The Jimmy Lester Chronicles

[Dear Booze]

You don't know about me unless you have read a Modern Drunkard Chat Board Post by the name of You Are A Bartender, Part IX; but that don’t matter. That post was made by Dear Booze, and he told the truth, mainly. There were things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. Shit, that don’t matter to me. He’s a bartender, and I don’t know many bartenders who don’t stretch the truth once in a while. But I thought I might take this opportunity to tell my side of the story.

Now, the way that post winds up is this: I had spent the day drinking and got kicked out of a couple of bars and ended up getting hit and killed by a big fucking truck. That fuckin driver never saw me, and it happened so fast that I didn’t feel a thing. But this is MY side of the story. And I’m not gonna stretch the truth one bit. Why would I? I got nothin to lose...



I’ve never been a saint. Nobody ever considered me one and I never claimed to be one either. My name is Jimmy Lester.

I was born in a town named Porterville, located about an hour and a half south of Fresno, California. I had one older brother and two younger ones and I guess we all got along okay. My mom and dad were pretty good to us and I don’t have many complaints about growing up at all.

Somewhere around the time I turned 13, I got a job working for a roofing company. My best friend from school’s dad owned the company and let me start working there during the summer and on weekends. At first, my friend and I worked together, but after the first summer, he started focusing on football. So he wasn’t around. Not me. I kept working for his dad. I really liked the cash money. I always had money. Back then, minimum wage was around three bucks an hour. But I was getting paid five. It was great.

When I turned 16, I quit going to school to work full time. By that time, I was makin about ten bucks an hour and I couldn’t see much use for school. I knew how to read and write and I was real good at math. So, fuck it. I quit goin’.

When my mom and dad found out that I wasn’t goin’ to school anymore they told me to move out. Not a problem. I got my own apartment. I also bought a car. It was a sweet 1974 Chevy El Camino. I should have held on to that car. It was bad ass.

Anyway, I kept workin hard and I guess my boss thought I was doin a pretty good job because when I turned 18, he asked me if I wanted to move to Fresno and operate a second office. So I moved up there and started running a couple of crews. We were mostly doing remodel jobs. You know, re-roofing and repair stuff.

So there I was: 18-years-old with more money than I could spend, my own apartment, and a cool ride. But I was a little bit lonely I guess. I didn’t know anyone in Fresno and didn’t have much time to make any friends either. So I started goin’ out with my crew for some after-work beers. I guess my guys didn’t know I was only 18, and the bartenders never questioned me either. But it was a different time; things were easier then.

We used to go to a little place called The Hideaway. It was a real blue collar place and most of the regulars in there were involved in some sort of building trade. I guess this was a pretty well-known fact because it was pretty common for people to come in and yell “I need a drywall contractor,” or “any concrete guys in here?” And one day that’s what happened to me.

It was about three in the afternoon. My guys were on the job and I decided to go have a few pops at the Hideaway. There were plenty of other guys in there too. I guess we all had the same idea. Well, some guy came in and went straight to the bartender and started some sort of conversation. The bartender was looking at me the whole time and nodding to whatever the other guy was saying. At first, I thought this guy was some sort of cop or something and that I was gonna get busted for under-age drinkin. But it turns out that he was just a regular guy who needed some roof work done on a duplex that he owned.

He came over and talked to me and told me what he needed. The roof leaked when it rained but the place was only 15-years-old. But it had a Spanish tile roof, so I knew exactly what the problem was. You see, lot’s of people think that tile roofs don’t need no maintenance. But that’s not true. Every ten years or so, you gotta remove the tiles from the valleys and clean the flashing. A lot of dirt builds up under there and water will eventually back up and cause a leak. So I told him I could have some guys out there in the morning.

Now, I’m not exactly sure why I did what I did next, but I decided to hire a couple of tradesmen from the bar to do the work and also decided that I’d pocket the profit and never mention this to my boss.

[oettinger]

Any plumber in here? Looking at you Viking.

