Recently a couple of old timers came into the bar. Although I hadn't seen the woman for over thirty years there was no mistaking who she was.  She was one of those truly grotesquely ugly creatures that age does very little tampering with. In other words, once you hit a certain level of uglyness it's almost impossible to get any uglier. Thin ratty hair, buck teeth, thick glasses, discolored teeth, and those were here most attractive qualities.  She was with her second husband (or boyfriend, it was unclear), an old time dope dealer I didn't know very well. The first thing she did was point at the East wall and say, "what did you do to the wall?" Now this is a very common question when someone who hasn't been to the bar in the last five or ten years chances to walk in. The wall in question is adorned with portraits of the bar flies that inhabited the Old Town Ale House in the 1960's and early 70's. There are over a hundred of these portraits and easily eighty percent of the men and woman depicted are now deceased. The woman who painted the portraits is Maureen Munsun. She was a talented illustrator, and she simply invited people who she liked to come into the bar and pose for her. Over the years after being exposed to tons of nicotine and dust, the wall has developed a weird  orangish patina. The last anyone heard of Maureen was about thirty years ago. My uncle was working as a shrink at Reed Mental Hospital on the North West Side, and she was a patient. Her prognosis at the time was not good.

  Over the years some of the portraits have been obscured or completely blocked out by the addition  of the  juke box, and a couple of the pews . I personally committed  sacrilege by painting portraits of Ebert, Algren, Lenny Bruce, Eddy Balchowsky, Andy Shaw, and Royko (all of whom frequented the bar at one time or another) and placed them on the sacred wall and thereby partially obscuring some of the old timers. So I had become accustomed to these snide remarks from these quaint, antique, former patrons during their infrequent visits. 

   A little more history - the remarkably ugly woman that had just walked into the bar used to be married to a man who owned a collectible shop on Lincoln Ave.. The two of them would come into the old O'Rourke's like clock work every afternoon after they closed their shop. The husband was a large, bearded man, partial to leather cowboy hats. He was a legendary bore, and had a tremendous belly which he used as a  weapon. If you were not careful he'd use the belly to herd you into a corner where he'd then , with his head tilted to the side say in a tone of voice which was supposed to convey confidentiality information that usually consisted of the personal life of some Cub, or what the latest Ernie Banks card sold for. He wore the fact that he was an ex-junkie like a badge of honor. He made it seem like he used to shoot smack with Lenny Bruce almost on a daily basis. The ugly wife usually sat passively sipping her scotch saying nothing. 

  After years of this routine Ebert finally said one memorable afternoon in O'Rourke's, "no." Every one turned in unison and stared at Roger.  Roger had declined an offer of a drink from the bore. The bore demanded to know why? "Because ," Roger said forcefully, "because every time I buy you a drink , I have to buy both you and your wife a drink back. Over the years I've bought you hundreds of drinks more than you've bought me. " A murmur went through the hard core group of late afternoon drinkers assembled. Each person was instantly calculating how many drinks the bore was ahead of them with this two for one bait and switch racket. Things were never quite the same for the bore after that historic afternoon. 

  A few years later the bore had a massive heart attack and died. The ugly wife sold the shop and took off with her new boy friend for the South West. The new boy friend bore an uncanny resemblance to the bore. He was even taller, and his gut was every bit as big as the bore's. So when they walked into the bar and she asked the "wall question" I was ready. I answered as follows: "I have to admit that I got tired of looking at the burned out druggie faces of that collection of assholes, and so I decided to cover them up with my brilliant art work. I know a lot of people feel that I should keep the bar exactly the way it was thirty years ago just in case some old hag comes in every ten years, but I guess I'm just not that much into tradition."

  It was true that the old hags were boycotting the bar. There were six or seven of them. These were the woman that frequented the bar back in the sixties. Even then none of them were great beauties, in fact only a couple of them were barely doable, and then you had to be really drunk. The years had been very unkind to these old hags and the older and more dried out they became, the more bitter and vicious they acted. The worst of them was Jacky McDermott. Ironically she had been clearly the best looking of the hags when she was younger, but she was a real crone by the time of her death last year. When she appeared  it was as if the black plague had descended. 

   After I had given my little speech the woman's boyfriend tried to get a zinger in. Pointing at the political porn displayed above the bar, especially the naked Sara Palin, he said, "what's with all of the naked pictures, you not getting enough?"

  "Well, Sky, you are probably right. If I had a killer hot old lady like you do I probably wouldn't have to paint these brilliant, highly acclaimed works  of art.  Of course I'm only two aware of the fact that history would never forgive me if I stopped painting."

  The two old timers left before they finished their drinks.

  Street Jimmy just knocked at the door. After I let him in I told him to sit down. I needed to ask him a simple question, "how many hours is twenty-four hours?"

  "What do you mean?"

   "We go through all kinds of bullshit getting you special glue for your boots to cement the loose sole, I put the boot in the back room and place a box of beer bottles on top of it and when I get here this morning there's no boots, only a pair of stinky gym shoes . "

  "I told Bill to put my gym shoes in a bag."

  "Aha," I said, "so it's Bills fault that you didn't let the glue on your boots dry?"

  "I told him to put my shoes in a bag."

  "Bill just doesn't listen does , he."

  Jimmy shook his head negatively, " some times he don't listen."

  "Should I punish Bill?"

  "Naw, Bill's cool."

  "I don't know, Jimmy, this isn't the first time he didn't listen to you . I think I'm going to have to crack down on his ass."

  Jimmy didn't think this was a good idea. "Bill cool. Jus' talk to him."

  Jimmy said he slept on the El. He has an amazing capacity to sleep almost anywhere. After he swept the cigarette buts he said he was going to McDonold's for a big breakfast and a short nap. He seemed in good spirits although from the way he was limping I suspect that his boots might be just a little too tight.

  When I came into the bar last night I tossed a five dollar bill down in front of Ruben.  I made sure all of his pals were present before I gave him the money. Coach, Matt, Anita, Marky, Gracie, Duane, Jay, Bob, and a couple of other regulars were all within hearing distance.

  Ruben picked up the five dollar bill with his stubby, increasingly purple fingers and looked at it suspiciously before he said, "what's this for?"

  "I want you to give it to the Tamale guy. I still can't believe you let Lira gangster the Tamale guy for free tamale's"

  Ruben looked chagrined. Although Ruben had what might be best described as only a very limited moral compass, he did, nevertheless,  understand right from wrong. "You're right," he said pocketing the five dollars, "I shouldn't have let Lira do that. The Tamale guy works hard. "

  "Yeah," I said pressing my attack, "and he's a fellow Mexican. Where the fucks your loyalty?"

  Ruben now looked remorseful. I told him that I tried to explain to Lira that I didn't want that West Side gangster shit in the bar but he was too zonked to follow my argument coherntly. I had played it just right and Ruben was by now conscience stricken. I also added that I would talk to Lira the next time I saw him sober. Normally Lira's not like that but when he's wasted he sometime reverts. 

   When the Tamale guy showed up in a couple of hours   I apologized for Lira and Ruben, and then Ruben apologized in Spanish, and then the Tamale guy shrugged it all off good naturedly and at first refused the five bucks. I took the money out of Ruben's hand and made the Tamale guy take it. 

  Street Jimmy said he slept on the El last night. When he got off the El this morning China was standing on the street next to the El Station with her new boyfriend. Jimmy said he didn't speak to her. This was a first . A month ago a China sighting would have sent him into a diabolical frenzy of expletive filled attacks not only directed at  China but the fickleness of woman in general.  

  "Was she down here trying to score  for crack?" 

  Jimmy shook his head negatively , "nah, she jus' comes down to get her methadone."

  "I thought methadone was only for junkies?"

  "It is, she was on heroin (he always pronounces heroin as har-on) she only takes crack when it's around."

  It was pointless to suggest to Jimmy that it made more sense for China to live at her moms and go to rehab than live with Jimmy behind the garbage cans and shoot smack.

  Jimmy asked if he could have his barbeque chips before he swept the cigarette buts up off of the sidewalk. While he was eating his chips he said that as soon as he got done sweeping he was heading over to McDonold's  for a Big Breakfast, and then after that he had some "bizness to take care of.

  Street Jimmy just showed up completely zonked. Lately he's constantly got his new radio head set plugged into his ears which makes communicating with him even more difficult than it previously was.  He loves the radio and is constantly shucking and jiving to whatever it is he listens to. He seems partial to Marvin Gay. Jimmy said he saw Marie last night outside the Flies on Shit meeting down the street. He said he didn't speak to her (he's still pissed that she yelled at him in front of people last week). When she asked him why he wasn't talking to her he said he still didn't speak. Finally she asked him if we told him not to speak to her?

  "What did you say?"

  "I didn't say shit. Fuck her and fuck Satan."

  Jimmy also chastised me about the guy the cops killed on Chicago and Wells. "It wasn't Red."

  "I didn't say it was anybody."

  "Yeah you did."

  "I showed you the guys picture in the paper and I said I'd seen him around. You said it was Red."

  "You wuz wrong."

  "I didn't put a name on him fuck head!"

   "It wasn't Red , it was some other guy. Never saw that guy before. Red is light skinned.

  "You saying it wasn't the guy who's picture was in the paper?" I was now getting annoyed.

  "I'm sayin' it wasn't Red."

  "I don't give a flying fuck what the guys name was."

  "The cops who wasted him was the same ones that arrested me last time. They good  dudes."

  I was happy that we had finally resolved the issue.

  Gracie says Faggypants was a big help at the dog show yesterday. He got the giggles every time somebody used the term "bitch". I offered to go into the ring and show her dogs the next time she has a show. Apparently Gracie gets stage fright even though we spent 140 grand to send her to a top school where she got a degree in Theater Arts. Gracie didn't seem receptive to the idea.

  Street Jimmy helped the guy that just moved in across the street carry some decent furniture that somebody dumped out onto the sidewalk yesterday. The guy gave Jimmy twenty five bucks and let him take a shower. Of course Jimmy immediately took the twenty-five bucks down to Sedgwick and bought a couple of rocks. As luck would have it Jimmy said he found two more rocks on the dealers floor. By the time we saw him  next he was singing and dancing wildly. He was out of his mind stoned. I had to dance him right out the front door.

  Faggypants just arrived. He's supposed to help Gracie at the dog show today. He was sober, so after he swore that he'd had something to eat (Faggypants can go several days at a time without eating)  I let him have a beer. I think it's safe to assume that he'll have fun interacting with all the dog show people. Faggypants is by nature a very social person. I'm sure Gracie will give us a full , unedited report.

