lately. Most of the time he's drunk when he calls. Yesterday morning he called and said he was coming down to the bar. When I reminded him that Buzz Kill was working he let out a mournful moan and said that he changed his mind. He called me again about two hours later. He said he'd called Fox's brothers in Waukegan and they told him Fox wasn't coming back from California. He was looking for a place to live near Riverside. Now this wasn't a big surprise to me because Fox had expressed his distaste for coming back if his sister and his niece were still living at his brothers house. The foreclosure on the sisters trailer was not only a disaster for the sister, but apparently for Fox , too. Eventually he'll call me and let me know what's going on. The situation with his two children and his ex-wife has historically quickly overwhelmed Fox anytime that he's been there for a protracted time. 

   Ruben was demoted from president of the Flies on Shit Club. My guess is that it was because he's such a freeloader. I told him that at least he has the satisfaction of being the fattest fly on shit. He didn't seem to think that was sufficient consolation. 

  Street Jimmy showed up this morning on time. He had a McDonold's big breakfast with him and asked if he could eat it before he commenced sweeping? I  told him to sit down but insisted that he  not  talk while I'm counting. He said his grandma told him breakfast was the most important meal of the Day. I told him my grandma used to say the very same thing. He said he tried to sleep at Starbucks last night but the lady keeps watching him and as soon as he shuts his eyes she pounces on him and says, "'scuse me sir, but ya'all can't sleep here." Jimmy says there were a whole lot of mutha fucka's trying to sleep , too. She tossed them all out . Jimmy thinks she's the devil. As soon as he gets done sweeping he's going to try and get a few winks over at St. Michael's Church. I think he's going to buy a rock first before he goes to the church. 

  Before he left Jimmy said he talked to Frank the beat cop, and Frank said he'd probably be okay if he went to court Monday and talked to the judge about his missed appearance.  That, of course, would require his showing up Monday.

   Street Jimmy , of course, didn't show up in time to make it to court this morning. I was gone by the time he got to the bar. He told Patrick and Anya that he overslept. I know he took his sleeping bag over to Moody Bible about ten at night, and he didn't show up at the bar until noon. Now , even for Jimmy , that's a lot of sleep, especially when it's below twenty degrees outside.  When I saw Jimmy he said that he fucked up. I told  him that if he looked up Fuck Up in the dictionary there'd be a picture of Street Jimmy Cannon. He thought that was funny. I told him it wouldn't be so funny when he had to do two or three weeks at County when they nail him on a bench warrant. Jimmy seemed unconcerned at the prospect. This annoyed me. I told him that a lot of people go to some trouble to get him to court and perhaps we might not make quite as much effort on his behalf in the future. Actually it probably would not be the worst thing in the world for him to do a month at County. He would be warm and could temporarily take care of his hygiene issues. Of course he wouldn't have access to crack, either. Although it's plentiful there, it's out of his reach financially. 

  Street Jimmy showed up this morning after I'd already left.

  I've been reading all day. Ebert got me hooked on Trollope's Palliser series. I read the Barchester Towers series about twenty years ago, and I remember at the time thinking that as much as I loved Barchester Towers, I'd wait for a while to read the Palliser novels. Well, I'm not getting any younger and so when Roger brought up the subject I trotted right over to Powell's Book Store on 57th and got the complete Palliser series. So far I haven't been able to put down Can You Forgive Her. I just started part two. They are not short books, all of them are at least six hundred pages.

  Grace said Jimmy came in late in the morning. He's slept on the El. He's been running errands for Ruben and her all day. He just came in. He says he's getting real tired of what he's doing. I can believe him. Grace reminded me that Jimmy has court tomorrow morning.  We'll see.

  I ran into Street Jimmy this morning in  front of the El Station as I was walking back home. He said he'd just taken the El back from China's mamma's apartment on California Street. I asked him if he banged her and he said he did, but he said it in a very unconvincing manner. He seemed stoned which would seem to contradict his assertion that China's is no longer getting high. 

