A JERSEY JAMOKE

It was 1:32 am E.S.T, September, 9th, 1992. It was my Dad’s 54th birthday. I’d see him in Jersey in about 8 hours if I was lucky. I had just finished eating my pork roll and cheese breakfast croissant, with classic Taylor Ham as the prime actor, at the Court Square Diner on 23rd Street, Long Island City, NY. Local Queens to all you discerning folk looking for a classic East Coast diner grub grab at the most unsavory of hours, as well as some cool cool coolio people eye watching vibes you can’t get anywhere else at that hour. A few blocks down from Astoria. But that didn’t matter too much in my state of mind. You’d be amazed at the amount of wild and wackazapple energy you’d find on any given occasion in NYC, especially when that occasion enlists the aid of the twilight hours between midnight and 6 am just across the East River from “The City That Never Sleeps”. I had just come off a 7 hour bender and I was burning hard and to the point.

If you’ve never been on a bender of any kind at any moment then you wouldn’t understand where my mind was at the time. But the sandwich was amazing. It pulled me back from the edge of insanity like nothing you could ever imagine.

Damn. Pork roll and cheese. Who’d’ve thought something as toxic and wrong for the body could be so right. But it was.

I sat there in the booth like Steve Guttenberg from the movie DINER, one of my favorite movies of all time, by the way, released a decade earlier. I was content. My belt loosened just enough to allow a brief relief from the brilliant processed Trenton pig meat now settling down into my gut, sipping at the sludge of java mud swirling about within the small saucer of a cup before me, dumping far too much sugar into it than need be, and smoking a Marlboro Red.

At the time, for me, life was good. Even though I only had about 12.75 in cash left to my name. The sandwich and joe was gonna cost me about 7.27 total. So forget it. I was gonna leave all I had on the table. Nice tip, I thought. She deserved it. 65 year old angry waitress needed it more than I did. Right? Right. Anyhoozap, I’d have a few more bucks coming to me in the next couple of weeks if I played it smooth and kept my job at the waterfront. Luck was all I had left at this point. Just had to keep my drinking to a minuscule minutiae. Bushmills is a true monster of the garden. And if you’ve ever roiled and roared in the garden I speak of then you’d know that the monster I had boiling over about deep within my gray matter was a big ass problem. A problem, though, I wasn’t aware of at the time.

At least that’s what I told myself.

Me. I was just a Jersey jamoke. Time had no relevancy in my world. A struggling dope with minimal options thanks to my current choice of career pursuits. Actor. Ha! No wonder I drank.

The only thing keeping me afloat was the dream. The dream of making something of myself like my Dad hoped I would.

The waterfront gig was temporary, but necessary. Cash under the table. Cash that kept me moving forward with whatever motivation I still had pumping through my veins. The moments in between were laced with beer and shot infused mania. I was losing my grip, it was slick and desperate. And I wasn’t as slick as I thought I was. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go crawling back home to Jersey for a handout. Never had, never will.

Just slug on back to my beat up ’82 Malibu Classic parked underneath the Silver Cup Studios sign a few blocks over on 21st, roll my ass up in an old sleeping bag in the back seat, and pray for a quick and painless death. Or something close to it at least.

I just needed a show. A play. A booking. The kind that sets in motion the type of success that can pull you from the pit rather than throw you deep into it.

But all I was getting were diddly tiddly workshops. Pathetic scene nights that agents and managers never came to. Why would they? Dirty basement theaters in mid-town putting up the same old silly wonked out showcases over and over again to satisfy the millions of actor-types hungry of actually doing something in their lives. Anything.

I needed a show. A something something to make me feel worthy of having any semblance of talent in this biz.

I pulled out the leather.

The 12.75 wasn’t there. Shit. That sleeve of battered leather known as my wallet was empty. That last beer had gotten me and I hadn’t even realized it. It truly had. It had got me good. Son of a …….

Ok.

Whatta I do? Seriously. WHAT..DO..I..DO?

I shuffled in the booth a bit, trying to adjust to my newfound poverty.

I thought. I thought hard.

Nothing came.

“You should’ve been a lawyer instead of an actor, you schmuck!” I mumbled to myself.

The angry waitress looked over at me with a scowl. I thought again. This time quicker. And more deliberate. My Irish funky haze was fading now. But I still smelt it. On my breath and wafting up into my hazel blue eyes.

I raised my hand to gesture for another refill of the unlimited java mud she was peddling. She came over and leered at me as she poured me a hot blip of a refresh. I smiled through grit teeth and cracked lips.

This isn’t gonna settle well. I knew that for a fact. I just needed to bide my time.

Actors don’t get second chances. They get one chance. Or do they? Hell if I really knew. I was now officially caught in the wannabe James Dean mode of survival.

I straightened my back as I reached for the cup of joe. And, as I did, I felt a bulge. A bulge so fierce and uncomfortable jutting right on through my tailbone that I literally lifted my ass a bit so as to alleviate the stress pressing up against me.

I reached behind me and pulled a little black book out from between the folds of the booth seat behind me. I held it up. It was a black piece of leather with a strip of black threaded elastic wrapped around the opening. I’d seen notebooks like these in book stores. And it was the size of my hand. But this one was beat up all to hell.