   Street Jimmy seemed in good spirits. He slept at Starbucks again. When I asked him about the cop shooting by the homeless guy on Chicago Ave. he shook his head dubiously. "Sheeet, how'd the dude get a gun? Mutha fucka was cuffed in the back seat of the po-lice car and he shoots the cop in the back. That's bullshit." I told Jimmy that I felt we needed more information. It turns out that Ranier was dating the policeman recently. She said he was a nice guy.

  Jimmy said that the cops story is fucked up. 

  He just "borrowed " one of my bananas . Gracie and Faggypants also borrowed several bananas, too, leaving me only one.

  Jimmy's been listening to his new radio with ear phones. Right now he says he's jamming with Marvin Gay. When he left just now he told me to have a blessed day.

  Street Jimmy slept inside Starbucks last night. He said one of the managers is a good dude and lets everyone sleep there when it's cold. He sold his "antique bike" to some guy in front of Stop and Rob the other night. He only got six bucks for it. The weather just wouldn't cooperate; it's hard to sell a bike in a rainstorm or a mini blizzard. It was exhausting for him trying to keep some other thief from stealing his bike, especially when he didn't have a lock for it. He said the guy he sold it to " was cheap. He was a polock."

   I found it curious that he used the term "polock".

  "So," I continued, "do you have something against Polish people?"

  "Yeah, these cheap."

  "All Polish people are cheap?"

  "Yeah. So you are saying Satan's cheap. He always buys you cheeseburgers."

  "Satan cheap now. He says he needs all his money for Marie 'cause yall fired her."

  "What about the bald guy in the suit who always gives you twenties?"

  "He ain't cheap."

  "Well," I said triumphantly, "he's not only Polish, he's from Poland, asshole. Do you want me to tell him that you  said all polocks are cheap?"

  "Hell no," Jimmy said quickly, "he's cool."

  "Then what you are saying is that all polocks are not cheap?"

  "Most polocks are cheap, just not him."

  Jimmy seems to have a moral blind-spot when it comes to ethnic stereotyping . Two days ago a bunch of mostly pre-teen black kids (at least forty or fifty, both boys and girls) had some kind of a fight outside of the bar. I had to stand by the door with a baseball bat to make sure the fight didn't spill inside the bar. The biggest problem I had was keeping Duane from overpowering me. He was toasted and kept trying to pull me away from the door. The kids were using cell phones to maneuver their respective troops as well as to keep an eye out for the cops. When the cops showed up they said they were chasing kids all over the neighborhood. Jimmy showed up about ten minutes after the kids had disappeared . When Ruben told him what had happened Jimmy wanted to know what the kids looked like? Ruben said with a straight face, "chimpanzee's ". 

  The chimpanzee remark caused Jimmy to break out in convulsive laughter. Actual tears appeared in his eyes, "they does look like chimpanzee's , they does."

    

  

The Gay Play can be seen here: http://www.flaniganswake.com/videos/gayplay.mpg

The Gay Play is my first film. It's just a tad rough. One of the problems that I was faced with was the fact that none of my actors could remember their lines. Another problem was the cinematography; there is none. Aside from these tiny flaws the film is a minor masterpiece. Any suggestions on how to improve the film will be properly evaluated before I disregard them.

  Street Jimmy has been pedaling around the neighborhood on a fat tire, big seat bike with white walls. He says it's an antique and he wants twenty bucks for it. A rain storm is a tough time to sell a bike. His biggest problem is keeping someone from stealing it. He talked Hawkeye into letting him stash it in the basement while he slept on the El. He says he's miserable because he's been cold and wet for the last two days. He signed up for the shelter tonight. He's upset because they barred his "homey" from the shelter "'cause he was caught drinkin'". Now he's not going to have anyone to talk to . "They coulda jus' give him a warnin' or somethin'". I felt that maybe his homey shouldn't have been drinking in the shelter. Jimmy feels that there are just too many stupid rules and how can anyone remember them all? He just saw Jose walking down the street toward McDonold's so he took off after him. Jose is usually a soft touch.  He's going to have to get his antique bike out of the basement as soon as he comes back.

  Faggypants called me and told me that he would be unavailable for about a week. He was going to work for his brother. I told him I'd try somehow to get by with out him. He did pledge that he would help Gracie at her dog show  next weekend.

  Street Jimmy has been moody. I thought the nice weather might lift his spirits, but unfortunately he still seems melancholy. Yesterday he had another tiff with Patrick. It's true that Patrick picks on Faggypants and Jimmy, but as I keep explaining to Jimmy, Patrick's a valued employee and Jimmy is not. I did lift Jimmy's spirits quite a bit when I told him that if he ever became a cash customer and put his money on the bar I'd let him mother fuck anyone he wanted. He practically did summersaults at the mere thought of being able to mother fuck Patrick and Ruben. If he ever needed  a reason to quit crack and get a job this might be it.   

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  The Final Chapter

  It only took Trash a couple of months to pick himself up and dust himself off. He'd been down before ( maybe not this far down) but he always landed back on his feet. In other words , J. Robert Trash still had a few arrows left in his quiver. Although I rarely saw him anymore he would call me up every couple of months at strange times and describe his latest "project". I have a useful talent - I can block things out. If you quizzed me about a TV commercial I'd seen two seconds ago I wouldn't be able to tell you what it was about; the same went for Trash's "projects." When he called I just made sure I had reading material handy. 

   About ten years ago Trash made one of these calls to me , but this time he was sober and lucid. "Listen, I need a favor".  The favor that he wanted was for me to ask the owners of the Old Town Gin Shop, Bea and Art, if they'd loan him fifteen grand. He swore the money would be repaid in two weeks. He was cash strapped and needed the fifteen grand so he wouldn't have to give any more points away on his latest " sure thing" project. "Tell them I'll, double, hell, quadruple their money!"

  Trash had never put the arm on me before. When I told Art and Bea about his call Art immediately shook his head negatively. "He'll never pay us back, I'll guarantee it. I know him."

  I explained to the two of them that I felt sorry for the guy. "I told him that I'd vouch for him. I really think I know the guy well enough that he wouldn't stiff me." Arthur was adamant. He said Trash was washed up and they'd never see their money again. Most people who knew Bea and Art  would have thought that Arthur was the soft touch and Bea was the hard ass. Actually, it was just the opposite. Bea told me to tell Trash she'd loan him the money, and that she didn't want any juice, she just wanted him to give her weekly up dates if he was going to be late with the repayment. Art , fortunately for Trash, was, as usual ,overruled. 

  I explained what Bea told me the next day to a very grateful Trash. He assured me that the money would be repaid promptly, but of course if there was any problems he'd give her weekly updates. Once again he insisted that he was going to, at a minimum , double her money.  

  Well, trash didn't double Bea's money in two weeks. In fact he didn't call her and give her weekly updates, either. Arthur seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in telling Bea and me that he had told us so. Unfortunately Trash was soon pushed to the back burner after a series of misfortunes happened in rapid succession to Bea and Art. Bea had not been feeling well . Her doctor had moved to a medical center in Evanston and so she asked me to drive her there. While she was at her appointment in order to kill time I walked over to the Northwestern Campus and wandered around. When I got back to the Medical Center she was  waiting for me. I could tell by the look on her face that something was wrong. We were almost back to Old Town when she told me that she'd been diagnosed with stage one lung cancer. And, ironically, she said today was her birthday. "It's not like I didn't see it coming," she said philosophically, "I mean, I kept smoking twelve years after I had my breast cancer surgery." Bea went on to mention that it was also on her birthday over thirty years ago that Art had taken her  to dinner at Biggs to announce that he was leaving her for Sandy Valantine.  I had never heard this before. Even for Arthur, this seemed callous to the extreme. When later in the afternoon I confronted Arthur with this charge, he smiled patronisingly at me me and said, "Bruce, I didn't know it was her birthday." And, he went on to say, "I don't suppose she mentioned dumping the bowl of vegetable soup on my head." Art blamed the entire fiasco on Ranalli, "he told me to always break up in a public place so there won't be a scene."

  Bea refused to take any of the various treatments that her doctors suggested. "Why prolong the agony?" I couldn't argue. In retrospect I think she made the right call. Up until the last couple of months she was reasonably comfortable. Fortunately she had plenty of time to arrange for Tobi to take over the bar. She knew Arthur was incapable of taking care of himself and so she instructed Tobi on how to tend to him when she was gone. In the meantime Bea seemed to take perverse satisfaction in knowing Art would have to be at her bedside as long as she was alive.  Arthur would have none of it. He had absolutely no intention in playing nurse to a dying Bea so within a few months he died suddenly of a heart attack. This infuriated Bea, "the sunnuvabitch had to steal my thunder, what a prick!" And she meant it. She was quite bitter. 

  Several weeks before she died she called me to her bedside. Tobi had arranged round the clock hospice care at Bea's apartment on Eugenie; Gracie and Tobi spent , between the two of them, at least fifteen hours at her side daily. Mercifully I did not have to take part in her care. Bea didn't want a man anywhere near her. She wasn't wearing her wig anymore, and it was, according to Gracie, not a pretty atmosphere at her apartment as the final day drew near. So it was with some trepidation that I went to see her. I barely recognized her. She was pumped full of morphine but she was lucid . She had a note book on the bed stand next to her. She wanted me to call everyone in the notebook - while she watched - and ask them to repay the money that they owed her. It was a long list and the total amount owed to her was well over a hundred thousand dollars. I knew everyone  on the list and I couldn't believe some of the low life's she had loaned money to. For almost two hours I called the names. Two horrible, painful hours. Most of the people were home. A few of the numbers had been disconnected . And then, last on the list was none other than J. Robert Trash. When Trash picked up the telephone I immediately sensed something was amiss; no friendly greetings, no glib repartee, just hello. When I explained to him the purpose of my call he said "I don't have it." It wasn't the words "I don't have it" that sent shock waves down my spine, it was the  voice  he used - it wasn't Robinson, or Cagney, or Bogart, or even Gorscey, no, it was a voice I'd never heard him use before, it was, and I still have trouble uttering the words, even now, it was the voice of Peter Lorre. It was Peter Lorre obsequiously begging Rick in Casablanca to help him with the Letters of Transit. Right then and there I realized that Trash had become everything he despised. He was lower now than every con-man and grifter he'd ever profiled . Not only had Trash lost his moral conscience, he'd lost what little of his self professed soul that he might ever have possessed. J. Robert Trash, a simpering Peter Lorre? No, no, a thousand times no. It was impossible! I tried  the  best  I could to conceal my real thoughts when I explained to the dying Bea that Trash , along with everyone else, had refused to pay her back the money she was owed. Bea was silent for a moment. And then she said with a wry smile, "well, at least the little bastard will never be able to play the big shot again." This knowledge  seemed to give her considerable satisfaction.  A couple of weeks later Bea died on her birthday exactly one year after she'd been diagnosed. 