  When I arrived at  the bar just now Gracie said that Jimmy and her had won thirty bucks earlier that afternoon on the lottery and she gave Jimmy ten bucks. Originally she was only going to give him five but he said that if he had  won he would have given her half. He talked Gracie into giving him a shot of whiskey because he's so cold. He said he feels lucky. He's got a lucky feeling, like you get some times before something good happens to you. Marshall Field just came in with some sport coats that are way to small. Jimmy is hoping for more snow, although he never seems to do much shoveling when it does snow. When Gracie told Jimmy how well behaved her dog Arthur is (Arthur is sitting quietly in the window just now) Jimmy said Arthur looked a lot better than a some of woman that he knew, especially Netti. He said he saw her earlier in the day. He told her to keep moving down the street. Jimmy really hates her. She must have just gotten out of jail .

  Street Jimmy just got back from his appointment with the shrink . He said he did manage to catch a quick nap in the office. The doctor was brief. He asked Jimmy to repeat a few words and then sent him in to have the lady check his eyes. He ran into China downtown. She's over at McDonold's right now. Jimmy's going over there to meet her. He says she's real "big". Actually "fat". 

  Street Jimmy's sister in law called Gracie at the bar. She said Jimmy had an important doctors appointment on Tuesday regarding his disability application. Jimmy showed up hours later completely stoned. Eventually we managed to get it through to him that he needed to show up at eight so he'd have plenty of time to get to the doctors office on time.

   Jimmy showed up this morning at eight  just like he was supposed too.  His appointment is at ten thirty. I gave him the directions as clearly as I could : get off the El at the Harold Washington Library, walk toward the lake, and then look for 104 on the buildings, and then take the elevator to the tenth floor. Unfortunately he has no ID's so if they insist on making sure he is who he says he is, he's got a problem.  After he got done shoveling the snow I  gave him five bucks, two bags of barbequed potato chips, and  car fare.  When he protested that he was going to be way early I pointed out that the doctors office would be nice and warm, and he could catch a quick nap his face broke out in a broad smile and off he went.

  Faggypants just called . He said it's snowing hard in Westchester and so he decided to get his Moms snow shovel and go door to door.  He asked me if I thought twenty bucks a sidewalk was reasonable? I said it seemed quite fair and urged him to dress appropriately . 

  Street Jimmy just knocked. He said he slept behind Moody Bible. Nobody woke him up. There were three or four guys there. They know better than to get in his spot. He told them if they lay in his spot "they will continue lay there for all time." They have even better sleeping bags than him. He froze his ass off. Jimmy said he saw Scotty Pippin, and that Scotty's really cheap, wouldn't give him any money. When I told him his nick name was "No Tippin Pippen", Jimmy laughed. 

  Faggypants is rolling quarters. He's discussing finances with Jimmy. Jimmy seems overwhelmed by high finance. Jimmy says if he hits the lottery he'd invest his money and wouldn't be stupid. Faggypants was slightly apologetic about his behavior yesterday morning. Jimmy said a Chinese guy asked him to play Russian roulette for two million dollars. He said he met the chinaman in a lounge in Harvey. They got to talkin' and he said he'd give him two million. Jimmy said he told the guy maybe. When I asked him how he planned on collecting the two million Jimmy seemed perplexed. Nothing in life is easy. 

  Street Jimmy swears on his dead mamma that he can't remember where he slept last night . A brutha wanted to help him sweep. He told the brutha that he (Jimmy) was the Lone Ranger and he only worked alone. I told him that that was a wise decision given that I don't want any other crack addicts hanging around,  end of story. Jimmy nodded in agreement. Jimmy is getting real tired of the cold weather. He says Satan (Trib) walked by yesterday.  Jimmy said he told him (Jimmy) to go into the bar and tell me to go fuck myself. When Jimmy asked him why, Satan said it was because I fired his girl. And when he asked Satan for a couple of bucks, Satan told him to ask me. Satan said he needs all of his money to take care of his girl now that she doesn't have a job. 

