Live From the Sidewalk

Guy walks up to the door asking to speak to Carmine the Manager. I tell him Carmine’s not working tonight. He says he knows Carmine’s here, and that I can skip the bouncer bullshit because he’s a guy who really knows Carmine, and can I please get on the radio and tell Carmine to come to the door.

“Who’s asking?”

“Mikey Blackjack,” he replies.

“Mikey Blackjack? That’s your name?”

“I’m a blackjack dealer.”

“Wow,” I say. “What are the odds of that?”

* * * * *

Fucking hot piece of ass walks up to the door waving her license. She’s quite tall and “willowy,” and I’d like to have sex with her provided she doesn’t have a disease. Fat chance around here. I check her ID and hand it to the girl who runs the machine that validates the fuckers. She hands it back to me, and I return it to the piece of ass. When I do, I see she has a splint on her finger.

“What’s the matter with your finger?” I ask.

“It’s broken,” she replies.

“What happened? Somebody punch you in the nose?”

* * * * *

Two Guidos get into a scuffle on the sidewalk at the end of the night. We break it up. Turns out they know each other from “the neighborhood,” wherever the fuck that happens to be. They’re shouting at each other – over us, through us and around us.

“I know where you live, Anthony!” shouts one. “Don’t forget that! I know where you live!”

“You hear this piece of shit?” Anthony asks me. “You hear what I have to deal with?”

“Sounds like he wants to take care of this somewhere else,” I say.

“Ah, I ain’t worried. Fuck him. He’s the load his mother shoulda swallowed.”