  Several months ago I received a call from Trash. I hadn't heard from him in two or three years. He got right down to business, "I need a favor, I need you to ask Tobi for ten grand, I'll pay you back with points in my new business. I'm negotiating with Micro Soft for a billion dollars . They want my archives." It took every ounce of self control that I possessed  to not go off on the miserable little rat bastard, but somehow I managed to control myself long enough to tell him that I'd ask Tobi and get back to him tomorrow. This was wise because I needed time to think. In the back of my mind I always suspected that I'd get my chance at revenge, and now it had just been handed to me on a silver platter. 

  The next day , after taking several deep breaths to  make sure that I was composed, I called Trash. He was using his Bogart voice when he answered.

 "J. Robert, you got a minute?"

  "Yeah, shoot."

  "I talked to Tobi."

  "Yeah?"

  "Before I give you her answer can I tell you a little story?"

  "Sure."

  "Remember the day I called you up and asked you for the money you owed Bea - "

  "I didn't have it -" It was Peter Lorre again; obsequious, simpering, whining Peter Lorre.

  "Yeah, well unfortunately Bea knew that you'd just bought a new condo."

  Peter Lorre was now trapped. Fritz lang had him cornered in M with nowhere to run.

  "It was Trudy's money!" He was pathetic, disgusting, a coward, a vile, crawling, repulsive little reptile. "It was Trudy's money," he pleaded. Even for Trash this was beyond the pale. This was the same man who said he was a Congressional Medal of Honor winner, the man who parachuted behind enemy lines and single handedly repulsed the enemy at the Battle Of The Bulge , the man who ran with the Bulls in Barcelona with his pal Hemingway. This heroic figure was now hiding behind his wife's skirts like a frightened little girl.

  "Trudy's money?"I mimicked him.  I had him now and I was not going to let him go until I had blood pouring out of every one of his lying, cheating , duplicitous orifices. "Let me explain something to you Trash: when Bea was dying she only had one wish - she wanted to die at home. Tobi turned her apartment into a hospital room. Round the clock nurses, morphine machine, the works. It cost a fortune. In fact had Bea lived another two weeks Tobi would have had to go into her retirement money. The day I called you I called twelve other people that owed her money; nobody paid her, not one - "

  "I tell you I didn't have it - "  Peter Lorre was now pleading to Sam Spade in the Maltese Falcon.

   "Trash, " I said with not a hint of mercy in my voice, "not only did you stiff Bea, you stiffed everyone else, too. Your name is shit. You fucked Sam, too,  didn't you?" 

 "Did he tell you that!" Peter Lorre was trying hopelessly to salvage some tiny remnant of dignity.

   "The last time I was at the Goat I asked him why you never came in anymore, the look on his face spoke volumes. Trash, you piece of shit, you are a dead-beat stiff and I wouldn't give you the sweat off my balls!"

   Peter Lorre said that he hoped I ended up starving in the street and Tobi and Gracie had to come begging to him on hands and knees  for food . He was now hysterical.

  When I told Trash what Bea had said about his never , ever, being able to play the big-shot again he hung up violently . 

  I had to admit that Bea was right, you could take a lot of consolation out of knowing that J. Robert Trash could never play the big-shot again. It was comforting. Very , very comforting.

   THE END - I think.

   

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  Over the years Ebert had a series of girlfriends, only a couple of which ever came close to snaring him. This fact led to increasing cockiness on the part of the Harridans. They had emerged from Rogers AA cult following and, after the departure of Rogers last girlfriend, had things pretty much the way they wanted them. McQue had reached some type of accommodation with the Harridans; he now lived full time at the mansion, and the Harridans had to consult him when they were planning one of Rogers many social events.

   We had moved back to Chicago and were living in Hyde Park, but we were still visiting my mother almost every weekend which meant we were still able to visit Roger fairly often. It was during one of these shindigs that Roger showed up with a black woman. Mel Brooks could not have written a screen play that would have done justice to the reaction of the Harridans. It was true that Rogers tastes in woman tended toward the exotic (part Puerto Rican, Chinese, etc.) but never before a black woman. I wouldn't have missed the arrival of Chaz for anything. The Harridans racism was palpable. Roger had gone too far. The Harridans had their limits, and Roger had exceeded  them. How dare he.  Apparently the Harridans felt (hoped)  that Chaz was some terrible aberration, and if they'd just ignore her she would go away like all of her predecessors .  

  I had spent enough years on the South Side of Chicago with my mostly black friends playing golf that I knew that all black people had built in racism detectors. They needed these detectors to survive, pure and simple. Chaz picked up on what was going on in seconds while the Harridans remained clueless. 

   Gracie immediate gravitated to Chaz. Kids have instincts. Kids are hard to con; they either like people or they don't. Chaz had kids of her own and obviously liked kids. Tobi, it turned out, knew Chaz's sister in law, and the two of them  got along just fine. Not so the Harridans ; their miscalculation of Chaz would have grave consequences for them. What followed was a thing of pure beauty. Chaz was not an aberration, far from it. She was now a constant presence. The Harridans were in full panic mode. I would  loved to have been privy to their myriad strategy meetings. 

  Chaz out maneuvered the Harridans at every turn. Each time we visited Rogers there were fewer Harridans. By the time that the invitations to  Chaz and Rogers wedding were sent there was only one remaining Harridan, and that was only because she was the wife of one of Rogers chief AA pals.  

  No social event was looked  forward to in those days more than the Ebert Fourth of July party. When the Harridans were in charge it was an informal hodge podge. With Chaz now in charge, there was going to be a caterer, a band, in other words, structure. The weather was always good on these occasions, and this particular year was no exception. Parking was limited and Roger had arranged for a couple of kids to act as valets so that people could park on the main road which was a good half mile away. It was a truly eclectic crowd. TV celebrities, journalists, lawyers, a few oligarchs, and of course Rogers relatives and old barroom pals. There were also at least a couple of dozen black people and their children now present. 

  I was surprised by how many of the guests were not aware of the ethnicity of Rogers new love. My favorite incident involved Lazar's beautiful young daughter, Lisa. Chaz was busy in the kitchen giving directions  to the caterers when Lisa handed Chaz her glass and asked her if she'd fill it up. This broke Chaz up. After she got done laughing she filled up  Lisa's glass and handed it back to her. When  I told Lisa that Chaz was Rogers fiance a  mortified Lisa immediately apologized to Chaz. After Chaz got done laughing again, she gave Lisa a nice  friendly hug. Luckily Rogers fiance turned out to have a very good sense of humor. 

   Sadly, while Rogers life was soaring gloriously J. Robert Trash's life was crashing and burning. There was a short announcement in both major newspapers - the well known writer J. Robert Trash and his wife Trudy had declared bankruptcy. This hardly seemed shocking news. Even though he'd become somewhat of a recluse  everyone knew Trash was broke, and filing bankruptcy seemed like just another legal move. In other words, nobody thought it was that big of a deal. As it turned out Trudy Trash thought it was pretty much the end of the world.

  When the Trash's arrived at Rogers Fourth of July party that year everyone was surprised. I hadn't seen him in almost a year, and I was in contact with more than almost anyone. He arrived with Trudy, who was wearing a stylish sun bonnet,  and a very  stoic F. Scott Fitzgerald at her side. Trash , himself, was , in spite of the fact it was well in the eighties, wearing a very new looking white sport coat. I only talked to him briefly when he arrived;  he was in constant motion - seeking out the celebrities, cornering them, speaking earnestly, and then off to another celebrity. He was drinking whiskey and not eating; always a dangerous sign of things to come. Trudy sat down next to me. She was very emotional. Had I seen the articles in the newspaper about their bankruptcy? Yes I had. Was it the most horrible thing I've ever read in my life? No, it wasn't. Did I realize how hard it was for them to come here and show their faces having been so horribly disgraced? No, I didn't understand that. She went on for almost a half an hour until she finally gave me an opening :  when she asked me if there was anything, anything at all, more horrible to imagine than having to declare bankruptcy I said there were all kinds of things worse than bankruptcy. And then I told her that I had recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer, and I felt that that was much worse than bankruptcy. This had no impact on her whatsoever. When she started to tell me about having to sell their house I excused myself and got another beer. 

  A couple of hours later I happened to be seated at a table with McQue, Roger, Siskel, Norman Mark, and the other critic from the Tribune when a shitfaced Trash came up the path that led down to the beach house. He walked (staggered) over to the table we were sitting at and stared  ; his stare was a combination of contempt, rage, disgust, jealousy, all mixed with a dollop of  patronizing ridicule. This was going to be good. We all knew Trash, and everyone had there favorite Trash stories; with a little luck this was going to be another good one, and so there was complete silence as he began his tirade. Trash knew more about the movies than everyone of the assembled critics put together. Trash was the greatest living writer. He wrote more words in one day than all of these so called writers put together wrote in a month! A small crowd was now forming. Trash continued, his voice rising to a shout. He was now waving his fist threateningly at Siskel who couldn't contain his laughter. Ebert and McQue were also  grinning, but they had their backs to Trash and he couldn't see them. At some point somebody ran to get Trudy. By the time she arrived on the scene the entire party was watching Trash's hysterical monologue; people were now coming up from the beach house to watch him. By the time Trudy managed to grab his arm  Trash's face was bright red, and, still wearing his white sport coat, he was sweating profusely.  The sight of his wife seemed send Trash into an even more extreme rage. McQue had seen this all before, but when he got up and tried to intercede, Trash shoved the much bigger McQue away. Chaz consulted with Trudy. After briefly talking to Trudy, Chaz walked over and asked me if I could get him to leave? This was hardly something I wanted to do, but being a team player I reluctantly agreed. It was going to require some muscle. F. Scott Fitzgerald looked unusually apprehensive as his mother and I tried to forcibly extricate Trash from the premises. After a brief struggle we managed to get him as far as the parking lot in front of Rogers house. Tom Butchovich was just starting to clean up from cooking the lamb roast. He helped me get Trash into the valet's car. Trash was strangely silent as we were driven to his car. As soon as we got out of the valet's car, and I told the valet to wait for me, Trash took out his car keys; Trudy immediately snatched them out of his hand. F. Scott Fitzgerald screamed Dad!  It was getting ugly. I was now yelling at Trash to get into his car and quit being such an asshole. Just when Trash seemed to be calming down he managed to snatch the car keys away from an unsuspecting Trudy. Within seconds the two of us were rolling around on the gravel road huffing and puffing. Trash, who was still a three to four pack of cigarettes  a day guy, soon became too winded to continue the struggle. Finally I managed to push a panting Trash into his Caddy . A great deal of damage had been inflicted on his white sport coat. He was now  doubled over in the front seat gasping for air. I'd never seen F. Scott Fitzgerald so frightened. After the Trash's drove off and I'd gotten back into the valet's car the kid asked me, " what was that was all about?" I told the kid he'd just had a chance to observe the greatest writer in the world. Although the kid seemed rather impressed with this information, I'm not sure that he completely believed me.