  Jimmy wanted me to be honest. He found some nice new leather gloves, but "they be woman's" . I told him (even though they did look like woman's gloves) that they looked like mans race car driver gloves. Jimmy said the gloves are warm.  

  Jimmy can't wait for Grace to get home from Pennsylvania. He hates it when Patrick's around. He says an N-word was following him around trying to pull something slick on him. Offered Jimmy a cigarette, but Jimmy didn't fall for it and swung on the N-word.  "He just followed me around, I said I don' know you dude, get away from me. He was tryin' to see what I got. Goin' to try and rob me or somethin'." And then he ran into Bobby Mason.  "I said matter of fact mutha fucka , if you ever toss rocks at me again I'm gonna kill you." I guess Jimmy was really feeling his oats. Jimmy is very pleased with himself.

  An ugly ass white girls been hanging around Wells Street hustling for dope. Jimmy doesn't like her . She used to live at the 1230 project on Division Street. Now that the projects are all torn down the dope fiends are  coming around here. Jimmy says she looks like a witch.  Tries to act black. To make matters worse they tore the row houses down over by Chicago Ave., so now "they all be hanging around over here, too. The white girl is trying to ease her ass in. "  Jimmy told the other crack heads to avoid her, because the cops will be all over them if they are running with a white girl. " She don't know where to go. She's as ugly as hell. She's got some kind of book, she gets people's to sign the book and give her money. She's homeless. the guy she was staying with left her after they tore down her building. She's over at Starbucks right now trying to sleep. She's about fifty or sixty."  Jimmy's eating Crunchy Curls, and they are making his lips and tongue bright orange. He said he pushed Netti real hard the other day. I told him she told me about it and I told her I tell him not to shove her anymore. I told him he's not supposed to hit girls. He said Netti's no girl. Jimmy said a girl name Betty beat up Willy. Beat him bad. He said she (Betty) used to be fine, but now she's big and ugly. Beat Willy bad. Jimmy told Betty that she wasn't no lady, she was half man, and if she ever fucked with him he'd take a baseball bat to her. He told a girl who was threatening to beat up China that he'd take a bat to her, too. When I told him it was time to leave he looked like he was going to cry. I told him to be a man. He said he didn't feel like being a man, and they he got up and went out into the cold.

  Street Jimmy just showed up to sweep. He's slightly dejected because he lost fifteen bucks somewhere. Of course he didn't have the lost money in his right front pocket where I've urged him repeatedly to keep it.  He said he slept at the woman's crib  ,"the one with the orange doors",  again last night. When I asked him why he didn't take a shower there, he said there were too many other crack heads milling around. Although he didn't come right out and say it, he probably paid her for the night in crack. He's starting to smell  again. He's going to try and get a change of clothes soon. His belt broke and so now he's walking around with his pants dragging almost to the ground. When I pointed out  that he looked like a street punk, he said he'd try and fix his pants. The problem is that not only is his belt broken, but his pants are much too big.  

  Patrick is giving Jimmy a hard time.  Jimmy hates it when Patrick is around. Gracie is in  Penn. with one of her dogs, so he has to deal with Patrick.  Patrick goes out of his way to give Jimmy a hard time.

  Duane threw a tantrum last night. He came in feeling no pain after the Flies on Shit meeting. When I made a reference to being a Fly, he directed  several extremely angry, very, very, obscene gestures at me. It was very hurtful, and brought me to tears. 

  Street Jimmy came back from court yesterday somewhat confused. It turns out that Gracie made a mistake and he didn't have to be in court. After checking out his future court dates, Gracie accepted blame for the mistake.  Jimmy didn't seem to be too upset. He did seem to be a little disappointed that I didn't give him a few bucks more for sweeping. Such is life. This morning he showed up quite late. He fell asleep at Starbucks, but a cop woke him up. They seem to be on to him there. So he went to the El Station, but didn't really get much sleep there, either. He wants me to put something on my Blog to the effect that he's looking for a room for approximately three hundred a month. He would also like me to explain to a potential landlord that he won't have the three hundred for a couple of months. 

