Note: This post is based off a text string among several of my friends from 1/17/23. Only my friends will get this. It is dedicated to them.

So there I was listening to a performance of “Twelve Variations on a Russian Dance” by Beethoven and performed by Frederick Moyer, Pianist. Fred had just finished his introduction by enlightening the audience how Beethoven was the jazz star of his day. How he was a master at taking a theme and playing twelve variations on the opening theme. Much like jazz artists do now. They will begin playing one thing then they are soon riffing onto something else.

He began playing and I settled into the evening’s performance. Suddenly, at the third variation, my phone lit up and it was Huhn. The message was clear. “I need help. I’m in the garage in x31.” I groaned, this is not gonna be pretty. I snuck out and into the garage and of course, there was no x31.

Then, I saw a light flash over near the rear corner. There he was. Huhn. He looked desperate.

“I got arrested. Again.” I looked at him up and down and blurted out, “For climbing Half Dome again – without a permit?”

Suddenly there was a crack against the left side of my head and the lights went out. When I came to, I was groggy and Huhn was gone. So was my wallet. I stood up, shakily, and something felt weird. I reached inside my pocket and it was jammed with peanut shells. “Damn, Casson’s tied up in this too,” I realized. A perfect circle of dog poop was surrounding me. So Bowman’s been here too, I thought. This is gonna be tricky.

I called Keating. I was going to need a special batch of bourbon – one he had distilled himself. But when he answered, instead all he could talk about was the 151 rum from some long-ago party he had hosted.

This was worse than I thought. I call Barr. “Kitz, I’m in trouble.” All she kept saying was LOL, LOL, LOL and then she started talking about the twins this and the twins that and how she had been baking 60 straight days since Thanksgiving.

“Kitz, I’m in trouble, I need help!” I yelled this time. She told me, “Call New York Life, they’ll give you your damn help! LOL!”

Shit, I thought. I’m sunk. I knew what I had to do. I raced to the nearest Avis and rented the fastest Mazerati I could get. I didn’t have much time to get back to Long Island.

Soon as I could, I pulled up to the old Whiskey Reds. It had gone out of business in 1992. I checked my coordinates and learned there is a new Whiskey Reds Sports Bar & Grill. Hempstead Turnpike. East Meadow. That would have to do.

I got there as fast as I could. No peanut shells on the floor. New code against foodstuff on the floor. So I ordered a Schaeffer. “We only have craft beers here, Pal.” Instead I ordered one of their 132 IPA draft choices. I took a sip. Then I spied them. Huhn Casson & Bowman over at a table in the corner. Big bowl of nachos. A Manhattan (I figured Casson), mocktail (Huhn) and a fish-sized bowl of wine (Bowman). No poop anywhere, staying in compliance with the clean floor policy.

Then, I saw him. Whiskey Red himself, sitting at the bar. So I stealthily moved onto the stool next to him. He said, “What are ya having Kid?”

“Kid?” I asked. “I’m 69 years old.”

“Look, you, I don’t want no funny stuff. What’ll ya have?”

I thought for a minute, chugged the rest of my Old Desperado Piney Forest Dankerful Slamming Rhino Moondoggie IPA and said, “I’ll have a bourbon, on the rocks, with a cherry.” He winked at me. “Now you’re talkin’, Kid.”

“Alright,” he said, “now you’re ready to play ball.” So we shot the shit for a while, talked about the old place, of course compared notes about All American. Turns out he’s a knish guy. But I digress.

I pointed to the table of three in the corner. Red looked over, then looked back at me. Then he looked down at his feet. “Kid, there’s two kinds of people in this world. Good people and bad people.” Then he looked back at the three. “Then again, there’s a third type of person. They’re from another universe or somethin’. You think you know them, then…”

Suddenly a flash of light appeared and Red was gone and in his place was a chair with char marks and smoke rising. I quickly looked to the corner but of course they were gone.

Quickly, I yanked as many bags of peanuts from behind the bar as I could and I began opening them and throwing and spreading peanuts and shells everywhere. It was my only chance. I began crunching down on the shells with my shoes. Everyone stared at me, mouths agape. I looked out and saw that all their jeans were neatly tailored. Their shoes were perfect.

The past was over. I realized my friends had moved on. So I drove the Mazerati down toward Jones Beach. Along the way, I was racing south on the Seaford Oyster Bay Expressway. Flashing lights appeared behind me. I was pulled over. When they searched me and found peanut shells in my pocket, Officer Obie called in for backups. He said, “We’ve seen this before.”

This was gonna be a long night.

Chris Ebel
1/17/23

Photo credit: @elvinstar