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(True story. Really. People I know saw this stuff happen. Last Saturday night even.)
So I stop by the decatur for drinks before I was supposed to go meet the textillian and the sicillian at some rock and/or roll show at the Green Room downtown. So I'm In the Decatur talking about Africa for the millionth time. I am really sick of talking about africa. But the people who like to drink with me in Providence just do not seem to be satisfied with "it's a shithole". Anyway, as the proud owner of a new Tattoo, I was naturally lifting my sleeve, because I would much rather hear how cool my new tattoo is than talk about africa. So I'm lifting my shirtsleeve and this tall, haggard, but muscular dude comes over to me and SLAPS the tattoo. Navy Man! he says Airborne 101, ft something-or-another Kentucky Of course I had to correct him that I was a merchant marine. We all know how I feel about the navy boys. So one slap turns into two, three and he ends up sitting down to drink with me and my friends.
Now you have to understand that the Decatur used to be an old school Italian "Social Club" run by, and for, the RI Mafioso. Of course the Slapper proceeded to tell us all about how it used to be up On da hill He also started to tell us about killing people and burying bodies. By this point his buddy, introduced as his "shovel man" had joined the table. the shovelman was really interested in the merchant marine because he fishes out of Galilee. So I'm happy as a pig in shit because I'm drinking with guys with real character. Sure they were loud and intimidating people into buying shots of sambuca, and out of their cigarettes, but still. But Still they were CHARACTERS. it was a shot in the ol' arm. Weather they are in the Mafia or a freaking jamacian gang or even the Hatians with all their Voudu, I don't care as long as they are strong of character, and, of course not pushing a gun into my gut or a Ratchet at my throat.
So the slapper was running around acting like he owned the joint. Which I can understand considering that the joint used to be part of that thing of theirs, and is now packed to the gills with "hipsters" and former art students and such. Meanwhile, the shovelman starts talking about his new found devotion to the lord our god and deep affection for cocaine. And after the slapper started making the entire bar listen up between songs on the juke, I noticed that all the folks that I had set out drinking with had either left the table, or the bar for that matter. In fact, it seemed that the crowd had thinned out a little since the slapper started getting rambunctious.
So it was at this point that I got up to hit the head. The bartender and another friend pulled me aside. SaltDog they said I don't know if you realize who you are drinking with. The slapper spent fourteen years in the joint for murder.
I know, he told me all about it a little while ago.
Well I don't know if you realize that this is a really serious situation...
And they told me all about how these two had held everybody in the Decatur hostage for a couple of hours a couple of months ago while they ran around wrecking stuff, or at least threatening to. And they told me that because they seemed to like me, It was my civic duty to calm the guy down and keep him from drinking more sambuca and so on and so forth. And I take my civic duties seriously. So I went back to the table and told them that I was going to a rock-n-roll show when my beer was done, and asked if they wanted to come with me. Of course they had no interest in the show, but I knew that they wanted a ride somewhere. Soon thereafter we were outside. And after a brief encounter with a guy that the slapper wanted to give a beating to (the shovelman diffused the situation mainly, but I added my own anti-beating rationale that the slapper couldn't hit the guy because of the Bichon frise he was cradling in his arms.) We got into the new car and went off to buy Crack. And then after the usual crackhead argument over who got the Lion's share of the rock, they smoked the crap in my car. And then I gave them a ride to another seedy area of town.
But actually getting the guys out of my car got a little hairy. The slapper wanted me to write down my name and telephone number in case he ever needed me. He, freshly high on crack, wanted to tell me in intense detail about how well known he is and that if I ever have a problem, his name was like a get out of jail free card, the key to the city and a call for the entire RI mafioso to be at my back all rolled into one. And he wanted my name and number, just in case he ever needed me. And so on. After I started to think that they were actually going to jack my car he finally turned to me and said:
I slapped your new Tattoo Three times.
You didn't flinch.
You know, if you had flinched, I would have beat the shit out of you, but you didn't flinch and You're a good guy.
If you had flinched, I would have kicked the crap out of you and then wrecked that whole bar in about forty-five seconds. No Shit. You're a good guy, and I won't remember your name, but I'll remember the Tattoo. See Ya buddy.
And then he slapped the Tattoo a fourth time.
