Readers: What follows is the third in a series of interview excerpts with Dickie Short Arms, Owner/Operator of Dickie's Joint, the longest tenured after hours establishment in the Tri-State area. Those who are unfamiliar with the earlier excepts should be warned: the exchange is unfiltered, thus the language tends towards coarse.
AHO:
It's been a year and a half since we last spoke. What's new in your world?
DSA:
Yeah, you think so? How about 605 days, which aint no year and a half in my book.
AHO:
Please forgive me. Thank you for the correction. Once again, your precision impresses me.
DSA:
I'll sleep better tonight.
AHO:
Yes, of course. Well, um, let's begin again. What's new from last we spoke, 605 days ago?
DSA:
For starters, that jamoke with the hair is running for president. That fucker's been stealing two handed since jump street, maybe this'll slow him down some. Not that I give a fuck. What I pay in taxes he can have. Nobody will get rich off that.
AHO:
I was hoping you'd tell the readership about what's new at Dickie's, and not necessarily in the world at large.
DSA:
Why the fuck didn't you say so?
AHO:
You're right, the first question was terribly inexact. Please forgive me, and, if you don't mind, answer the follow up question.
DSA:
Sure. But nothing's ever new at Dickie's. It's same old same old, round the clock. The faces sometimes change or they get older, grayer, whatever, but the game don't change.
AHO:
Has the boy poet been back? Is it possible he's fully succumbed to the allure of your establishment, if only for purely creative replenishment?
DSA:
What aint new is that you're as full of shit as ever. Creative replenishment? Fuck, do you listen to the bullshit rolls out of your mouth?
AHO:
I could reword the question, if you like. But I believe you ascertained the meaning; so, if you wouldn't mind, the readership would like an answer.
DSA:
You're a tough guy, now? You believe I ascertained the meaning, do you? How about you ascertain I got two broke mean Guineas sitting around Dickie's at all fucking hours of the day or night, twiddling their goddamn fingers, can you ascertain that? How about these two broke mean Guineas hop in my caddy and take a little road trip to go pay some snotty east coast literary fuck a visit and give him the beating of his lifetime, can you ascer-the-fucking-tain that?
AHO:
Please excuse my misspeak — I'll rephrase the question, with your permission, of course.
DSA:
Good. Let's not forget who picked up the fucking phone and called who. The next time you decide on breaking my balls, will be the last fucking time. Just so we're clear.
AHO:
Crystal clear. Please accept my apology for the earlier tone. Now, if you don't mind, has the boy poet continued to visit your establishment, and, if so, might you take a question or two in regards his exploits?
DSA:
Was that so fucking hard? Although I could do without the exploits business. Nobody gets exploited at Dickie's. It's real world and everybody knows what lies in store for them. And those that don't know get clued quick enough.
AHO:
Yes, another poor word choice on my part. Perhaps if we exchange adventures for exploits — has the boy poet come to visit, and what can you tell us of his adventures?
DSA:
Sure, he comes. He's a regular mutt now.
AHO:
A "mutt" — that sounds disturbing. Please explain?
DSA:
No, I won't fucking explain. Who's never heard of a mutt? Minga, use your fucking brain.
AHO:
Of course. I only thought there might be a unique bent to a "mutt," in this particular context.
DSA:
Yeah, well, he gets bent plenty. He's a mutt in more ways than one.
AHO:
I see. Please cite an example? The readership has grown quite fond of him.
DSA:
Right. They've grown so fucking fond that they wait 605 days without a peep? You don't listen to yourself, do you?
AHO:
I see your point. In my defense, it's a unique interest that I speak of, a sort of peculiar curiosity. The readership is like a voyeur, a Peeping Tom, if you will, except the readership has permission to look. That may not be the best analogy.
DSA:
Yeah, well, my expectations are low, so it'll do. The kid, he bangs whores a couple nights a week, plays blackjack a couple more. He smokes now, but probably only here. He's one of those "I've got rules" guys, so he can keep it straight in his head that he's got a lid on things. He aint got a lid on shit.
AHO:
So, he's now one of the crowd.
DSA:
I didn't say that. Where did I say he's one of the crowd? I said he comes around a lot. Why are you always putting fucking words in my mouth? Since day fucking one that's how it's been. So you know, I wasn't kidding about those Guineas.
AHO:
No, I don't doubt that at all. I didn't mean to put words in your mouth. The reason I call you is because my readership loves to read the words that come out of your mouth. My job is to facilitate your conversation with them, and it seems I've taken several missteps already in that regard. Please forgive my poor attempt to synopsize. It's a rhetorical device that can create more problems than it solves.
DSA:
You're the fucking genius using it.
AHO:
Point taken. Please, tell us more of the boy poet. You sound disappointed by him.
DSA:
That's a fair way to put it. The kid don't belong at Dickie's, I knew that from the first. In fact, if I ever see that cocksucker Haircuts again, he's gonna catch a beating for bringing the kid around in the first place. He knew better and he did it anyhow.