I opened it. Front page read the name and phone number of the author. Cirk Dushay. That was the author’s name. Weird name, but whatever. And just below it read “If lost….for reward…?..”

Reward? Question mark?

I flipped through the pages a bit. All I saw were scribblings of ideas and thoughts that I couldn’t figure were of any true value through my glazed snow-globed eyes.

I went back to the beginning and tried to re-read exactly what was there.

After I had made the conscious decision to focus intently on what was written in those pages from page one to whenever, I was entirely engaged. Which was crazy to me considering that the majority of it was utter gibberish. Gobbledygook. Math equations. Not just simple arithmetic, but equations that actually looked important. It wasn’t like reading a text book. It was something more ethereal, if that makes any sense. And even though it was filled with the likes of. Algebra. Geometry. Trigonometry. Calculus! Oh my God!! Crazy ass drawings that looked like an alien from another world had written it. It was another language. A language I couldn’t decipher, but definitely a language that had my brain held captive. It was weird and thrilling all at the same time and my head was spinning because of it.

I slammed the book down on the table. The angry waitress looked over at me with a fierce glare. I smiled weakly and got up. I moved towards the pay phone near the restrooms.

I reached the phone in a slumbering stumble. Ah man, the Bushmills was definitely taking its toll now. All I needed was a few bucks to pay the bill. I definitely wasn’t leaving till the bill was paid. I’m not that type of dingle douche.

I picked up the receiver, dug in my pocket for some change. Cripes!! Of course I didn’t have any change. I though about it. If this Cirk Dushay guy truly wanted this thing back then he wouldn’t mind if I reversed the charges. Yeah. That’s right. I called this guy collect. It was a shot in the dark. But I figured it was worth it.

He picked up instantaneously. The sound of pretzels or something crunchy was heard on the other end crunching loudly into my ear.

“Sup.” Said a male voice between chomps.

I talked. Told him what I found.

The chomping ceased quickly. Dead silence on the other end for what seemed like an eternity.

“Where are you?” He asked in a raspy voice.

I told him.

“I’ll be there in five.” And he hung up.

Five? What the crap? Where is this guy?

As if time had stopped with me standing there gazing vacantly at the pay phone hanging on the wall, I suddenly heard the door to the diner chime. I looked over.

A wild haired, hippy like looking dude of about 40 something dressed in a dirty Grateful Dead t-shirt, burgundy plaid pajama pants, and purple flip flops walked in carrying a bag of Funions and munching. It was him. Daaammmn. Had it been five minutes already? Or had this guy found a portal through one or another dimension or something?

I walked back towards the booth staring at the guy cautiously. I slid in, grabbed the book, and clutched it to my chest as he made his way down the aisle between the booths and the counter towards me. He was smiling and chomping away at his Funions in the most relaxed of fashions. This dude had no worries in the world that I could see. He looked like a bum off the streets. But a happy bum at that.

He looked over the counter at the angry waitress and smiled so damn big it looked as if his face had exploded in teeth and shattered chips of Funions spraying from between his lips.

The angry waitress was no longer angry. It was as if this guy had bewitched her. She smiled back at him with the most adoring of looks and blushed cheeks. She nodded and began pouring a cup of tea. What in the Hell?!

He walked right up to my booth, slipped on in, and staring at me inquisitively and with the gentlest of laid back expressions I have ever witnessed in my life.

“Sup?” He said again.

“You Cirk?” I asked. Pronouncing it like Kirk.

“Among other things. But it’s really Cirk.” He said. “Like those street geeks up in Montreal pronounce it.”

“Huh?” I was lost.

“It’s the way the French pronounce Circus.” He said simply.

“Ohhh. Ok. So what? You some kind of circus freak or something?”

“Freak? Nah. Just a guy.” He replied with an affable face and a chortled chuckle.

The now sweet smiling waitress walked up to the table with a cup of tea and placed it infront of Cirk. He looked up smiling at her. She blushed again.

“How’s it goin’, Sam?” He asked her with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Doing ok, sweetie. How are you?” She cooed.

“Better now thanks to my pal here.” He said nodding to me.

She smiled at him and then scowled at me.

“You need anything let me know.” She said sincerely.

“Put his bill on my tab.” Cirk said swiftly as he looked over at me knowingly with a wink. She looked at him one last time with absolute love in her eyes, glanced at me with disgust, nodded, turned, and walked back behind the counter.

“Thanks.” I said with relief.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” He asked, as he leaned forward with his right arm on the table. “A free meal?”

“Uh. Yeah, actually it is. Thanks again.” I slid the small black leather notebook across the table towards him. Without looking at it he gently placed his right hand on top of it.

“So. You know there’s a reward for returning this, right?” He took the book and held it at his fingertips.

“I thought the reward was just paid.” I asked nervously wanting to get out of there now before I made any more mistakes. “We’re square, thanks.”

“Square. I like that. What were you? Born in the fifties? No one uses that phrase anymore.” He cackled and slammed his open palm down on the table. “Square. HA!”

