Twenty-eight years ago I started hanging out with an older guy that looked like Frank Sinatra and the guy who shot the shotgun from the black Charger in Bullit. He was in Korea so he was quite a bit older. But boy could he pick up girls. Pure Irish. Dressed the best. Courtesy of his girl frends for the most part. As a pallbearer for him in 1996, I must say he was one of the most increadable people I met.
As we worked together we would go out after work. His favorite place was the Sahara Club. Even in the eighties it had a strict dress code. We would usually go there on Saturdays after work. At that time only women had earings and Marines and Navy people had tatoos. They always had some kind of old fashioned band. Almost an orcheastra. The last of the fifties clubs I guess. I knew the owner who was getting up in age at that point. But he never let down his gaurd and let it turn into a trashy place.
You would sit at a table and there was the grandmother, mother and granddaughter sitting together. How cool is that. As the others were dancing and up and about this grandmother said she had something to say to me.
You just do not understand do you. You are naive. You take everything for face value. You think the cop is honest. The mailman is a nice person. People are nice. A lesson for a dumb hick like me. Never really thought of it that way. Her grandaughter lost her life in a traffic accident that niight. Had I not been so naive she may have been with me and alive now. Maybe not. Maybe so.
I would however like to go back in time to the Sahara. I had a 1976 Chysler New Yorker then. Someone stuck a Pabst Blue Ribbin can on the bumper. It rode there for two weeks. I guess those old cars rode well. This was my golden years and I missed out. Now I am just trying to make it