The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  Soon after McQue moved to Michigan I followed him there. My brother bought a Frank Lloyd Wright house in Benton Harbor . In a short time he bought two more adjacent houses. My brother has always been extremely impulsive, and seldom looked at the big picture. In order to occupy his houses he moved my mother and her two bachelor brothers into one, and Tobi , Gracie and myself into another. It was a very nice place to live except for one drawback (and a very large drawback it was) - the area was infested with Republicans, and not just your garden variety ignorant, uninformed, racist type Republicans, but the really virulent bible thumping, Jesus freak,  gun worshiping variety. One would have preferred that the St. Joeseph River that ran adjacent to the property at the bottom of the hill would have been filled with man eating crocodiles and hordes of malaria infected mosquitos than have these ignorant lowlife Republican boobs as neighbors.

  Around this time Ebert was faced with a dilemma; the heirs to half the New Buffalo newspaper wanted to sell. Ebert had a plan to buy the other half of the newspaper: he offered McQue a third interest along with a salary, an expense account and his old place to live (Ebert having bought a new house in downtown New Buffalo) and Ebert and a wealthy AA friend of his would own the remaining two-thirds. This was a dream come true for McQue. He had a simple life style, he loved being a big fish in a little pond, and he could continue to write his  front page column every week with a guaranteed audience. McQue had hit the lottery, the only problem was he refused to cash the winning ticket. For reasons that mankind will never be privy to, McQue decline Rogers deal. His stated reason was thus: he wanted 51 percent because he'd have to do all of the heavy lifting; and furthermore, he cited a newspaper in Martha's Vineyard  which has made millions. Now McQue had a history of being impulsive as well as obstinate, but these demands stunned absolutely everyone that knew him. 

  A week or two after this bizarre turn of events McQue was guest at my brothers house for dinner. He once again narrated his incomprehensible train of reasoning. My mother would have none of it. "Roger  is your best friend, he'd never cheat you. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You should call up Roger this minute and tell him you've changed your mind!" My mother had succeeded where everyone else had failed , McQue promised he'd call Roger and tell him he'd changed his mind. My mother was a huge admirer of Rogers. Since my fathers death Roger had gone out of his way to invite my mother to his many  gatherings. He'd even dropped by my brothers booth at the Armory Show  in NYC with Siskel, when he learned my mother was working there. 

  This was a very nostalgic period for Roger. His mother had died and so he'd enlisted Tobi to cook Thanksgiving dinner at his new house in New Buffalo. He invited my mother , her two bachelor brothers, my brother and his British born dancer wife, and Gracie and me. I didn't make the big table with my mother and my uncles because Roger had a couple  of aunts that took precedence . The rest of us sat where we could . Unfortunately, midway through dinner Rogers aunt took ill. I particularly liked this aunt; she was cynical and sarcastic, and easily intimidated the Harridans . 

  After the ambulance Paul Goesaway raised everyone's spirits with his best oakie stories. Sadly,  Rogers aunt passed away. Consequently Roger became even more nostalgic. 

  When McQue called Roger the next day Roger told McQue that he'd already used the money he'd set aside for the paper to buy a spectacular stone mansion in Harbert overlooking the lake. The beach house alone that came with the mansion would have by itself been the envy of almost anyone who beheld it. While this was tragic news for McQue,  it was great news for all of Rogers friends who would come to have many enjoyable memories while  being guests at this magnificent edifice.  

  The Harridans , whose ranks had increased over the years, were only too happy to take charge of Rogers increasing social doings. That is , until the arrival of a mysterious stranger. Could a new sheriff have arrived in town? Stay tuned.

  Street Jimmy said he's been in the shelter for the last couple of days. He needed some rest. Faggypants came down yesterday. He was going stir crazy at his moms. I let him wash the windows. After he got done he said he was going to the zoo because it was such a lovely day.

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash , contind.

  A couple of weeks after McQue relocated to New Buffalo to run the newspaper he invited Michaela, Lois Berger, Tobi, Gracie, and myself to spend a weekend with him at Eberts cottage. Roger would be gone so we'd have plenty of room. When he learned that the Trash's would be visiting Trudy's parents that same weekend,  McQue  invited  them to join us for an afternoon cook out. On the way to Michigan Michaela expressed misgivings. "Does anyone ever remember McQue hosting anything?"

  "He occasionally picks up a breakfast check," I said after giving her question some thought.

  McQue was a professional guest. He was in constant demand for dinner parties because of his Irish good humour and his skill as a raconteur , but Machaela was correct, there was simply no record of his ever having hosted anything. This was immediately apparent upon arriving at Eberts cottage. There were no refreshments visible. Tobi had had the foresight to bring some beer and wine, and some pop for Gracie, although hardly enough to last for much more than an hour. McChaela grew surly as the wine was quickly depleted, especially when we ascertained that we were all broke. Just when things looked darkest the Trash's black Cadillac pulled up. Gracie and F. Scott Fitzgerald  immediately started running around the spacious front yard attempting to plays with a frisbee. Machaela  apprised Trash of the paucity of refreshments available. Trash instantly went into action. After enlisting Machaela to accompany him to the store, they  roared off in his Caddy with gravel flying in their wake. Less than an hour later they were back. We had to make several trips to the car to carry all of the booze and groceries Trash had purchased. Machaela was now in excellent spirits.  Whiskey, gin, vodka, regular beer, light beer, and soft drinks were placed on the kitchen table. The food consisted of chicken and steaks. Trash was not into vegetables . Some salsa and chips were place on the wrought iron table in the yard.

  Trash had bought four bags of charcoal. When Trudy asked him why so much charcoal Trash snarled, "don't you worry, I'll do the cooking." Trash then poured an entire bag of charcoal into the Weber grill. Just before dousing the charcoal with what seemed an entire bottle of igniting fluid Tobi cautioned him , "J. , I think you have too much charcoal!" J. Robert Trash took out his lighter , turned to Tobi with a knowing grin, and said , "you don't make Eagle Scout without knowing how to light a grill." For a moment the entire front yard seemed to be in flames.  The flames reached so high, at least twenty or thirty feet high, that they were burning the leaves on the huge maple tree overhead. 

  Eberts yard abutted the path that led to the beach and several beach goers stopped to observe the tremendous flames emanating  from the grill. Gracie and F. Scott Fitzgerald stopped their playing to watch. Trudy told F. Scott Fitzgerald not to get too close. McQue expressed some reservations about all of the blackened leaves that were suddenly appearing on Rogers maple tree. If Trash had miscalculated about the amount of accelerant he didn't indicate it in any way. Eventually the flames subsided. We were all now watching Trash with fascination. He seemed a man possessed. When he was finally able to get close enough to the grill to stir the coals with the long stick F. Scott Fitzgerald had found for him, he attempted to bring some order to the inferno. Unfortunately the stick kept  catching fire to the point that F. Scott Fitzgerald had to search for two more long sticks before Trash was ready to commence with the cooking. Once again Tobi , who was a professional chef, tried to intervene. 

  "J., the coals are too hot. You need to throw some water on them."

  Trash would not be deterred. He knew what he was doing and he was going to show all of the skeptics how to cook chicken on a Weber Grill. What followed was remarkable. Within seconds of placing the first whole chicken on the grill, the chicken exploded. Literally exploded. Chicken went flying high into the air. F. Scott Fitzgerald let out a loud, "wow!" When he asked his dad if he could explode one of the chickens, Trash glared at him before ordering   him to step back. Trudy was now screaming at him. 

  "J., listen to Tobi, you don't know what you're doing!"

  At this point nothing was going to stop J. Robert Trash from cooking chicken on the Weber grill. Nothing. He placed another chicken on the pile of red hot coals, and bang, another chicken exploded into the air. This one made an even louder explosion  than the previous  one. Michaela was concerned that there wouldn't be any food left if Trash continued exploding all of the chicken. Lois tried to reassure Michaela by pointing out that they still had plenty of steaks. Trudy stepped up to Trash and demanded that he turn the cooking over to Tobi. Within seconds Trudy and Trash were engaged in a screaming match of epic proportions. I'd seen them go at it many times in the past but this was, even by their standards, historic. As they fired of one vicious epithet after another  F. Scott Fitzgerald watched his parents intently, turning his head back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match rather his parents  verbally eviscerating  one another.  Words like, "you sawed of little piss ant,  little jag off, fucking asshole, shit for brains, moron, little prick, fuck head," and Michaela's personal favorite, "pathetic Napolean complex midget piece of shit." Trash fought back with, "dumb, stupid, monosylabic retard", along with "crazy, insane, loony, hillbilly, illiterate, imbecile, cretinous, pathetic , idiot, " and my personal favorite - "ill-bred low life whorish slattern."

  At least a dozen people had congregated on the path leading to the beach to watch the mayhem taking place in Ebert's front yard. Finally the host stepped up to the warring Bickerson's and, after wiping some salsa appetizer from his lips, said the following: "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Your behavior is totally unacceptable. " 

  Trash and Trudy both stared at McQue in total silence. McQue was a good foot taller than Trash and Trash had to arch his neck to look up at McQue.  Trudy and Trash stared at the unsmiling McQue for a moment. Then silently and  in unison,  followed by F. Scott Fitzergeld, they turned  dejectedly toward their black Cadillac and trudged toward the street. In less than a minute they had  gotten into their car and driven off.  Michaela was impressed. "McQue, I have to hand it to you, tossing somebody out of a party after they bought all of the food and booze takes balls."

  McQue shrugged off the compliment. "I had no choice."

  We were just finishing our steaks and chicken when the Trash's Cadillac pulled up and parked. The three Trash's approached us with great humility. Trash apologized for their behavior and assured us that there would be no repetition of their inexcusable actions. McQue magnanimously accepted Trash's apology . If the Trash's seemed disappointed upon learning that we'd eaten all of their food, they at least didn't show it. Later, Trudy told Tobi privately that the reason they came back was that they were both too embarrassed to face her parents , especially when they both knew that F. Scott Fitgerald couldn't wait to  tell his grandparents exactly  why they were all home so fast.

  When the Trash's finally left early that evening McQue disappeared into the house and remerged about an hour later resplendent in slacks, a clean shirt, leather vest, and a Mellors the Game Keeper leather hat. When Lois asked him why the fancy threads, McQue announced that he was going to a party. This was too much for Machaela, "you invited us all the way here and now you're going to a goddamn party. McQue, you clueless sunnuvabitch, you really are the stupidist Irishman I ever met."

