I called Old Jim on the cell this afternoon. I had not talked to him for a week or so, and wanted to check in once I realized that it was his birthday.
Heather and I were talking about it at The Front Page last night. Jon-without-an-H was on her other side, marking the four-month anniversary of his current “between gigs” period. “It is amazing how time flies,” he said.
“No kidding,” I replied. “And it seems to be accelerating.”
I am upbeat about his prospects. Jon-without is too talented, smart and well-dressed to be on the street very long, but it is a crap shoot out there these days. I don’t know if age discrimination is a factor. Goodness knows I would not hire me to do anything involving heavy machinery or prescription drugs. But the one of the topics of conversation was how old Jim really was. We remembered the 70th; Willow has now been closed for more than a year and a half; Jim an Mary had decamped for retirement in Las Vegas at just about the same time. That marked the Willow dispersal Diaspora. John-with-an-H had announced his preference for the Lynon Fall Happy Hour, and then developed a spinal condition that resulted in major surgery. We may or may not see him when he is mobile again. Then there were the girls- Joy and The Lovely Bea and Jamie through marriage and relationship and career changes.
It was tough losing them all at once, but for the predictable reason that The Front Page was not as convenient to visit as Willow, jobs and relationships changed, and life is just…well, you know. Complicated.
The Willow Regulars had suffered gapping holes in the ranks. Mac Showers had passed on. Barrister Jerry was among the missing, as were both versions of the Mikes- Long and Short Hair, and JarHead Ray and White House Ray; The Missile Twins did not come to Front Page, choosing to stay on the safe side of Glebe Road at Ser, the vaguely Mediterranean-themed place near the CACI Building on Glebe. K2 was only an occasional player these days- he works in the National Science Foundation in the offices above the bar, and his position is that he sees enough of the people he works with and doesn’t have to drink with them.
The people we continue to see includes Liz-with-an-S, Heather, JPeter and Jon-without. It always brings me up short to not see irascible Jim’s glower at the corner of whatever bar we were in. During one of his periodic boycotts of Willow, we tried coming to the Front Page, but it just did not click. Not then, anyway. And in the end, the fellowship of the friendly staff and owners always brought him back.
That, and the simple fact that Willow was the closest bar to his place, which minimized the effort to limp down Utah Street to his usual stool.
We finally decided Jim was 73, and left it at that. I was pleased that I remembered to call him this afternoon. The time difference was a problem, since when I first remembered to be thoughtful it was way too early to bother Vegas.
The whole notion of Willow and entropy had been explained well by George, Front Page’s Greek owner. He looked us over and christened us the “South Side,” since we normally congregated on the side of his bar that faced the mall across the street. “I had a bunch like you at my other pace downtown,” he said. “They were a regular group of drunks and always sat in the same place. They came in for years, but you know drunks. They lived hard and it eventually caught up with them.”
I looked at him blankly and realized he was right. We had been going to the same bar and sitting in the same stools for a decade, and eventually entropy was going to get us. It is what it is.
So this afternoon I called Jim’s cell number. It is still a DC area code, so it is a little strange calling it with the intent of talking to someone in the Desert. He picked up after two rings, and we had a great chat. His vision therapist had just departed, raving about the exceptional progress Jim had been making. “You will be back to writing Blank Verse in no time,” he said they told him, and I told him we had decided he was 73.
“Bull.” he said firmly. “It was a February day in 1943, and the fate of the war was very much in doubt until I arrived. I am 74 this year.”
I thanked him for the correction and wished him the very best returns of the day, and asked that he convey my very best wishes to his bride, Chanteuse Mary. He said he would, and reminded me to come out to Sin City soon. I told him I would get right on it, and we ended the call.
If I manage to live as long as Jim has, I am confident of one thing: sitting at the stool next to him at Willow, and hanging out with The Regulars, made that time the best decade of my life. I seriously doubt if I will see the like of it again.
Happy birthday, Jim!
Copyright 2017 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com