be there in ten minutes.”
“No, I’m tired, Nick. A little wasted, to tell the truth. I need to get some sleep.”
“But—”
“We’ll do it tomorrow. I promise. Believe me, I can keep a promise.”
I wanted to keep pressing, hopefully change his mind. Instead, I pulled back.
“Okay, how about we meet for breakfast?”
“I’ve got something to do in the morning. Let’s meet for lunch again,” he said.
We didn’t exactly have a great track record with lunches, but I didn’t want to point that out now.
“Sounds good, but on one condition,” I said.
“What’s that? What’s your condition for the interview?” he asked, and chuckled lightly.
It was simple, and it made all the sense in the world.
“I choose the restaurant this time.”
Chapter 22
IT WAS A little before noon when I walked into Jimmy D’s Pub three blocks south of my apartment. Any self-respecting writer has a local bar that doubles as his second home. I read that in Pete Hamill’s memoir, so it must be true, right?
A couple of doors from Jimmy’s I gave a buck to a panhandler I know named Reuben. Reuben’s a homeless man, nearly blind, unemployable. A quirk of mine is that I leave the house every morning with ten singles. I give them out on the streets until they’re gone. My father used to do the same thing with five singles when we would visit New York together. He didn’t think it was a big deal, and neither do I.
“Hey, Nick,” I heard from behind the bar as I grabbed a stool inside Jimmy’s. It wasn’t quite a chorus of people shouting “Norm!” on
Cheers,
but it was welcome just the same.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
Jimmy Dowd was the owner as well as his own daytimebartender. He poured a mean shot and could draw a clean pint of Guinness. I had no idea how his mixed drinks were because I’d never had one, let alone seen him make any. Jimmy’s was a pub for those who had only one decision to make with their liquor: straight up or on the rocks?
But I was holding off on either. At least until Dwayne Robinson arrived for our meeting.
Jimmy nodded when I told him as much, and the two of us chatted for a few minutes about the Yankees’ upcoming series against the Red Sox at Fenway. “We’ll take two of three,” predicted Jimmy. “As long as we pitch around Big Papi. Slumping or not, he always kills us!”
There were a lot of reasons why I liked hanging out at Jimmy D’s, not the least of which was Jimmy himself. He was a Vietnam vet who had made some money in stocks and decided to fulfill his lifelong dream of owning a pub. There was also the fact that three years ago Jimmy had saved my life one night. But that’s a story for another time.
The story now was Dwayne Robinson. I checked my watch—he was due any minute. Knowing that Jimmy, a Bronx native, shared the same passion for the Bombers that I did, I told him who I was waiting on.
“No shit, really?” he said, tossing back his head of jet-black hair with a surprised look. Then he summed up an entire city’s feeling with four words. “He broke my heart.”
We started comparing favorite Dwayne Robinson pitching performances. With lots to choose from, it wasn’t long before I lost track of the time.
“When was he supposed to meet you?” Jimmy finally asked, glancing at his watch.
“Noon,” I answered, doing the same.
Shit!
It was twelve thirty.
Here we go again!
I reached for my cell phone and dialed Robinson’s apartment. By the sixth ring I was about to hang up. That’s when I heard the beep of an incoming call. I hit the flash button to switch over to the other line, not bothering to check caller ID. I was sure it was Dwayne.
It was Courtney.
I dispensed with “Hello” and cut to the chase, my frustration leading the way like a bulldozer. “He didn’t show,” I said. “Dwayne Robinson screwed me again.”
“I know,” said Courtney.
I know?
“Are you near a television?” she asked.
I motioned for Jimmy to turn on the
“No, I’m tired, Nick. A little wasted, to tell the truth. I need to get some sleep.”
“But—”
“We’ll do it tomorrow. I promise. Believe me, I can keep a promise.”
I wanted to keep pressing, hopefully change his mind. Instead, I pulled back.
“Okay, how about we meet for breakfast?”
“I’ve got something to do in the morning. Let’s meet for lunch again,” he said.
We didn’t exactly have a great track record with lunches, but I didn’t want to point that out now.
“Sounds good, but on one condition,” I said.
“What’s that? What’s your condition for the interview?” he asked, and chuckled lightly.
It was simple, and it made all the sense in the world.
“I choose the restaurant this time.”
Chapter 22
IT WAS A little before noon when I walked into Jimmy D’s Pub three blocks south of my apartment. Any self-respecting writer has a local bar that doubles as his second home. I read that in Pete Hamill’s memoir, so it must be true, right?
A couple of doors from Jimmy’s I gave a buck to a panhandler I know named Reuben. Reuben’s a homeless man, nearly blind, unemployable. A quirk of mine is that I leave the house every morning with ten singles. I give them out on the streets until they’re gone. My father used to do the same thing with five singles when we would visit New York together. He didn’t think it was a big deal, and neither do I.
“Hey, Nick,” I heard from behind the bar as I grabbed a stool inside Jimmy’s. It wasn’t quite a chorus of people shouting “Norm!” on
Cheers,
but it was welcome just the same.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
Jimmy Dowd was the owner as well as his own daytimebartender. He poured a mean shot and could draw a clean pint of Guinness. I had no idea how his mixed drinks were because I’d never had one, let alone seen him make any. Jimmy’s was a pub for those who had only one decision to make with their liquor: straight up or on the rocks?
But I was holding off on either. At least until Dwayne Robinson arrived for our meeting.
Jimmy nodded when I told him as much, and the two of us chatted for a few minutes about the Yankees’ upcoming series against the Red Sox at Fenway. “We’ll take two of three,” predicted Jimmy. “As long as we pitch around Big Papi. Slumping or not, he always kills us!”
There were a lot of reasons why I liked hanging out at Jimmy D’s, not the least of which was Jimmy himself. He was a Vietnam vet who had made some money in stocks and decided to fulfill his lifelong dream of owning a pub. There was also the fact that three years ago Jimmy had saved my life one night. But that’s a story for another time.
The story now was Dwayne Robinson. I checked my watch—he was due any minute. Knowing that Jimmy, a Bronx native, shared the same passion for the Bombers that I did, I told him who I was waiting on.
“No shit, really?” he said, tossing back his head of jet-black hair with a surprised look. Then he summed up an entire city’s feeling with four words. “He broke my heart.”
We started comparing favorite Dwayne Robinson pitching performances. With lots to choose from, it wasn’t long before I lost track of the time.
“When was he supposed to meet you?” Jimmy finally asked, glancing at his watch.
“Noon,” I answered, doing the same.
Shit!
It was twelve thirty.
Here we go again!
I reached for my cell phone and dialed Robinson’s apartment. By the sixth ring I was about to hang up. That’s when I heard the beep of an incoming call. I hit the flash button to switch over to the other line, not bothering to check caller ID. I was sure it was Dwayne.
It was Courtney.
I dispensed with “Hello” and cut to the chase, my frustration leading the way like a bulldozer. “He didn’t show,” I said. “Dwayne Robinson screwed me again.”
“I know,” said Courtney.
I know?
“Are you near a television?” she asked.
I motioned for Jimmy to turn on the
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