  McQue, clinging to what little dignity could be salvaged after Machaela's cruel words, walked to his car with his chin slightly aloft, and drove off leaving his guests to fend for themselves. Machaela and I were the only ones still up by the time McQue returned home. Machaela had killed almost a half a gallon of Johhny Walker Red Label and I had almost finished most of the case of Budweiser. McQue helped me assist the falling down drunk Machaela to the bedroom she was sharing with Lois. When we opened the bedroom door Lois was snoring softly. She didn't  stir when we  dropped the drunken Mchaela into the bed next to her. 

  The 1980's were a period of great flux for  Bermuda Triangle barroom society. The most cataclysmic event to take place was Eberts decision to quit drinking. Things would never be the same. Most of his pals were shocked at this development. I was not. He was now living in a coach house behind the Four Farthings. Tobi and Pat Colander lived upstairs from the bar. On more than one occasion Rogers early morning knocking could be heard at the back door of their apartment. He needed something to drink. Anything with alcohol. A few nights before he took the pledge I remember him leaving O'Relley's , staggering, (I'd never seen him stagger before)  get into his car, and then proceeded to  make a U turn right in front of the North Ave. bus.  

  Within weeks Roger had developed a cult like following of reformed alcoholics. He would actually come into O'Reilley's and try and proselytize his hard drinking friends. The owners put up with this probably because he'd been so instrumental in their long term success, but I found in poor taste and told Roger as much. McQue watched all of this from his familiar corner, warily. McQue, who  was now living in a cheap co-op below where Tobi and I lived in East Rogers Park. About a year after Roger quit drinking McQue, without any fan fare, announced that he to, was quitting. He said he could no longer handle the morning meetings (he was now in TV) with his constant hangovers. 

  Many of  the old- timers that didn't follow Roger into AA simply disappeared. Livers gave out, people moved, and people died. J. Robert Trash was seldom seen in those days. Not only was he now a North Shore swell, but his Encyclopedia of Depravity was demanding most of his time. 

  Almost simultaneous with Rogers new sobriety was a period best described as the Great Migration. A little history: the man who hired the fresh faced young Ebert at the Sun Times was Bob Csonca. This would turn out to be the most notable and beneficial decision Csconca ever made.  Soon Roger was the film critic. As Rogers career took off, Csonca's imploded. When Csonca no longer had a job, a grateful Ebert helped him realize a boy hood dream and buy the New Buffalo newspaper. New Buffalo was only and hour and a half drive from Chicago. Ebert also invested along with Csonca in a pair of connected cottages a block from Lake Michigan.  There was already a substantial colony of Chicago expatriates living there, but property was still cheap as well as plentiful. Soon Ebert was followed by his cult. I had very little contact with Roger in those days, but there were plenty of reports chronicling the fast moving migration. A realignment of power took place when the Chicago AA harridans were faced with a hard core group of Michigan AA harridans. From what I gleaned the Michigan harridans prevailed, at least when Roger was in Michigan. Roger appeared to be having the time of his life. His TV career,  since joining forces with Siskel, had made him an international celebrity. And unlike J. Robert Trash success never went to Rogers head. Roger never forgot his friends or family. 

  Ironically J. Robert Trash also had a strong New Buffalo connection. His wife, Trudy, had gone to high school there, and her parents still lived there. After the birth of F. Scott Fitzgerald Trash, Trudy would drive up there on most weekends; occasionally Trash would accompany her. Rumor  had it that Trudy had an old high school boyfriend stashed someplace in the area. Now this made a lot of sense; Trudy was still a very attractive looking woman which was surprising given the stress of having to live with Trash. But she was a tough cookie and gave as good as she got. The boy friend rumors were never substantiated but most of her friends at least hoped they were true.

  The harridans were very protective of Roger. The only person I knew who they deferred to was McQue -  they were smart enough to realize he was Rogers best friend and should not be trifled with. Roger would entertain often in Michigan. Of course the harridans would set the agenda and take care of all of the details, while Roger would sit back in his lawn chair and tell his favorite stories. His stories tended to be sixty percent about his friends, and forty percent about the myriad celebrities he was constantly interviewing or hobnobbing with.

  After the night of long knives took place at McQue's TV station McQue's days were numbered. His protectors had been guillotined and it would be just a matter of time before he got the ax too. This was bad news for me. McQue was sports director which meant that I had access to not only every imaginable sporting event, but free golf; this also meant no more spring training with the White Sox in Sarasota. But such was the nature of the TV biz and I had to be both brave and philosophical. 

  Occasionally McQue would go to Michigan and spend a weekend with Roger. On one of these weekends McQue called me up from Michigan. I could instantly tell something was wrong. This was noteworthy because McQue almost never showed emotion on the telephone. He said that just before dinner someone went to wake up Csonca , who had been sleeping on a lazy boy for several hours. Csonca did not wake up. I only knew Csonca casually. He never really engaged my interest, his ex-wife, however, was a different story. While Csonca was somewhat lethargic, his ex-wife was in what seemed constant motion.  She intrigued me greatly once I heard that she'd lost one of her eyes popping a champagne  cork.  Upon closer scrutiny it became clear to me that she was no stranger to opening champagne corks . 

  McQue called to tell me that Roger and him were going to put out the next edition of the newspaper. After they put out the newspaper - without a hitch- Roger enlisted McQue to run the newspaper until further notice. McQue could reside in Rogers cottage and  draw a salary along with expenses while he ran the paper. 

   

Coming, the Michigan chapters, to be contind.  

  After Trash moved to Wilmette I would see less and less of him. He was  immersed in writing his epic  Encyclopedia of Depravity. He hired an entirely new crew of writers for this epic project. When he asked Michaela if she would come back and work for him she declined. She made it clear that there was no way she was taking the train every day to Wilmette. This was fortuitous for Michaela  because soon after turning down Trash's offer an old friend of hers, Kathy Osterman, was appointed Director of Special Events for the City of Chicago. Not only did Kathy appoint Michaela to an important job, but she also found a job for Lois Berger.  The girls loved their new jobs.

  One lovely August morning immediately upon leaving my apartment while on my way to the golf course an unassuming old man called out my name. I stopped, put down my golf clubs and said, hello. The old man smiled and handed me a piece of important looking paper. After he asked me to have a good day he turned and walked away. It was a summons. I'd been served to give a deposition in a case that pitted Trash against a major TV network. When I called up Trash and asked him what the fuck was going on he said it was really nothing. "Buddy Boy, they ripped off my Dillinger book and they are going to pay. I'll send you a copy of the episode and all you have to do is testify that it was my idea. It will take you ten minutes." I felt that I needed a lot more information before I testified under oath; certainly a lot more information than Trash had just provided me with with. He said he had to be downtown later in the afternoon to meet with his lawyers and that he'd meet me at the Billy Goat when he was finished. This would be a pain in the ass for me because I'd be coming directly from the golf course and it was tough parking by the Billy Goat , especially during rush hour, but I nevertheless agreed to the meeting.

  When I walked into the Billy Goat Trash had just bought the house a round. There had to be close to a hundred people in there. It cost him over  four hundred dollars. As soon as I sat down Trash got down to business. The TV show had clearly ripped him off by asserting that Dillinger was still alive. His lawyers had already gotten an offer of a hundred grand to make the whole thing go away. Trash scoffed at such an idea. "I want them to ask for five million and maybe we negotiate down to two million." He was adamant. Eventually he got around to telling me that he needed at least five people who'd seen the TV show and that would testify that they  had called him and told him about this dastardly rip-off of his intellectual property. One of the names he'd given his attorney's was mine. As it turns out he'd done all of this almost a year earlier without having bothered to tell any of us.  "It's no big deal. Watch the tape and all you have to say is that it was my idea, which it was. I'm not asking you to lie about anything. I'd never do that, you know me." True, Trash was not a schemer when it came to the law, but I couldn't exactly overcome the feeling that I was  being asked to at least do a little exaggerating.

  The morning I was to give my deposition was even  lovelier than the morning I"d been served. I had an important golf game at Jackson Park that afternoon and I was attired in my favorite Hawaiian shirt and white tennis shorts. I always played better when dressed for success. Trash told me to save the parking receipts. The law firm was one of the biggies. I was escorted by a well dressed hot young chick to one of the  top floors and told to take a seat in a large conference room with a marvelous view of the lake. The only people in the room beside me and the hot chick who'd escorted me were a pair of stenographers who were in the process of getting their machines ready. The hot chick asked me if I cared for anything to drink? I said tea would be lovely. After she brought me my tea I asked her in a lowered voice why there were two stenographers? She said she thought one of them was an intern. A few moments later two woman walked in. One was a heifer and the other a mousy little woman with thick glasses. The mousy woman looked quite young. It turned out that she was also an intern from Stanford. The Heifer was clearly in charge. She was a real sweat hog. Shoulder pads were all the rage then, and she was wearing a set that made her look like Dick Butkus. During the deposition she was constantly shifting them back and forth into position. It was highly annoying. Just before we started Trash's attorney , Ben Tannenbaum, walked in and sat down to my left just out of my view. He didn't so much as acknowledge me. I was picking up all kinds of bad vibes by the time the heifer asked me if I'd read the subpoena .

  "Yeah."

  "Did you read the part that required you to produce all of the books you own by Mr. Trash?"

  "There's no way I could bring all of the books. I've got about fifty books of his."

  Wrong answer. The Heifer stared at me for a moment and then said after adjusting her shoulder pads for the hundredth time, "Mr. Elliott, you are not in compliance. We would have sent somebody to help you if you couldn't bring them by yourself." Now at that point if I hadn't been trying to help Trash I would have told the Heifer to take her ugly shoulder pads and shove them up her overly large ass, but as time was now a factor and I didn't want to miss my golf game I kept my mouth shut.

  No sooner had I been scolded by the Heifer for not producing the books than she asked me to state for the record how I made my living? Now I'd always considered this a very personal question, especially since the only job I'd ever had was in the early sixties when I briefly drove a cab. And that was only part time. "Well," I said thoughtfully, "I make a few bucks here and there playing golf."

  "How much?"

  "Hard to say." At this point I turned around and glanced at Tannenbaum. His face was expressionless. It didn't seem to me I needed to answer these bullshit questions.

  The Heifer persevered . Soon she was asking me about my criminal record. Once again I turned to Tannenbaum for guidance. The prick didn't even look at me. In retrospect I should have gotten up , told the Heifer what a disgusting fat sweaty slob she was and left, but misguided loyalty kept me there long after my boys had teed off at Jackson Park. Most of the questions were mundane. Finally she got to the actual law suit. Yes, I saw the Dillinger show. Yes I immediately called Trash and told him. Everyone knew that the names Dillinger and Trash were  forever linked.

  "Who's everyone?"

  "Everyone."

  "Names please."

  "Everyone."

  "You are not being responsive."

  "Yes I am."

  "No you aren't."

