The Jimmy Lester Chronicles

[oettinger]

And then Janie sued you over the 210k right?

[Dear Booze]

My memories of the rest of 1998 are vague. Almost like looking at a handful of snapshots that represent an entire year. There’s the first one, where I’m holding a giant check for $210,000; the one where I’m getting thrown out of my favorite bar; the one where I catch my kitchen on fire; the one where the Sheriff’s office puts a levy on my bank account for $60,000 in unpaid child support; the one where I beat the shit out of a girl and her boyfriend for acting stupid and then being a pair of smart-asses when I called them on it; the one where I knock the shit out of a couple of frat boys because I was sick of hearing them call everyone “Bro”; the one where I cold cock a bartender for kicking me out of his bar; and the one where I punch some guy in the face because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You might think that I was a bad father and a terrible person. But I’d disagree. I really wanted to be a good dad to Robert. I would think about him all the time. But I never was able to get it together. Maybe because it was too hard, or maybe because I was too selfish, or maybe because I didn’t know how. What I didn’t know was that I wasn’t doing anything to try to be a good father at all. And time was flyin’ by pretty fucking fast.

Looking back on it with total consciousness – remember, I’m dead and I totally understand everything now – I realize that I liked the idea of being a good father. But, in fact, I wanted to be the person who I was. I enjoyed doing every single fucking thing that I did. It made life easy. I was more free than anyone I knew. Everyone else had to worry about what other people thought; they didn’t want to hurt other people’s feelings. They had to worry about rules and standards, and laws. I didn’t worry about anything at all. I just lived. I fucking lived. It really is a great feeling.

In 1999, 2000, and 2001, the fear of the Y2K Bug, an energy crises, and three big airplanes which crashed into some important buildings in New York and Virginia were thrown around as common-thread topics of conversation at each bar. I didn’t give two shits about any of this stuff. It didn’t have anything to do with me and didn’t change my life at all.

By 2002, my remaining $150,000 was completely gone and I began working again. Yep for the first time in over five years, I had a job. Every fucking Monday through Friday, I showed up at Appliance Distribution Warehouse and loaded and unloaded appliance parts from trucks. I sorted and packed orders, I maintained an inventory of over a half a million items that make up the guts of water heaters, stoves, ovens, dishwashers, and washers and dryers. For the most part, I worked alone and I was just fine with that.

I had enough cash to feed myself, pay rent on a little one bedroom apartment and have several pops after work at Ten Pin Lanes, the Captain’s Brig, the Firehouse Pub, or the Stardust Room.

[oettinger]

Strange, reading all of these, I consider Jimmy a friend already.

[Dear Booze]

When Steven Barco died on March 12, 2004, he was 52-years-old. Ten years older than me. He was my only cousin on my dad’s side of the family.

Somewhere around the end of World War I, Arthur Lester, my grandfather, came to the United States from Ireland. I really don’t know much about him, but this is the story I was told:

Arthur was about 20-years-old when he stepped off the boat in New York. He spent a few years in Brooklyn before relocating to Navajo, New Mexico to work as a helium miner. At that time, dirigibles were popular with both the military and private enterprises. So it was a valuable commodity.

I guess that’s where he met my grandmother, but I don’t know too much about her because she died when my dad was about 4-years-old.

Anyways, they had six kids that I know of. Lee Ann was the oldest, then Art, John, Mary, James, and my father, David. Art died while fighting in the early days of the U.S.’s involvement in World War II, John died as a young child and James died when he was a teenager.

You see, my grandfather was a real asshole. He was a mean drunk. And he was always drunk. My dad didn’t talk about him very much, but from the few stories I heard, I know that Grandfather Arthur handed out regular beatings to all of his children for violations that were usually never clearly defined. My Uncle James’ death was based on one of those mysterious punishments. He was pissed off at James about something and, as a penalty, he locked his son out of the house. Well, it was in the middle of winter. The next day, the other kids found their brother lying next to a shed, half buried in snow. The official cause of death was “exposure”.

By the time my Aunt Lee Ann was seventeen, she had about all she could take. So one morning, she got up early, packed a bag of clothes, took $300 and a loaded .38 revolver from her father’s bedside table and walked to the train station. She bought a ticket to San Francisco and started a new life. As soon as she got settled in a rooming house and began working as a seamstress, she mailed the still-loaded gun back to her father and never looked back.

A few years later, Lee Ann met and married Edward Barco, who was 18-years her senior and the successful owner of Barco Electronic Tool Company. The biggest success, and the bread and butter product of Uncle Eddy’s company was the Barco Electric Battery Charger, and later the Barco Electric Battery Tender. Both of his inventions are now widely known as “trickle chargers”.

In early 1945, Edward and Lee Ann moved across the bay to Oakland, to a beautiful two-story house located high in the Oakland Hills overlooking the San Francisco Bay. When there was no fog, they enjoyed views of the Bay Bridge, Golden Gate Bridge, the San Francisco skyline and even Alcatraz Island.