I didn't flinch.
So I stop by the decatur for drinks before I was supposed to go meet the textillian and the sicillian at some rock and/or roll show at the Green Room downtown. So I'm In the Decatur talking about Africa for the millionth time. I am really sick of talking about africa. But the people who like to drink with me in Providence just do not seem to be satisfied with "it's a shithole". Anyway, as the proud owner of a new Tattoo, I was naturally lifting my sleeve, because I would much rather hear how cool my new tattoo is than talk about africa. So I'm lifting my shirtsleeve and this tall, haggard, but muscular dude comes over to me and SLAPS the tattoo. Navy Man! he says Airborne 101, ft something-or-another Kentucky Of course I had to correct him that I was a merchant marine. We all know how I feel about the navy boys. So one slap turns into two, three and he ends up sitting down to drink with me and my friends.
Now you have to understand that the Decatur used to be an old school Italian "Social Club" run by, and for, the RI Mafioso. Of course the Slapper proceeded to tell us all about how it used to be up On da hill He also started to tell us about killing people and burying bodies. By this point his buddy, introduced as his "shovel man" had joined the table. the shovelman was really interested in the merchant marine because he fishes out of Galilee. So I'm happy as a pig in shit because I'm drinking with guys with real character. Sure they were loud and intimidating people into buying shots of sambuca, and out of their cigarettes, but still. But Still they were CHARACTERS. it was a shot in the ol' arm. Weather they are in the Mafia or a freaking jamacian gang or even the Hatians with all their Voudu, I don't care as long as they are strong of character, and, of course not pushing a gun into my gut or a Ratchet at my throat.
So the slapper was running around acting like he owned the joint. Which I can understand considering that the joint used to be part of that thing of theirs, and is now packed to the gills with "hipsters" and former art students and such. Meanwhile, the shovelman starts talking about his new found devotion to the lord our god and deep affection for cocaine. And after the slapper started making the entire bar listen up between songs on the juke, I noticed that all the folks that I had set out drinking with had either left the table, or the bar for that matter. In fact, it seemed that the crowd had thinned out a little since the slapper started getting rambunctious.
So it was at this point that I got up to hit the head. The bartender and another friend pulled me aside. SaltDog they said I don't know if you realize who you are drinking with. The slapper spent fourteen years in the joint for murder.
I know, he told me all about it a little while ago.
Well I don't know if you realize that this is a really serious situation...
And they told me all about how these two had held everybody in the Decatur hostage for a couple of hours a couple of months ago while they ran around wrecking stuff, or at least threatening to. And they told me that because they seemed to like me, It was my civic duty to calm the guy down and keep him from drinking more sambuca and so on and so forth. And I take my civic duties seriously. So I went back to the table and told them that I was going to a rock-n-roll show when my beer was done, and asked if they wanted to come with me. Of course they had no interest in the show, but I knew that they wanted a ride somewhere. Soon thereafter we were outside. And after a brief encounter with a guy that the slapper wanted to give a beating to (the shovelman diffused the situation mainly, but I added my own anti-beating rationale that the slapper couldn't hit the guy because of the Bichon frise he was cradling in his arms.) We got into the new car and went off to buy Crack. And then after the usual crackhead argument over who got the Lion's share of the rock, they smoked the crap in my car. And then I gave them a ride to another seedy area of town.
But actually getting the guys out of my car got a little hairy. The slapper wanted me to write down my name and telephone number in case he ever needed me. He, freshly high on crack, wanted to tell me in intense detail about how well known he is and that if I ever have a problem, his name was like a get out of jail free card, the key to the city and a call for the entire RI mafioso to be at my back all rolled into one. And he wanted my name and number, just in case he ever needed me. And so on. After I started to think that they were actually going to jack my car he finally turned to me and said:
I slapped your new Tattoo Three times.
You didn't flinch.
You know, if you had flinched, I would have beat the shit out of you, but you didn't flinch and You're a good guy.
If you had flinched, I would have kicked the crap out of you and then wrecked that whole bar in about forty-five seconds. No Shit. You're a good guy, and I won't remember your name, but I'll remember the Tattoo. See Ya buddy.
And then he slapped the Tattoo a fourth time.
I didn't flinch.