  "Yes I am." 

  I didn't get out of there until almost four. Just before I got up to leave the mousy little bitch leaned over to the Heifer and whispered in her flabby ear. The Heiffer smiled. "Mr. Elliott, do you pay taxes on your golf winnings?"

 "I can't remember."

  Her sallow blubbery face contracted, her beady eyes grew beadier, the Mousy Bitch leaned forward, even the two stenographer were now looking directly at me. "You can't remember if you pay taxes on your golf winnings?"

  "I don't always win. "

  "Surely you know whether or not you pay taxes on your golf winnings?"

  I stared at the Heifer and the Mousy Bitch for a moment, pursed my lips, and then said, "it's none of your fucking business. And by the way, " I said finally getting to my feet, "big fat woman should not wear shoulder pads because they make you look even fatter." I then walked out of the room. While I was looking for the closest mens room Tannenbaum  hurried by me in the hallway carrying his briefcase. 

  When I walked out onto LaSalle Street into the late afternoon shadows I saw Tannenbaum. He was waiting for me. "I'm sorry about that fiasco. Do you have a minute?" Yes, I told him , I do have a minute. Tannenbaum was no longer expressionless, he actually looked like he was going to cry. It turns out that among the five people Trash had given his attorneys as witnesses months before, one of them was Nicky Weedle, who was the manager of the complex of town homes that Trash used to live in. Weedle and Trash had had a falling out and Weedle , in his eight o' clock deposition had told the Heifer that Trash's suit was a sham. Trash had told him to lie, and then he spent a good half hour besmirching my character in particular, hence all the talk about criminal records and taxes. To make matters worse the nine o'clock deposition was Mike DaVille. DaVille had showed up totally drunk and was asked to leave after fifteen minutes because he kept calling the Heifer a "stupid cunt." Tannenbaum told me that he'd already invested a good hundred hours in the case, and he doubted he could even get the original offer of a hundred thousand dollars now. I had no sympathy for this man. He let the Heifer eviscerate me for more than four hours with out piping up to help even once. 

  When I got to the Gin House I asked for the phone and called Trash. I let him have it. "I'd be out there ten minutes! I got disemboweled for you Trash. I was there all fucking day. I just got out of there. " When I told him what Tannenbaum had told me about Nicky Weedle he let loose with a flood of epithets. After I thanked Trash for wrecking my day I hung up.  

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  Before we left Trash's fancy lawn  party Michaela and I cornered Trash and asked him why so few of his real friends had been invited. Michaela was unsparing in her rebuke. He had forgotten who he was, where he came from. The people at the party were a bunch of stuffed shirts and bores and she was absolutely disgusted with him. I told him that he hurt a lot of people's feelings. Trash promised us that this party was mostly for his business associates, but the next party was for his old time friends. Michaela was not the least placated. "Trash, you are an asshole , and you'll always be an asshole," were her parting words.

  The next party Trash threw was a birthday party for F. Scott Fitzgerald . There were a few more old timers this time, but not many. One notable absence was little Racheal Tannenbaum. F. Scott Fitzgerald never got around to opening over half of the huge pile of  gifts he'd received. A trailer arrived with a shetland pony. For a moment  a long line formed for pony rides until suddenly F. Scott Fitzgerald opened his biggest gift box. It contained a very large super deluxe fire engine red electric race car. Within seconds the only children in left in line for the pony rides were Gracie and another little girl. In the meantime there was a mad dash to drive F. Scott Fitzgerald's new race car. The problem was that F. Scott Fitgerald was in no mood to share his spectacular new gift (Trash confided in me that the car cost him fifteen hundred). Soon tears and acrimony filled the back yard of the Trash estate. Meanwhile Gracie and the other little girl where having the time of their lives on the little white pony. The pony's owner told Tobi with a disgusted sigh that the electric race car was indicative with what was now going on among the North Shore nouve riche.  "Next time it will be electric airplanes, but what are you going to do?" 

  It was sad but true that Trash had indeed forgotten his old pals. Soon , all of his waking hours were devoted to the Encylopedia of Depravity. During the birthday party Trash had taken me into his new wood paneled library - office. "Buddy boy, fuck the publishers. I'm going to do this myself. The money I'm going to make with the Encyclopedia of Depravity will make this (he pointed to the shiny set of volumes of TV Books on the shelf next to his mahogany desk) seem like peanuts. " Trash's face looked older. The deep , dark lines etched beneath his slightly bulging eyes seemed deeper and darker. His hair, however had not a suggestion of grey, in fact, it was now blacker than ever. He had recently developed a slight paunch ;  all in all J. Robert Trash was the picture of prosperity.  

  A prestigious lawyer I know displayed his unbelievable ignorance of criminal law recently by insisting that double jeopardy is an absolute. Of course even a lay person such as myself knows that is not true. Harry Aleman was found innocent of murder in a bench trial. After the judge was found to have taken a bribe Aleman was retried and convicted. But that was not the point of the bet I made with the prestigious attorney. I based my argument on the cases, mostly Southern, in which all white juries would find KKK'rs innocent of murder in spite of overwhelming evidence. A number of these cases were  then retried by the Feds who charged the defendants with violating the victims civil rights by lynching them. It just goes to show that lawyers that specialize in arcane law should stick to arcane law.  

  Street Jimmy gave his secret knock on the back door a little while ago. When I opened the door he was smoking and a large, insidious cloud of dirty cancerous smoke filled my unsuspecting nostrils.  I  cursed him savagely and without mercy . After he extinguished the vile instrument of death and disease he said, "Ya'll don' like smoke, does ya'?" 

  "No, Jimmy, I don't. And I'd like to point out to you that cigarettes will not only kill you, but you'll die a horrible painful death!"

  This information staggered Jimmy. His face became  contorted in terror, "don' say that, please, don' say that."

  "But it's true. My dad died from smoking , my uncle died from smoking, a lot of my friends died -" 

  Jimmy could stand it no more, "please don' be sayin' it. Please."

  "They had holes cut in their throats. They were in pain - "

  Jimmy was now reeling, "please stop, the lord won' let that happen to me."

  After regaining his composure Jimmy immediately started mouthing off to Patrick. After I gave him a stern warning about deportment Jimmy agreed to "get it together" . 

  Unfortunately, before he started shoveling I inadvertently managed to throw him into another state of terror when I mentioned the warrant out for him. "No, no, the judge didn' say nothin' about no warrant."

  "The judge doesn't care -  but the next time you get busted and the cops run your ass through the computer see what happens."

  Jimmy is in total denial.  

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

   After a couple of weeks Trash shook off the humiliation of his disastrous victory trip to NYC .  He decided that it was time he showed off his new digs to his friends. A lawn party was announced. Everyone who was anyone waited anxiously for an invitation.  Tobi and I were invited, as was Ranalli and his wife, The Tooley's, and Stein and his new wife. Ebert didn't RSVP. That was it. At least fifty or sixty of his barroom pals had been passed over.  When some of the neglected friends confronted me about being slighted I simply shrugged my soldiers . What could I say? 

  The day of the party arrived. It was a perfect summer afternoon. Several tents were erected. Their were waiters and waitresses in starched white jackets hurrying about. Numerous tables filled with every kind of imaginable food. Trash had even hired a back up nanny to help Martyrio. It turns out that Trash was apprehensive about how F. Scott Fitzerald and Gracie would interact with his attorneys child. 

  I lied and told Bea and Art that Trash had asked me to invite them to the party. Trash seemed startled when we all arrived together but if he was pissed off he at least didn't act like it . Ranalli was in great spirits . He said he'd never been to a lawn party before and wasn't sure how to dress. "The nice thing about being a dago is that you get to dress like a dago." He was resplendent in white slacks, understated jewelry , and a black embroidered shirt. 

  It dawned on all of us after about an hour that we didn't know most of the other guests. There were a few TV personalities,  but the rest were perfect strangers. When Trash's attorney arrived with his daughter I realized that they were the only children present. The attorney, Ben Tannenbaum, a gaunt , slightly stooped man in his sixties was married to a very attractive brunette in her thirties; the daughter, Racheal, was the spitting image of her mother. The same thick blue black hair and pretty black eyes. Ben was a doting husband and father. He must have made a half dozen trips to the car for sweaters and toys. Finally the nannies took the kids to a remote place in the yard for a game of croquet. 

 Less than an hour later there was a bit of commotion. Racheal came running to her mother . She was crying . There was some dirt on her knees , also a few grass stains on her starched pinafore. She claimed that Gracie had pushed her over. Trash screamed at the nannies. They said they hadn't seen what happened because they were repairing the wickets. When I asked Gracie what happened F. Scott Fitzgerald stepped forward and said he had pushed over Racheal. Trudy gave him a rather smart slap. F. Scott Fitzgerald almost grinned. The kid was tough. Later on Gracie confessed that she had pushed over Racheal because Racheal had cheated . Not only was F. Scott Fitzgerald tough, he was a gentleman.  

  Street Jimmy arrived promptly at eight this morning. When I reminded him he had a nine o clock court date he made a hideous face. To make matters worse he left his satchel with all of his belongings on the El. I advanced him five dollars and a bag of barbe que potato chips and off he went. Hopefully he'll be able to blow enough smoke up the judges ass to get the bench warrant tossed.

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  The fact that Trash's snooty neighbors didn't embrace him was simply a momentary blip during his triumphant victory march into the wonderful world of wealth and power.  Of course rich people need a nanny, and so the Trash's hired a filipino nanny named Martyrio. She was a stern, unsmiling middle aged woman. It was too bad she didn't have a sense of humor because she was really going to need one.

   Trash had long ago planned  a specific course of action when he finally made the big time; and one of the first things on his list was a trip to New York . No expense was going to be spared. Trudy spent thousands of dollars on clothes. New Vuitton  matching luggage was purchased - even for Martyrio. Trash and F. Scott Fitzgerald were both fitted for identical pin striped tailor made suits although F. Scott Fitzgerald's suit pants were to be cut just above the knees, and naturally,  like any  young gentleman of his station he was to wear knee socks. My favorite touch was the matching father and son London Fog trench coats . That was impressive. They were to travel by train given Trash's well known fear of flying. Trudy said that the trip wasn't that bad because Trash and her spent most of the time in the club car drinking. 

