Category: Music and Dance

When I’m 64

The monthly meeting of the Jonny Pals came to order the way all bad ideas do—too late and with a hangover. Smoke hung in the room like a guilty conscience while Bro Joe banged a chipped coffee mug against the folding table and cleared his throat like he was calling witnesses to the stand. “It’s December,” he said, squinting under the flickering light, “and that means Jonny’s birthday is coming up.” The legendary Junior Ranger leaned back in his chair and sneered. “How old’s the moron gonna be this year? 35? 36?” Rosie De Candia, the recording secretary, thumbed through her almanac like it was a police blotter and froze. Her eyes went wide. “64,” she said. The room went quiet. “That can’t be right. Have you seen the way that guy eats? I had 28 in the Death Pool and nearly choked when he blew past that. Anybody got him older than 64?”

They took a poll, the kind that ends friendships, and the verdict was unanimous: Jonny had outlived every reasonable expectation. “Well, shit,” Bro Joe muttered, letting his eyes drift where they weren’t welcome, toward the gorgeous Davida Bourland, who stared straight through him like he was already dead—something that had become fashionable after the Washington Post ran that unforgettable list of his accumulated STDs five years back. “This changes things,” he said. “I was banking on Jonny checking out so I could inherit his fortune and square up with the mob.” He spat on the floor and shrugged. “Turns out Boris has the money, and he hates my guts. So instead of cursing Jonny’s longevity like a bad rash, we’re gonna celebrate it.” He cracked a crooked grin. “This year, we throw a party to end all parties. If he won’t die, we might as well drink to it.”

Historic Filipinotown

Jonny watched the Packard fishtail down the alley, exhaust coughing like a dying bullfrog, the blonde bombshell behind the wheel shrieking at her sister/daughter/niece/second cousin in that high-strung way that made every vertebra in Jonny’s spine beg for mercy. She’d been nothing but trouble from the moment she waltzed into the agency flashing those baby-blue peepers and waving a retainer check big enough to pave over her neuroses. But it was Jonny’s ex-partner on the force—a tall drink of nitroglycerin whose slow burn around him could’ve been detected by airport security—who made the next move. She raised her service piece for a polite little “stop or I’ll shoot” communiqué… only the communique went rogue, zipped through the dawn haze, and rearranged the dame’s golden noggin into something resembling a seven-layer dip left too long on a picnic table.

When the smoke cleared and the three of them gathered round the wrecked beauty, Jonny felt a jig bubbling inside him like champagne in a thin glass. She’d been a headache, sure, but sweet saints of the city, what a dish. He’d even bragged—loudly and to anyone within earshot—about the time he’d done the horizontal hula with her. Now, with her skull looking like a Jackson Pollock study in red, he couldn’t exactly break into a victory Charleston in front of gawking bystanders clutching their shopping bags and moral expectations. Jonny’s face needed to broadcast “tragic remorse,” but his soul was performing a conga line, and that was a tricky two-step to pull off without coaching.

Luckily, Boris knew his partner’s heart was made of equal parts confetti and ratchet straps, and he’d taken precautions. From the shadows stepped a lone trumpet player—Boris’ doing—blowing a low, mournful note that told Jonny exactly what emotion he ought to paste across his mug. With the horn’s wail guiding him, Jonny mustered up a look of deep, operatic angst while privately debating whether to stream some trashy reality show or the latest Bill Burr standup special on Netflix that night. Boris padded close, laid a steadying paw on his partner’s shoulder, and whispered the words that deepened Jonny’s fake grief just enough to fool the crowd and maybe, just maybe, fool himself.

“Forget it, Jonny… it’s Historic Filipinotown.”