I was stumped. This guy was whacked and all I wanted to do was get out of there and back to my Buick.

“No. The 70’s.”

Cirk laughed even louder at that. He laughed so hard it seemed his eyes would pop out of their sockets. My nerves were now way beyond frayed. My buzz was gone and I wanted to be gone.

“Well, the line did have a question mark on it, didn’t it?” He calmed as he looked at me curiously, with a sly smile. “The reward line in this here book I mean?”

“Uh. Yeah. It did. I guess.”

A long deafening silence followed. Cirk opened the book and began perusing through the pages furiously like a machine analyzing data. After a few uncomfortable moments he looked up with another smile, jeez oh crikey, he smiled a lot, I thought to myself. Then he gently closed the book, wrapped the stretched elastic around it’s opening, then took a sip of his tea and sat back in the booth.

“What’s this worth to you, Actor-boy?” Cirk asked with what seemed to be a galaxy of stars swirling about in his eyes. It was unsettling to see, but still thrilling.

“Whoah. Wait. How do you know I’m an actor?” I asked lowly and with a tinge of concern.

“I know because I’m you twenty some years later.”

My mouth dropped.

“Who the Hell are you?”

“I’m you, Kevin.” He replied firmly, but calmly.

“Ok.” I said quickly as I moved to get out of the booth. How in the Hell did this whacko know my name. “I’m out of here. Thanks for paying my bill.”

As I stood and teetered on the balls of my feet Cirk Looked up at me with concern. He pulled out a check book. He took out a pen from his pajama pants and began scribbling on a check in the book.

“What are you doing?” I asked quietly.

He said nothing, but just scribbled for what seemed to be a lifetime, finished, ripped the check from the book, and slid it towards the end of the table towards me as I looked down at him and the check on the table. He slowly picked up his cup of tea and took one last sip as he slid out of the booth and stood looking directly in my eyes.

My knees buckled as his eyes made contact with mine.

“I’m saving you from yourself. Or ourself.” He said cryptically. “Basically, I’m giving you an opportunity most people never get in their lives.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m giving you, us, a second chance, kid. A chance at making something of yourself the way your Dad wants you too. Don’t screw it up.” Cirk placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezed it slightly, picked up his bag of Funions, popped a chip in his mouth, chomped down on it, smiled big and broadly, turned and walked out of the Diner. “Love ya lady, mean it.” He said to the waitress one last time before he vanished out the door.

“Love ya too, sweetie. Stay safe.” She shouted back at him as she wiped the counter down gleefully.

I stood there numbed by what had just happened.

I was frozen in place.

I couldn’t move.

The waitress came over to me. This time she was now smiling generously at me. This, in itself, freaked me out. I looked at her in shock. She merely placed a plate full of another Pork Roll and Cheese delish on the table and rested her hand on my shoulder the same way Cirk had done before.

“You need food, Kevin. It’s the only thing that is going to take the bite off of this problem you have. Sit. Eat. Enjoy.” She said in a very motherly tone and then walked away.

“But…but….I can’t pay for it. Cirk already took care of my last meal. Please. I can’t pay this.” I sputtered desperately, still standing.

She just waved my words away with a wave and a chuckle.

“That one’s on the house, my dear.”

And then she vanished. Literally. As if she dematerialized before my very eyes.

I looked around the Diner. No one was anywhere to be seen.

It was ghost like. Surreal. Terrifying. I was alone.

I sat slowly in the booth and looked at the sandwich. I was afraid to eat it. I didn’t think it was real. But it was. This madness was too good to be true. Or too bad to be true depending on how you looked at it. Damn did I want a drink.

I looked at the check on the table for the first time since Cirk left.

I reached over to slide it over to read, but something in me stopped myself.

This isn’t real, I thought to myself.

I slid the check over and looked at it.

My throat seized in terror. My temples throbbed. My eyes watered. Shit. I was having a stroke, I just knew it. This can’t be real. I re-read the check. Especially the memo line….

….it read, ‘Be true to you, bro. Never give up the dream. I know. You saved the world. You saved yourself by reaching out to me.’….

And then I read what was in the amount box….my mouth gaped…it couldn’t be real….it read $20,000 …. Then I read the line where you write out the amount just to be sure….it read Twenty Thousand Dollars zero cents.

I felt as if my brain was about to explode. It didn’t, but it felt like it would. I began to hyperventilate. Then I turned the check over and more writing was scrawled across the back.

It read, ‘Drop the booze and do what you do. Your Dad is proud of you. Only if you heed my words. ‘Cause I am you, bro. I am you. Remember this word and invest in it, google.’

I dropped the check on the table, picked up the sandwich and ate it in four huge bites.

Google? What kinda word is that?

I stood, picked up the check, took one last look at it, smiled, and walked out of the Court Square Diner a new man.

“Thank you, lady. Be well and stay safe.” I shouted one last time to the angry/sweet/motherly waitress as I walked out of the diner with my future in my hands.

“You too, sweetheart. See you in twenty or so years from now.” She shouted back with a knowledge I never gave her credit for before I walked in there that night.

“You will?” I asked.

“I will.” She replied confidently.