   Word has it that the TV commercial for Boxer Mike's aldermanic run  was extended for a second day at Burton Place. Counselor is tossing hundred dollar bills around like a drunken lawyer. 

  Luckily Street Jimmy gave his secret knock at 8:30 this morning because he had a 9:00 court date. Immediately upon hearing about  his court date his face contorted itself into an expression of anger and outrage, and finally disgust. He hates having to waste his valuable time going to court. I gave him an advance on his cigarette sweeping money and he , without thanking me, turned and once again headed in the direction of the Brown Line. 

  I was at the Eighteenth District CAPS meeting yesterday evening.  The cop  in charge mentioned that they had just arrested a man who had been busted  140 times for aggressive panhandling without getting any jail time.   Finally a judge gave him ten days.  The people in attendance seemed quite angry to hear how lax the courts are. Jimmy mentioned yesterday that China told him that Meaty, a fellow crack head, had gotten eighteen years for theft. Jimmy thought that was shocking.  I suggested that maybe it was Meaty's fiftieth felony arrest, and then cautioned Jimmy about getting any more felony busts, or he could end up like Meaty. Jimmy said he'd put a bullet in his head before he'd do eighteen years. 

  Faggypants just called me. He said he's on his way downtown. He said he's supposed to do something for Gracie, but he can't quite remember what. He was thrilled to hear that Patrick won't be here. 

  Ruben is not real happy about having to participate in Boxer Mike's TV commercial this afternoon. He feels he should be in charge. I agree. Ruben knows more about politics than the entire crew running Boxer Mike's campaign, put together.  Counselor is once again a man possessed. It will be interesting to see what Counselor's next obsession  turns out to be.

  Street Jimmy just knocked at the back door. He got the secret knock down perfectly. He is in unusually fine spirits. He said he just ran into China at Stop and Rob. She'd gotten off of the bus to buy some cigarettes on her Link Card. Jimmy told her that he still loved her, and she told him that not only did  she still love him, but that she wasn't keeping company with any other man. She once again told Jimmy that if she could get off of crack, then he could. Jimmy seems to think that what she's asking him to do is impossible , at least for the time being. The proprietor of Stop and Rob told China that Jimmy was a good man. Jimmy likes him. He says he's nice, just like Ollie used to be. Ollie was the proprietor of Munchies on Orleans. They still haven't found Ollie's murderer.  

  Jimmy just screwed up the secret knock. He's done with his sweeping. He says some white dude was just  now "playin'" with him about giving him some money. He told the guy he best quit playin' with him if he knew what was good for him. If he's going to give him (Jimmy) some money, "then mutha fucka, give me some money." Jimmy says he ran into Bobby Mason coming out of his mamma's house. Jimmy said he told Bobby he was going to fuck him up for throwing rocks at him the other day. Bobby told him  he best leave it alone. Jimmy said he told Bobby "fuck lettin' it alone. I'm going to fuck your nasty  ass up. " Bobby told him he had a knife waiting for him. So now Jimmy discussing the various horrible things he's going inflict on Bobby. Shooting, -but not killing- possible  breaking of legs, tossing him in a van and taking him for a ride, or maybe turning his shorties on Bobby. 

  Jimmy says his mind is fucked up. He asked China to buy him a rock and she said no. Jimmy thinks it's possible she's getting high on the West Side. He put her on the El. He's glad she's not on crack. 

  He said he gave the lady who lives at the building with the orange doors ten dollars to let him sleep on her apartment floor. He slept real good. She gave him a blanket and a pillow. He was too tired to watch the movies on the TV. He wanted to watch TV, but he fell right a sleep. He didn't want to sleep in the hallway because you get nervous and edgy worrying about the police. "It wrecks your high." He's off to buy a rock with the five bucks I just gave him for sweeping. 

  Street Jimmy is concerned about his  health. He's thinking about going back to the hospital. I suggested that he come up with complaints of a more serious nature than his bad cold. Regardless of what he tells them I really don't see it as the solution to his homeless problem.

