Last night went out with work friends to shoot some stick… like a usual Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday night. Table packed at Whisky Ward (my regular spot for their stacked juke) so we booked it to Vasmay, where I met yet another classic seedy NY character, one of the bars various derelict regulars, (Cokey) Pete. A distant acquaintance of my companion, when he shook my hand, as he exited the bathroom, he loudly assLured me…”Don’t worry, I pissed all over it! I’m Pete, and I’m an asshole!” (and my friend assured me that indeed he was). Little did I know this was only a prelude to his loveliness. He had a tongue that cut like a knife, and I don’t think he was expecting me to fire it back at him. We got on well… in that sort of I hate you, you hate me kind of ball busting, but not joking way. As the night progressed he laid down the psychic skills on me… knew I was from California… knew I partook in 4:20…and asked me to flash some gang signs (for which I gladly obliged and he flipped me off in return).
But he got one thing wrong…well two things actually… the first was that white girls can’t play pool, which I schooled him on when I kicked his ass (and believe me, I’m no superstar) while The Devil Dogs “Get on Your Knees” ironically played in the background (YES!!!)… and the second (and perhaps most unfortunate) misreading me as a flower child, for quickly my name became “Hippie Janis”. Now I know how a drunken man can get confused at times and I suppose it is an easy mistake to make on a surface glance. But I took no insult, for instead I robbed him blind in gambled beers, while my companion thieved his Zippo and awarded it to me later as a trophy with long acquired knowledge in the words, “He had it coming for a long time, and I’m just glad it was a chick that finally let him have it.”
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