  There was naturally a limo waiting for them at the train station. Everything was in place by the time they reached the legendary Hotel St. Regis. It was late afternoon and the spectacular lobby was filled with magnificently dressed men and woman from  around the world. This was the moment Trash had dreamed of all of his life. He had at long last arrived both literally and figuratively. He was now part of this world and he was going to enjoy every minute of it. Two bell hops were needed to handle the volume of luggage they had brought with them.  Trudy said they were half way across the lobby when a dramatic hush swept over  the vast lobby. She said everyone was suddenly staring at them. Fingers were being pointed . Trash turned around to see what was happening. Trudy said that the object of attention was a giant turd that had just been deposited in the middle of the highly polished marble floor.  When an ashen Trash looked at Martyrio for some sort of explanation she pointed to F. Scott Fitzgerald Trash. The bell hops nodded in agreement. F. Scott Fitzgerald Trash had just defiled  the  the hallowed lobby of the regal St. Regis Hotel  with excrement. Perhaps if he'd been wearing long pants it might not have happened (at least so dramatically) but that's something we'll never know. Trash's life was clearly passing before him with lightening speed. No, no he said shaking his head, a dog must have done it ; but sadly there were no dogs anywhere to be seen.  The evidence was overwhelming, F. Scott Fitzgerald, not a dog  had deposited the  turd in the middle of the crowded lobby of the St. Regis Hotel during the grand entrance into New York society of J. Robert and Trudy Trash. Within minutes the infamous turd was removed and a shaken Trash conducted his business at the front desk and  then dejectedly led his entourage  into one of the gilded elevators that was to take them to their appointed suite.

  Trudy said Trash never recovered from the humiliation. To make matters worse when Trash went to see his publisher the publisher showed no interest in the Encyclopedia of Depravity. After meeting with a couple of other publishers Trash was made to understand that the Aussies had wrecked TV Books. Trash said it was because the Aussies had deposed him from running the company. One of the publishers said he had been informed that the Aussies had destroyed TV Books because they needed a tax write off. What ever the reason for the demise of TV Books, Trash's name was now mud in the publishing world. 

  Trudy said he refused to do anything; he spent the duration of the trip  smoking and drinking in their hotel room . Fortunately Martyrio was there to take F. Scott Fitzgerald to see the museums and walk around Central Park. Trudy said F. Scott Fitzgerald seemed to have a very nice time. Trudy said she spent most of her time shopping and sitting in the bar at the St. Regis. She said she met some very interesting people there. 

  The trip back to Chicago was not pleasant. Trudy said it was impossible to cheer up Trash. 

  Fox arrived in town last night. Counselor summoned him for a film shoot. Fox looked good. He had an AA Thirty Days of Sobriety Chip. He assured us all that he wasn't going to anything as drastic as trying to quit drinking forever, but felt that when he started coughing up blood last month that it was time for a breather. He said he's going to cut down on his comedy gigs and take a job as a starter at a Riverside California golf course. Within an hour he was shit faced. Well, thirty days is better than nothing. 

  Late this afternoon Counselors Mercedes pulled up next to the bar and then in what looked like a Shriners Circus act, Ruben, Serigio, and Fox stumbled out of the car and proceeded into the bar. They had spent the afternoon on the film shoot. Ruben said it was hectic. Rumors had it that they were going to all get ten grand a piece.  Johnny Lira was a drop out. He wanted his ten grand up front. At this point it looks like all of the pugilists are now officially out of the movie. The boys were all very impressed with Sean's studio. 

  It didn't take Fox long to get falling down drunk. He crawled up in the window and passed out in the booth much to the delight of everybody with phone cameras. Eventually Counselor called him up and ordered him over to his house. 

  

  Street Jimmy just came in. He'd been sleeping at the church. He thought I was mad at him because someone had lied about him. I reminded that he'd passed me in the parking lot of Stop And Rob and instead of coming to the bar with me he bought a rock. Eventually he agreed with me that I had a legitimate grievance. He said he's going to rehab tomorrow. However, he will need two bucks car fare to get to County Hospital so he can get out of the cold. When he tried to hit me up for more car fare I assured him that the hospital would take him to rehab in one of their vans just to get rid of him. He laughed. Once again he said I was right. 

  Street Jimmy and I crossed paths at seven thirty this morning in the parking lot at Stop And Rob as I was headed to the bar. He was obviously heading to Sedgwick to buy a rock. I just gave him a dirty look and kept walking. Had he been smart (that's a laugh) he'd have come with me. Fortunately I didn't need him for shoveling or sweeping. When he finally showed up around noon he was wrecked. He seemed shocked when I refused to let him in the door. He's really looking bad. His face is drawn, and his eyes seem deep set. He has no energy.  Time is taking it's toll. Grace says he's been looking for me. He's suggested that I'm "lying on him." I'd love him to say that to my face. I hope he snaps out of his present doldrums because if he doesn't things could keep going down hill . He's got the warrant hanging over his head although maybe a little time out at County wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to him.

  Trash was rolling in dough. He was in hog heaven. Alas, it would become all too evident  in retrospect that J. Robert Trash was not meant to handle large amounts of money. Almost everything he did after cashing the monster check the Aussies had made out to  him was wrong. Instead of staying in Chicago like Ranalli did when he hit pay dirt with his restaurants, Trash insisted on moving to the North Shore. Within weeks he was the owner of a lovely house with a huge landscaped yard in a posh section of Wilmette. As Michaela Tooley so eloquently put it, Trash bought a million dollar house and wouldn't pay a penny less than a million and a half for it. He spent a couple of hundred thousand dollars more to build a marvelously wood paneled addition to house his huge library. Of course there were the brand new his and hers Caddies parked in the driveway. The furniture could best be described as Moorish Garish. It was very expensive stuff as Trash would point out proudly to his numerous guests. The best thing about the way the house was decorated was the art work. Trash had been a patron of the one armed artist Eddy Balchowsky. Eddy had lost his arm fighting against Franko in 1937. This was particularly unfortunate because Eddy was a concert pianist. Eddy also had a marvelous, well trained baritone voice.  Eddy was a professional junkie. He insisted that the pain and suffering he'd endured by losing his arm caused him to get hooked on heroin. Not only was he a junkie, but he was also strung out on meth, and admitted that he was unable to function in the morning without at least one joint. Trash had purchased some of Eddy's best pictures and they were displayed liberally around the house. 

  Trudy Trash approached me at one of the frequent dinners at the Trash's new house. She said she was worried about the way Trash was going through their money. I suggested that I'd try and convince him to just concentrate on writing novels. They were time consuming and were quite harmless. When I mentioned this to Trash I emphasized that it was time to think of us, his fans, we deserved more of his novels.  The clock was ticking and he now had time to show his real stuff. Trash was not to be persuaded. He said, "buddy boy, J. Robert Trash is going to roll them bones one more time. I've already decided to write the definitive encyclopedia of Depravity. Every library in the country will have to order it. Do you have any idea how many libraries there are in the U.S. alone? Of course you don't. I don't need investors. The money I made on TV Books is chump change." He was a man possessed.  There was no persuading him to write novels. In truth Trash realized that his attempts at fiction were shit. Even his best friends would only offer luke warm praise after reading one of his alter ego crime fighter hero novels. No publication would even review them because they were so bad.  At least when he produced his hilarious play the local drama critics all reviewed it. Of course all of their reviews excoriated him. But at least they reviewed him.

     When I told Trudy what he'd told me she just shrugged her shoulders helplessly and said, "I hope he knows what he's doing." She also described to me how they'd been snubbed by one of their snooty neighbors. It seems that they were invited to some kind of neighborhood gathering and when they arrived at the neighbors house, the neighbor, some Board of Trade bigshot, made some kind of comment about the way Trash had dressed. Trudy said this stunned Trash given that he was wearing thousand dollar shoes from England, two hundred and fifty dollar slacks from Brooke's Brothers , and a tailored custom made short sleeved shirt. After all, it was August. I told Trudy that I would have punched the neighbor in the face as hard as I could and gone back home. Trudy said all of the neighbors were like that. She didn't like being snubbed . She had prevailed when Trash suggested having a party at their house for the neighbors. She convinced him that nobody would come. This was a bitter pill for Trash to swallow.

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  With less than a week to go before the Trash empire would come tumbling down due to lack of finances when three mysterious Australian strangers arrived at the offices of TV Books. Fortunately for future historians Michaela Tooley was present and was able to describe what ensued. Apparently (and fortuitously ) Australia had changed it's tax laws. These Aussies needed  to move some money - fast. Somehow they heard about Trash. They wanted to buy TV Books. Michaela said it was Trash's greatest  performance. He was perfectly calm. He listened patiently to their offer. After thinking about it for a moment he told them he'd need to retain a couple of points, and of course keep some kind of executive position. After a brief discussion the Aussies agreed to keep Trash on as a consultant and after another discussion gave him a few points, Michaela wasn't sure how many. After the details were worked out one of the Aussies stared at Trash for a moment and then said  in a thick Aussie accent , "so mate, we know about J. Robert Trash the businessman, but what about J. Robert Trash the man? What kind of hobbies do you have?"

  Trash thought for a moment and after taking a long drag on his ever present cigarette said, "fly fishing. Fly fishing is my passion." Now anyone who knew Trash even casually knew that the man despised anything to do with physical exertion, or the outdoors. Michaela said that it took all of the strength she could muster to not burst out laughing.

  The deal was concluded with a handshake and the lawyers would meet the following afternoon and draw up the papers.  As it turned out Trash would be able to keep four and a half million after paying his investors two million. Trash had not only escaped financial ruin, but was now a millionaire. He acted like it was the most natural series of events imaginable. Word of his newly acquired wealth spread instantly throughout the bar world. The next time I walked into the Billy Goat word had it that he'd made ten million. Some thought he's made even more. Trash denied nothing . The more money he he was accused of making on the TV Books deal, the more Trash smiled and nodded knowingly. He made a tour of his bars spending money wildly. His popularity soared. He was consulting with real estate agents. Of course Trudy and he would need matching Caddies. Nobody could ever say J. Robert Trash was not generous when he was flush. It was the best of times.    

  Street Jimmy was half a sleep when he showed up this morning. There really wasn't much for him to do, the sidewalks were pretty clear. I pointed to the man down the street trying to get his car out of the snow. I told him now was the time to make money. People needed to go to work and he could help them dig out their car. He looked at the  man down the street and sighed. Then turning to me he shrugged and said, "Bruce, wha's wrong with me. I don' wanna work nomore?" It was a startling confession. I suggested that perhaps his crack addiction was taking it's toll. Jimmy thought that that was definitely a possibility. I gave him five bucks for throwing salt down on the sidewalk and suggested he go over to McDonold's and buy a big breakfast instead of going over to Sedgwick and buying crack. I didn't notice which way he went, but I have a feeling he opted for Sedgwick Street.

  The Adventures of J. Robert Trash, contind.

