Discopants and Haircuts

When I was bar-tending at the Essex Street Pub in Buffalo for many years I had a particular favorite customer. His name is/was Jack Drummer. He was an old bitter, drunken artist. Apparently, through many different channels, I found out he was quite a known artist in the artist world. He also, supposedly, owned a famous restaurant/bar in NYC years ago that was frequented by the likes of Andy Warhol and Lou Reed, to name just a few. I guess it was a dinky, dark, kind of place that the underground celebrity writers and artists liked to frequent.

Jack used to drink whatever you gave to him. He preferred scotch whiskey. He often would walk in, bifocals on his face, and a New York Times under his arm at around noon… You could walk in three days later and he was STILL drinking, going to other people’s houses when the bars were closed. But it wasn’t the drinking that made me appreciate the guy. It was his character. He was the real deal. My favorite was when a Yuppie asshole would walk into the bar to order a drink and Jack would stumble over to him, rock glass full scotch and say, “Helloooo White MAN!” He would proceed to piss these people off as much as he possibly could. I loved that. Fuck their shit up, cause a stir, wake you from your walking slumber. He payed for it in many different ways. Sometimes he would stumble in with cuts and bruises.

When I just started working there I threw him out right away… after all he was pissing off the other paying customers. But as I got to know him I realized what he was doing. I appreciated the narcissistic side of him. I knew why he was doing it. There were many moments when I got to know him better. I found out his birthday was a day before mine. I used to crank The Doors in the bar and he would salute me and say I was destined to move to California. There was the time he would share his stuttered, mumbled wisdom and I would actually (think I could) understand. There were times I would fill in for Catch or Molly or Nancy on a Sunday afternoon and we would just sit and chat on the patio, listening to some Coltraine while drinking my famous margaritas (very large, very strong and no fucking blending or salt) .

He would be around for a week, two weeks and then you wouldn’t hear from him for awhile. Sometimes I think he would visit another bar, other times I think he was actually getting down to business. I suspected this much because occasionally a strange, wealthy, cultured type would walk in looking for him and they would end up sitting somewhere chatting away while Jack drank the complimentary drinks they provided him.

The years went by after I left the bar. Chicago, the Military, crazy ex-wife I married in Vegas etc. I remember one day I went to his ‘house’ (He lived in a big brick building with one huge room full of canvasses. His bed was a small wooden bench. ) to read some Emerson with him. I haven’t seen him since then. Damn I would love to hang out with that guy at the Pub tonight if I could. Shit disturbing people give me a mental hard-on.