Seven years later, the wealthy couple welcomed Steven into their family. He would be their only child.

As a kid, my family would occasionally visit Aunt Lee Ann, Uncle Eddy and Cousin Steven. We always enjoyed trips to their house and also looked forward to visits from them. Although Steven was a decade older than me, he was very immature. I think Aunt Lee Ann sheltered and spoiled her son. I can clearly remember a time when I was about five or six-years-old and the Barcos came for a visit. Somehow, my dad found out that Steven didn’t know how to ride a bicycle. So he took Steven out, put him on my older brother’s bike and taught him how to ride. How strange it was to see my dad holding on to the back of a kid’s bike, running behind this big teenager in the middle of the street while coaching him like he had done for me just a year earlier.

But we were kids and we really liked our cousin. He was fun to be around and we always had a good time together.

Uncle Eddy passed away in 1972 and Aunt Lee Ann died about twenty years later.

Then, on March 14, 2004 I got a call from my mother. “Jimmy,” she said, “your cousin Steven has died. We got a call from the coroner’s office in Oakland. You and your brothers are named as the devisees and heirs of his estate.”

“The what?”

“You and your brothers have inherited his estate.”

[Casual Binger]

Was this guy a relative of yours, or is this just speculative fiction?

It's interesting enough. I liked You are a Bartender a lot more though. More fun. You should do a series about that trust fund drunk. I can relate to someone like him better than I can to the mean, doomed version of Homer Simpson that Jimmy Lester sounds like. I dunno, maybe now he's got the family fortune he's gunna start trashing hotel rooms in Vegas or something, but given that we know he gets run over at age 55 I'm guessing not.

[Dear Booze]

Jimmy Lester was a real guy. And a real asshole. Hang tight.

[oettinger]

Was this guy a relative of yours, or is this just speculative fiction?

It's interesting enough. I liked You are a Bartender a lot more though. More fun. You should do a series about that trust fund drunk. I can relate to someone like him better than I can to the mean, doomed version of Homer Simpson that Jimmy Lester sounds like. I dunno, maybe now he's got the family fortune he's gunna start trashing hotel rooms in Vegas or something, but given that we know he gets run over at age 55 I'm guessing not.

Hey a C. Binger sighting! How are you doing?

And yes, Jimmy Lester was one of those friends you enjoy having when someone needs to be killed, but you want no company with the other 364 days

[Dear Booze]

Was this guy a relative of yours, or is this just speculative fiction?

It's interesting enough. I liked You are a Bartender a lot more though. More fun. You should do a series about that trust fund drunk. I can relate to someone like him better than I can to the mean, doomed version of Homer Simpson that Jimmy Lester sounds like. I dunno, maybe now he's got the family fortune he's gunna start trashing hotel rooms in Vegas or something, but given that we know he gets run over at age 55 I'm guessing not.

Hey a C. Binger sighting! How are you doing?

And yes, Jimmy Lester was one of those friends you enjoy having when someone needs to be killed, but you want no company with the other 364 days

I'm honored that Casual Binger has made a request for a story. And I just may honor his request. A story about Sooker just might be fun. But I must finish the Jimmy Lester tale for me. I always wanted to write a "Huck Finn" story. And this is it. Two or three more installments and we come to the inevitable.

[Casual Binger]

It reads more Bukowski than Twain.

I figured he was at least based on a real guy, or a composite. I was just surprised at the level of detail such as family history. I've never worked as a bartender, so maybe you really get to find out a lot about your customers.

Anyway, keep up the good work. I understand serialisation in newspapers was common in Twain's day. At least you're getting stuff out there.

[Casual Binger]

Was this guy a relative of yours, or is this just speculative fiction?

It's interesting enough. I liked You are a Bartender a lot more though. More fun. You should do a series about that trust fund drunk. I can relate to someone like him better than I can to the mean, doomed version of Homer Simpson that Jimmy Lester sounds like. I dunno, maybe now he's got the family fortune he's gunna start trashing hotel rooms in Vegas or something, but given that we know he gets run over at age 55 I'm guessing not.

Hey a C. Binger sighting! How are you doing?

And yes, Jimmy Lester was one of those friends you enjoy having when someone needs to be killed, but you want no company with the other 364 days

I'm well thanks. I pop in to have a read now and again, but I'm not drinking so much these days, so don't have much to contribute. We're making a trip to Japan in a couple of months, and my wife suggested I take advantage of a JetStar special she saw advertised. So I'm flying down to Okinawa for a few days by myself. This gives me the chance to go on a mini bender. I have to be careful though, as my tolerance is greatly reduced.

[Dear Booze]

It reads more Bukowski than Twain.

Ha! I meant that I always wanted to take a character from one story and create an unrelated story with that character. But, hey, thanks. Bukowski works for me.