AHO:
But he came once, and then he came back. Now he always comes. Have you thought of closing the iron door to him, telling the muscle at the front door to not admit him? Have you thought of telling him to beat it, take a hike?
DSA:
Nobody talks like that. I don't fucking think like that. Take a hike? What the fuck's wrong with you? You need to watch better movies.
AHO:
Yes, so I've been told. Well then, put it in your words. Put into better words if you've thought to make the boy leave?
DSA:
Sure. Every time I see that little fucker walk a step into my joint.
AHO:
Yet, you've chosen not to act on that impulse. Why not?
DSA:
It's a free country. And like I said last time, I aint nobody's mother. If the kid wants to piss away his life fucking my whores and paying vig on my blackjack table, that's his business. And since him and Louie have got the ordering drinks "neat" bullshit straightened out, Louie's grown fond of the kid. It's funny to watch sometimes, like that movie the mouse and the man.
AHO:
You refer to "Of Mice and Men"?
DSA:
Yeah, that's the one. Louie's like a big jamole around the kid and it's funny to watch. He never knows what the fuck that kid's gonna say. Never. Not a fucking clue. I mean, give that kid two belts of scotch and then's he going on about some totally off the wall bullshit about a sunlit garden or an art show or some fucking sentence he heard on the L. He'll go on and on and on and fucking on while Louie's trying to be a good sport and listen, standing there and shifting about on one foot then the other, like the big dope from the mouse and man movie when the little fucker's telling the big jamole something, giving him one of those longwinded speeches. The jamole's waiting for it to stop because he don't follow what the fuck's being said, but at the same time he's wanting it to be said because whatever it is, it's pointed at him. That much he knows and so that's enough for him, being a fucking jamole and all. It's all pretty pathetic when you think about it.
AHO:
I might categorize the scenario you describe as endearing. Please continue, if you don't mind.
DSA:
What's more to say? Don't you get the picture?
AHO:
Does Louie looks out for the kid when he's there, like a "big brother" type might. Louie is touched by this interaction, and, perhaps, his role as protector?
DSA:
There aint no protectors in my world, least not for long. And what the fuck is a big brother type? You're a big brother or you aint shit, that's how the fuck that works. Louie didn't have no big brother type when he was growing up, just an old man who ran numbers and collected the downtown book for Stanley's little fucking cousin. He said he was his cousin, no one knew for sure. Maybe their grandparents were neighbors in the old country — who the fuck knows, and at the end of the day he still works for Stanley, but a little shit prick like that talking out his ass does bug some people. He thought we called him The Shoe because he bought the best shoes straight from Italy and got at least one shine every fucking day. That shit's true but it aint why we called him The Shoe. It was because he was a midget motherfucker who looked like he could've come out of that shoe the mother and her kids lived in. What's the name of that fairy tale?
AHO: I believe you refer to a nursery rhyme about a woman who lived in a shoe. I don't know that it had a title, but I'm no expert on folk songs or tales.
DSA: Louie's old man collected for that little prick and so that's the hand Louie got dealt, being a big enough kid at fourteen that the old man started taking him on the rounds. Then started having him deliver the beatings too. The old man drank too much and over time he lost a little stomach for his work. It happens, a career hazard you might say. After a couple years the old man is sending Louie out solo. And then other shit from The Shoe or Stanley or some cocksucker in between followed, and Louie had no out but to take what came his way. Like it or fucking lump it.
AHO:
Do you think Louie sees some of himself in the boy poet?
DSA:
You don't listen worth a fuck, do you? You think Louie's old man only old gave beatings to degenerate gamblers that couldn't pay? Whatever the kid do or don't remind Louie of, it aint himself. He aint seen himself in so fucking long he couldn't pick himself out of a lineup.
AHO:
Yes, of course. Thank you for once again rescuing the readership from my ignorance.
DSA:
It's a full-time job, right? Like I said earlier, watching Louie all fucking nervous around the kid makes for a good laugh on a slow night. Louie, who's used to pounding on anything makes him nervous, or putting a hole in, if you get my drift, except now the kid comes in and Louie wants to give the kid a big fucking hug, like he's family, like he's one of Louie's children, but Louie aint got no children and even if he did, the kid wouldn't be one of them. He wouldn't be family neither, because Louie's family is shit, the whole fucking lot of them, and Louie knows this and he wouldn't wish none of that on anyone, especially the kid, so Louie, he don't know what to do about this nervousness when the kid's around but to stand there an just fucking shake a little, the whole time the kid's sitting at the bar, while at the same time not wanting for him to leave.
AHO:
That's beautiful, I think. May I have permission to ask a final question? It's a respectful question, but one you might not like.
DSA:
It's your dime.
AHO:
There's not a Louie working at Dickie's Joint, is there?
DSA:
You, cocksucker, better hide good. Real fucking good, I'm telling you.
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