  After the birth of F. Scott Fitzgerald Trash, J. Robert Trash got down to business. He launched a massive undertaking. He was going create a multi volume encyclopedia containing the complete history of television.  What he was about to attempt to accomplish (without the aid of computers) was the equivalent of the building of the great pyramids in Egypt .  Starting out with a skeleton crew in the basement of his rented town house next to Loyola University, he soon rented the adjoining town house and steadily increased his work force. Both Trudy Trash and Tobi  were soon working there. The babies F. Scott Fitzgerald and Grace Littlefeather were stationed  in adjoining cribs while their mothers worked feverishly. Much of the new work force came from Colombia College students. Soon some of Trash's unemployed friends were enlisted to work, the most prominent of them being Michaela Tooley. Michaela soon became Trash's right hand man. In truth she was the only person that could stand being in the same smoke filled room with him. It wasn't just the chainsmoking  that made people avoid Trash, it was his volatile temper. He would go off on tirades for no apparent reasons . Michaela and Trudy were the only one's that would tell him on these increasingly frequent occasions  to go fuck himself. It was quite a sight peering into the room and seeing the two of them, Michaela and Trash, simultaneously chain smoking and pounding away at their respective type writers.  Half way through the project Michaela had to be rushed across the street to the Loyola Medical Center. She had had a heart attack. She told me that Trash walked right into the intensive care unit without permission less than an hour after she was admitted, pulled back the curtain and said in his Cagney voice, "Pilar, you going to make it?" Trash was a big fan of For Whom the Bell Tolls, " and would occasionally call Michaela Pilar. 

  Michalela was back at Trash's side in less than two weeks. Trash worked fifteen and sixteen hour days, seven days a week.  As the project grew Trash was able to persuade several investors to put in some fairly large amounts of money. A year went by like this; and then two years. As this project neared completion Trash's funds were running dangerously low. By the time the boxes filled with the twenty volume sets of TV Books ( that was the name of the encyclopedia)   began to arrive Trash was on the verge of bankruptcy. Michaela told me that she heard him talking to his bank and that they told him he he had less than two weeks to take care of his creditors or else. 

  To be contind.

Street

 Street Jimmy was watching for me from the window at McDonold's. He was in a down mood. What little sleep he got was at Starbucks. He said he was smoking crack with China (so much for her rehab) and she put up most of the money. He said she commented on how dark he was getting. She attributed it to the crack. She thinks he should quit. Jimmy told me crack was a curse. "I don' got a monkey on my back, I gots a gorilla on my back." I told him I thought he had two gorillas and three monkeys on his back. He said his brother also mentioned how dark his skin was getting. "It's the mark of the devil. Drugs will kill you. They'll put you in jail, wreck your body and your brain. Shit, I'm gonna end up in the nut house if I don't stop." 

  When he came in from shoveling the snow he was even more depressed. "My back hurts, my hands are cold, my feets are colder than hell. This is bullshit. I hate my life. " He's now snoring peacefully in the front window.

  Of course Street Jimmy didn't show up yesterday when he could have made a lot of money shoveling people's cars out of the snow. I would love to have had him help me shovel mine. When he arrived this morning I laid it on thick. I told him at least twenty or thirty people stopped by looking for him to shovel. He seemed crestfallen. I was relentless. I told him that all of the other crack addicts, particularly Bobby Mason, made a fortune. Jimmy said he was at the shelter. Fine , I told him, the next time there's a snow I'll use the first crack addict that shows, he, Jimmy, no longer had exclusivity. When I ran into him on the street about five hours later he was wandering around aimlessly with his own busted snow shovel. He said nobody wanted to get their cars shoveled. I told him that nobody had to go to work on Saturday. 

  J. Robert and Trudy Trash were not the only wedding that month. I married Tobi shortly afterwards. Our reception was in my brothers back yard in Evanston. It was beautifully catered by Tobi's friends who were all chef's. It was a perfect autumn afternoon. I overheard Trash telling my brother that I was the devil incarnate and yet I lucked out with perfect weather while he, J. Robert Trash, humanitarian extrodinaire , was afflicted with a weather disaster of biblical proportions on the day of his nuptials. There was definitely a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

  Shortly after my wedding Bill Mullen, who was far and away the best straight newspaper reporter in Chicago was married. Bill was a great guy, but as his good friend Bill "Hawkeye" Currie liked to  describe him, "Mullen never wrote a bad paragraph , nor did he ever  utter  a coherent sentence. " Bill was very conflicted about his upcoming wedding. His bride to be was quite beautiful but she seemed to have some serious issues about Bill's friends. Of all of Bills barroom pals Bill seemed especially nervous about inviting  Michaela Tooley and me. I tried to explain to Bill that although  both Michaela and I could raise a little hell in a barroom situation, we both knew how to behave within reason in non barroom social situations. For some reason Bill was extremely worried about how we would treat his Tribune colleagues , especially one of the columnists that we affectionately dubbed, Mammy Yokum. No matter how I tried to reassure Bill, he kept pleading for us to behave all of the way up to the day of the wedding.

  The wedding was held at Medinah Country Club. I had only played golf there once and I still think it's number three course is the best course I've ever played. It was a very impressive affair. There were at least a couple of hundred guests. There's had been a seating pattern to almost all of the weddings I've ever attended. For some reason I'm always seated as far from the podium as is physically possible to place me. At Ebert's spectacular wedding in the Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel I was a good fifty yards away from the podium in a corner by the band. Of course Michaela was seated next to me. McQue later admitted that he'd warned Roger about seating Trash and me at the same table, so Trash was tucked into the faraway  corner directly opposite me. Unfortunately for Roger, this didn't prevent Trash from grabbing the mike from the bandleader and doing a drunken version of "It Had To Be You" which he insisted was from Roger to Chaz. 

  So once again I found myself at what would be assumed a safe distance from the podium. I was seated with Tobi, McQue, Corkery, Michaela, and Trash. Trash was there alone because Trudy had just given birth to F. Scott Fitzgerald Trash.  Not only was Trash a new father, but yours truly had just had Grace Little feather Elliott a couple of months before. In fact it was the first time Tobi had been out without her bouncing bundle of joy since the remarkable birth - remarkable in that Tobi and I managed to give birth to a full blooded Shoshone Indian baby. Trash didn't bother to eat. He was  shitfaced in less than a half an hour. Hawkeye , who was seated at the podium, came over and cautioned (pleaded)  us about some of our language. It seems that the acoustics in the hall directed every word we said clearly to the podium. This was unfortunate, because we were not good at self censorship when it came to table comments. To make matters worse, when the man taking the videoed  statements of congratulations at the various tables  showed up at our table we had all, with the exception of McQue and Tobi, become somewhat inebriated. When asked to say something to the camera I said, "I'm so happy Bill finally got married. I always knew he'd eventually get over his homosexual phase and move on to woman." Michaela said, "I met Bill when he first moved to Chicago. In fact, I gave him his first blow job." Trash described how he'd met Bill in Vietnam when they were both covering the war there. The fact that Trash had never been out of the US was irrelevant.

  Trash had always been jealous of Mullen. Trash was literate and astute enough to appreciate good writing even if he couldn't produce it himself and Mullen was a pro's pro and Trash knew it. Mullen had several Pulitzers for his brilliant reporting on Africa, Asia and Indochina. Pulitzers were a big deal in Chicago . Even Spitzpatrick had earned one, a fact that he repeated ten to twenty times daily. Paul Goesaway said that his best friend Bob Gangrene was so jealous about all of his Chicago colleague's winning Pulitzers that he would automatically stay home from work every year on the day they were awarded. 

  Mullen had done a story about Sid Harris who was a veteran of the Spanish Civil War and Sid and Mullen had become good friends. Sid was dying of cancer but was well enough to hang out in bars for a good ten years after the diagnosis. Sid was seated at the podium  when in the middle of the proceedings Sid slumped to the floor. Everybody thought this was finally it for Sid. Most of us didn't find out until the next day that Sid had had just a little too much weed. The paramedics were called . While they were waiting for the paramedics to arrive some of the guests tried various techniques to revive Sid. Len Aronson was holding Sids legs in the air. Trash was slow to react. In fact he didn't seem aware of Sid's plight until the paramedics arrived. When he realized it was Sid they were there for he rushed to the podium, pushed his way through the throng gathered around Sid, and then forcibly pushed his way between Sid and the paramedics. This was now vintage Trash: "Don't die on me buddy," he wept holding Sid in his arms, "I love you Sid, you are the heart of my heart. Remember when we were in Spain fighting Franco? You saved my life you sunuvabitch, now I'm going to save yours." Finally , after a great deal of pulling and pushing Trash was  forced to release his grip on Sid and let the paramedics attend to him. After the paramedics had removed Sid on a stretcher and Trash had been physically restrained from going with him he came back to our table still sobbing softly while he had another glass of Jameson. 

  Mullen took me aside. "Bruce, you've got to do me a favor. You've got to get him out of here. Please." Poor Mullen was desperate.  

  It was with great reluctance that Michaela and I agreed to leave during the hight of the festivities. Michaeala was usually that last person to leave any event if there was still booze to be drunk. But she was stuck with me because I was driving. As we ushered Trash down the long hallway to the coat check room Michaela unloaded on Trash for making her leave. Trash seemed oblivious to her insults. Instead, Trash was explaining to me why the Masons were conspiring against him. It was because they had read Trash's expose on the great Masonic conspiracy. All the masonic symbols on the walls served to give credence to his words. We were being escorted by three uniformed security guards which also added to Trash's paranoia. Before we arrived at coat check room I told Tobi to run out to the parking lot and let the air out of the tires of Trash's Caddilac. He was in no shape to drive and he was pissing off the security guys with every step he took. Matters reached the crisis stage when we finally arrived at the coat check room. An old woman, she had to be in her eighties, was handling the coats. After she gave us our coats Trash reached over and tucked a hundred dollars bill down her bra. When she let out a shriek the security guys lunged at Trash. Trash was now resisting them. I told the security guys that the wedding party was filled with the who's who of chicago journalism, and it might be wise to let us handle Trash. However if they wanted to fuck around with him, it was there call. They relented and gave Trash back to us. Micaela was lived. "You little asshole, do want to go to jail. Trash , you are fucking idiot you sawed off little shit." Trash resumed his Masonic conspiracy ranting all of the way to the parking lot. When he saw that all four of his tires had been flattened all of his suspicions were confirmed. "Well he said looking at the flattened tires, if they think that's going to stop J. Robert Trash they've got another thing coming." When I pointed out the three police cars waiting for him at exit to the parking lot he glowered a moment and said, "I'm going to make a run for it."

  Before he was able to get into his car I was able to wrestle his car keys away from him. Tobi had to drive our car, the cops meant business and I could never have passed a sobriety test. As we drove out of the parking lot and passed the assembled cops they  looked absolutely broken hearted about not getting a chance to bust Trash. All of the way back to O'Reilley's Micaehla kept up a steady string of insults. She was almost placated, however  , when we arrived at O'Reilley's and Trash threw a hundred dollar bill onto the bar and announced that the drinks were on him.