I figured he was at least based on a real guy, or a composite. I was just surprised at the level of detail such as family history. I've never worked as a bartender, so maybe you really get to find out a lot about your customers.

Not to ruin the ending, but most of the people from "You Are A Bartender" know his son pretty well.

[oettinger]

I'm well thanks. I pop in to have a read now and again, but I'm not drinking so much these days, so don't have much to contribute. We're making a trip to Japan in a couple of months, and my wife suggested I take advantage of a JetStar special she saw advertised. So I'm flying down to Okinawa for a few days by myself. This gives me the chance to go on a mini bender. I have to be careful though, as my tolerance is greatly reduced.

You`ll get back into drinking shape quite fast.
That`s one of the great advantages drinking has over tiresome stuff like working out.

[Dear Booze]

Within a few days, all three of my brothers and I drove to Oakland to try to figure out what we were going to do with the Barco estate. Jack picked me up in front of my apartment. Danny and Mike were already in the car. It was the first time all four of us Lester brothers were together since my wedding. It was strange. All three of my brothers were successful. They really had their shit together. But they were so ignorant when it came to simple things that I took for granted. Like when we stopped in Modesto for lunch. They insisted that the waitress give us separate checks. And then none of my brothers even thought about leaving a tip for her. Oh yeah, I was the black sheep, but apparently I was the only one with any class.

The first thing we did when we arrived in Oakland was meet with the people at the coroner’s office. They gave us paperwork to sign, gave us a set of keys for Steven’s house, and explained how our cousin died.

Steven had been suffering from an ulcerated lower GI and at some point on March 12, while he was having a bowel movement, he began to lose blood. The official cause of death was hypovolemic shock – loss of body fluid. He had the sense to make a call for help, but by the time emergency workers arrived, he was already dead.

The house that Steven owned was the same one in which he lived his entire life. The same house we used to visit as kids. He had stayed there to watch after Aunt Lee Ann after Uncle Eddy died and never left. I’m pretty sure it was Aunt Lee Ann’s idea that this was the situation. And as we sorted out Steven’s affairs, it became clear that Aunt Lee Ann really fucked up her only son. It kind of reminded me of the weird relationship between Norman Bates and his mother in the movie Psycho.

By the end of the first day in Oakland, we got a lot accomplished. We organized all the paperwork we could find and even met with Steven’s attorney. The more we learned, the harder it was to believe. Our cousin was very wealthy.

We finally decided to call it quits for the day and go to dinner a few miles away in Berkeley.

We found ourselves in a bar and grill located on Telegraph Road, where we ate pizza and split a pitcher of shitty Bud Lite. That was how the night got started.

Within an hour, we were hip deep in cocktails at a little college bar called Acme Tavern. It had been a long day and we all needed the liquid escape.

As we all sat there and got loaded, I couldn’t help but think how cool it felt to be with my brothers. All three of them. It was the first time in our collective adult lives that we all had the opportunity to sit down together and have a few cocktails. It felt good.

For some reason, they relied on me to set the pace for ordering and the consumption of drink. But I understood it right away. I was the fuck up. I was they guy who spent his days and nights drinking and being an asshole. I was the guy who was an expert in the field of knowing what to order and what to drink. I was sitting with a professional engineer, a dentist, and an industrial real estate broker. And I was a professional drinker. If I needed a tooth pulled, I’d call my brother Jack. If I needed to build a bridge, I’d call Mike. And if I needed to buy a warehouse, I’d call Danny. At that moment, they needed drinks. So it was a good thing I was there.

Before long, the booze began to break down the polite small talk that comes with not knowing the person you’re spending time with. We began to refer to Steven’s cause of demise as “shitting himself to death,” and I began to recognize the wicked sense of humor that we all shared.

By ten o’clock, the place was completely full and we all realized that it was Wednesday, March 17. Saint Patrick’s Day. Normally, I would avoid bars on this day. It’s amateur day. Almost as bad as New Year’s Eve. Fucking amateurs. Shit heads go out for drinks and act like they know what they’re doing. They order shitty shots and hoot and holler like they are all the king of the world. Those fuckers probably shit blood on March 18, but on old Saint Paddy’s Day, they toast and clink and slam their fucking shot glasses down on the bar just like they’re daring it to break. Then, they raise their arms in the air in celebration of something as simple as ingesting a fucking shot. Jesus, I hate those fuckers.

But this was different. I was having drinks with my brothers. I had always dreamed of a night like this. No fucking army of shit heads would rob me of this moment, this day, this night, this experience. This was special and it was mine. It was ours. It was the Lester Brother’s First Stand. Hey, Shit Heads stay the fuck out of our way!

[Casual Binger]

This feels like it's gunna end badly. This night, I mean. Not badly as in "Ohhhh, what did I say?", but badly as in "What did I DO?"

I feel like with this chapter we've stepped onto a trapdoor.

[oettinger]

I really start to like this guy, feel with him, root for him