Illustration courtesy of Ava O’Connor.
Every weekend, Jimmy waltzes into Lady Jane’s wearing those stupid bell bottoms that ride up his ass, and those obnoxious Ray Bans (even though it’s far past sundown), and a haircut that makes him look like a chick. He always shows up ten minutes after the Mets game ends, like clockwork. Then he places his chestnut leather jacket on the hook like he owns the joint, and orders the same thing every time: a Manhattan with two cherries.
But nothing pisses me off like the sound of his dime going into the jukebox. He plays the same damn song every time and sings along, Ooh, my little pretty one, pretty one, when you gonna give me some time, Sharona?!
I vigorously wipe the bar and focus on the wet streaks left behind by my rag, mouthing the words because I can’t help myself. “M–m-m–my Sharona. Fuck.”
“Hey, man,” says Jimmy. He dips his head to look at me from below his sunglasses. Holding up an empty glass, he plucks the toothpick from its rim and sucks off the two cherries in one vulgar motion. “Running low.” Two women seated at the very end of the bar giggle, entertained by his gesture.
I whip up another Manhattan, listening in on Jimmy’s effortless attempts at flirtation. Chicks dig him, I’m not sure why. I grab the jar of cherries only to find an empty glass with nothing but a puddle of red juice at the bottom.
“Here you go,” I say, sliding the naked drink his way. “We’re out of cherries though. Sorry about that.”
“Can’t you check the back?”
“What back? We don’t…” I withdraw my temper. “We don’t have a ‘back,’ just an alleyway. With a dumpster. Where we put the garbage. Any extra stuff is gonna be right here, on the shelves.” Jimmy examines his drink, sulking. He approaches me and I pretend not to see him, wiping down an already clean glass. “Listen, I got a deal for you,” he says with a shit eating grin. “There’s a late-night market on Hudson Street.”
“Dude,” I say, knowing exactly where this is going, “we’re out of cherries. I’m sure we’ll restock them tomorrow. But I can’t exactly leave the bar. I have customers. If you really want cherries, I’ll watch your drink while you go get them.”
“But you don’t understand,” he says, an exaggerated pout across his face, “this cocktail isn’t complete without the cherries. To finish a Manhattan without the sweet embrace of a cherry on your tongue is like pulling out right before you’re about to shoot your load.” I want to take the glass and smash it across his face. I’m so amazed at the sheer douchebaggery of this individual that my red hot anger has frozen over, leaving me speechless.
This is the most I’ve ever observed Jimmy since I started working here. I can’t tell if he’s 20 or 30, nor can I tell if the sheen in his roots is hairspray or grease. He’s not even that good looking. His shirt’s a little ragged with a peeling Van Halen logo across it. A mystery stain bleeds over the “V.” His head droops forward, lip hanging open ever so slightly as if his brain has taken a short break. I squint at him.
“Can’t help you, pal,” I say. “I’m not getting paid enough to run errands.”
For the first time, he takes his sunglasses off. “I’ve had a rough day today,” he says, “and I’d really like it if this drink came with cherries.”
I realize I’ve never really seen Jimmy anywhere outside of Lady Jane’s. His life is a mystery. I’ve only known him as the guy perched against the jukebox, drinking, and picking up girls of various ages. Strange, I think, how he looks kind of sad without the shield of his Ray Bans to protect his sunken eyes.
Perhaps his wife is dead and he misses her. Or he’s really a homeless dude with good style, or a college dropout, or a junkie, or all of the above. Maybe, I think, maybe I’ll let him have this one, and perhaps the good karma will come back to me. “Fine,” I say, “I’ll get you some cherries.”
Right before I exit, he slides his sunglasses back on and I hear him say to the ladies at the end of the bar, “Yeah, I had a long fucking day alright.”
“Why is that?” One girl asks.
“My wife caught me in the act.”