  Jimmy said he had another altercation with Bobby Mason. Bobby is another neighborhood crack addict. Fortunately for Bobby he lives with his poor mother. Jimmy said Bobby threw some rocks at him after he ran him away from the bar. Jimmy showed me the chunks of concrete. I explained to Jimmy that I really don't appreciate him getting into spats in front of the bar, especially with chunks of concrete being tossed around. Bobby is a low life scum bag and I've had previous problems with him. I think I'm going to have to have another chat with him.

   Fortunately Street Jimmy showed up on time this morning. When I told him he had to be in court at Belmont and Western at nine his face contorted into an expression of disgust and anger. "They fuckin' with me. Tha's all they be doin', I'm gettin' seriously tired of their bullshit." After proclaiming several more times he wasn't going to be fucked with anymore he grudgingly took the five dollar I advanced him for his cigarette sweeping payment  and trudged off  in the general direction of the El Station.  Whenever he threatens not to go to court I remind him of what happens when they issue the inevitable warrant and he gets picked up, and has to do at least three weeks in County before they straighten things out. He does not like County Jail. 

  Shout out to Marky Mark, my chocolate soldier, for giving me his comfy stool in the bar last night, once again proving that there is no I in Ale House.

 Another shout out to Basil Tydings for the editing of Gracie and his documentary about Street Jimmy. It's an amazing , in depth look at not only Jimmy, but a serious social problem. The camera love Jimmy, and the scene of him with Faggypants is classic.

  And a special thanks to Pat Berns for letting us watch the documentary in her magnificent historical house on Wells Street. Not only is Pat a renowned real estate mogul, but a phenomenal cook. Beef Wellington! And the presentation beyond excellent. And of course let's not forget the Clown. He seemed in great spirits, which is good, given that he's prone to black moods on occasion. 

 

  Street Jimmy is a little apprehensive about the movie. He feels he needs to see it. I told him it would probably be better if he waited until it came to a theater near us. 

  Faggypants showed up at ten minutes after six this morning in spite of having an all around bad News Years Eve. Not only did he get drunk, but when he went to the movies he fell a sleep and had to be awakened by fellow members of the audience because of the loudness of his snoring. When I asked him what movie he fell asleep at he said the Fighter, and that he was sorry he missed it. Later, upon checking his ticket stub, he determined that he hadn't fallen asleep while watching the Fighter, but instead, True Grit. Now this seems like something you really wouldn't get confused over - an urban fight movie, and a period western, but Faggypants  seemed confused. To make matters worse somewhere along the line he lost the forty bucks I'd given him for cleaning the bar. Later last  evening he stopped by the bar around eight, and although he looked a little rough around the edges, he seemed to have recovered his senses sufficiently to be allowed three beers. 

  This morning he said that his stay last night at the Carling Hotel was not all that he might have hoped for. In spite of being assigned the bridal suite, it appears twenty-nine dollars just doesn't buy a lot of luxury. He said there was no heat, only a skimpy blanket, and that he had to wear his winter coat to stay warm. 

  Street Jimmy caught me on the street. He was perplexed. Because the bar was overflowing with polar bears who'd just got done jumping in the lake, Patrick told him to come back later and sweep the cigarettes. He said Patrick disrespected him. I once again explained to him that he needed to get along with Patrick, not the other way around. I gave him a five dollar advance so he could go to McDonolds and get a Big Breakfast.  Fortunately for him he came back and swept after the crowd had subsided. Unfortunately a lot of the cigarettes had frozen in the gutter. It's nasty cold out now, and he once again lost his new gloves. He's wearing clean clothes at long last. He said when he went to NorthWestern Hospital the night before he told them he had lice so they let him take a shower and gave him fresh clothing. He says you can't abuse that. You can only pull off the lice move every so often, or they get wise.

  He gave me a story about staying at one of his peeps house on Cleveland Street last night. When I asked him if it was crack related , he said absolutely not. Of course I don't believe him.