Kickin' like Chuck Norris

After another unproductive day of pretending to work, as we’re wont to do, my friend Joey and I go to ‘Borders’ to sip brew, read magazines, talk shit, and ogle the cute barista (whom Joey claims “wants” him). I really don’t understand why we adhere to this nightly tradition; hell, we get off at around 10:30, how wise is it to order a triple shot mocha, size venti? (The usual outcome is a sleepless night, lying in bed reading some shitty book, probably Anne Rice.) It’s worth it though, a chance to unwind. Joey is in a particularly good mood tonight, which is strange because he’s usually sardonic and pissy; of course not with me cause we’re boys, but pretty much with everyone else, including his mom and sisters. Maybe his unusually good mood may be attributed to the calorie and caffeine laden drink he just drank; or maybe the fact Joey’s on cloud nine because last night he finally got laid after a three month dry spell.

A little bit about Joey: we call him the “king of the one liners.” The guy is smart as shit with a razor wit and always quick to drop a clever phrase on an unsuspecting crowd like an H-bomb. He loves Vegas and the mob and always carries a true-crime paperback in his back pants pocket. He’s white, probably Irish, but calls himself ‘Jew.’ In fact he has a tattoo on his neck that says ‘JEU’ written in olde-english; the spelling error was intentional. I don’t really understand why he got it. He told me once it was because he looks Jewish, which he does, but why spell it different? He ain’t Jewish though, we went to mass last Christmas. In retrospect, I think he went for the chicks. He’s told me on many occasions in a very serious tone, “Catholic girls put out.” Joey looks Jewish however; he has a schnozz and intense, beady eyes, which are magnified through his 50’s style, black rimmed glasses. Not that all Jewish men look like this, but many do. His hair is styled into a perfect pompadour and he won’t reveal how he does it. It’s a technique he keeps super-secret, as tightly guarded as his true persona and his wallet. He has another tattoo on his back; you guessed it, a large shamrock. Joey drives his mom’s 91 Corolla, but dreams about one day owning a Cadillac, or maybe a Lincoln. Preferably 21 feet long with a trunk that can “fit 5 bodies.” Not that he’s serious about ever fitting 5 bodies into his trunk, it’s the idea he’s in love with, but I could be wrong. Joey and I actually have a lot in common.

Anyhow, there’s an undeniable magic in the air. When I drove in I couldn’t help but notice a peculiar smell, I think it was spring, or maybe just an invisible cloud of pollen laced with smog. The moon is full and paints a silver lining that glistens off the dew accumulated on our hoods. It also exaggerates the glisten in Joey’s blue-black pompadour. Joey’s mood tonight is infectious. We sit at our table slowly nursing our drinks, unwilling to leave, reading Tattoo and motorcycle magazines. I tell Joey about some major problems I’m having with a girl I’m fucking (she could possibly be pregnant and I’m scared shitless) Joey keeps shifting in his chair and glancing past me, over my shoulder. I turn around to see for myself who or what could actually be more interesting than possible impending fatherhood. Sitting at the corner table is a woman with a slinky body wearing hip-huggers and a barely-there cashmere sweater; she looks to be about 40. She’s reading a book and completely oblivious to the fact she’s now the primary focus of Joey’s affection. “What’s going on?” I ask Joey; in my mind I already know his answer. Joey’s leans in and excitedly whispers, in vintage Joey-speak. “You see that? Those curves are kickin’ like Chuck Norris. She definitely wants to party bro’ she keeps looking at me.” I shake my head and shrug, trying to conceal a laugh. Annoyed with my reaction Joey leans back in his chair, takes a sip from his drink, and childishly sniffs letting out his trademark phrase (his gem), always humble ‘til the end:

“Of course I could be wrong. I’m a piece of shit, what do I know?”