In my own Hideaway, the cameroonian bartender nodded to one of these prostitutes obviously talking about my bank account. "Yea yea, plenty cash".
She was very pretty, but then I asked her if we could do "business" at my place rather than a hotel and that was a big no no on her part.
I wouldn`t pay for a freaking hotel room with a 3 promille whisky dick (in hand haha). Afterwards she asked for another whisky and coke and I told her to pay for that shit on her own and to never touch me again.
Great dive, great times, too bad they closed.

[mistah willies]

Dear Booze,

Hell yes. BTW,

nice craps table in your mansion. Some men have pool/billiards/balls in their man cave,

but you have very large dice.




DRINK!

.

[Dear Booze]

I'm Jimmy Lester. If you haven’t yet read Jimmy Lester, Part I, you don’t know that I’m dead. So, here’s a little spoiler for you: I’m dead.

It’s not as bad as most would think, being dead that is. There’s an interesting thing that happens when you die. You instantaneously know everything and understand everything and remember everything, and feel everything. No, you don’t feel physical pain. Nothing like that. You feel emotions and understand why you felt the way you did and why you acted and reacted to everything in your physical life. You also understand why other people acted and reacted to you. It’s fucking awesome. It really makes you feel peaceful.

So, this is my story. In Part I, I gave you a little background on my childhood and early adulthood and gave you a peek into how and why I started drinking. Here’s the next part of my story:

By 1984, when I was 22-years-old, I had settled into a regular routine of getting out of bed at about five in the morning, making sure my roofing guys were on their jobs, and heading to The Hideaway for an early morning pop.

I was never a fan of the Bloody Mary. I preferred to go straight to American beer or Irish whiskey. There’s something special about starting your day early and having a pretty good buzz going by nine A.M. What made it even better for me was that I shared a bar with a whole bunch of other tradesmen. These were hardened guys who made their bones with their hands. Guys who created and built things. Guys who are overlooked and underappreciated in the world. These guys are the real deal.

Generally speaking, the guys at the bar were there every day. Just like me. But it wasn’t uncommon for any one of them to disappear for a week, month, or even a year while they worked on a big job, or spent a little time in jail. It didn’t matter, they all came back eventually.

For the past couple of years, I made a habit out of taking on side jobs for roof repairs which never made it onto the books. These were jobs that my boss never knew about and jobs which afforded me a better place to live, and more money for drinks.

On these side jobs, I wouldn’t use my employees. That would be stupid. You see, since the bar was full of guys who were no strangers to hard work, and understood how to perform jobs related to construction, I would just hire the guys who needed money. Or, more often than not, the ones who owed me money. Then, I would pocket the profits and continue the cycle.

One day, one of the regulars, a guy named Andy Trout, started shooting his mouth off about how I had ripped him off on a certain job. It wasn’t true. He had borrowed $175 from me in December. I remember clearly that he told me he needed the money to buy Christmas gifts for his kids. By April, I hadn’t seen a dime of my money. Yet Andy still came in and drank every single day. Finally, I started gently reminding him about it.

“Andy,” I’d say, “any chance on getting that $175 back soon?”

But he would just shrug it off. “Yea, yea. I’ll get it to you soon.”

Then I started hearing about Andy shit-talking me when I wasn’t around. He was nice as could be when I wasn’t there, but when I wasn’t there, he would say all kinds of stuff. I was pissed.

Finally, on an early May morning, I was sitting at the bar, finishing a pitcher of Bud Light and in walked Andy Trout. He walked in, sat down at the far left end of the bar and ordered a Budweiser and a shot of Gentleman Jack. So I moved to the stool next to him.

“Andy, I really need the money you owe me.“

“Yea, Yea. I know. I’ll get it to you. I just don’t have it right now.”

“Well,” I responded, “you’ve got the money to dink, how about you pay me something right now. Let’s get this thing paid off. Anything would be good.”

“Fuck off,” is what he said, “you’ll get it when you get it.”

Andy was about ten years older than me. I was a couple inches taller than him, but he had at least thirty pounds on me. He was also a nasty, mean guy. Although I had never seen him in a fight, I had seen the way he responded to other people. You’ve all seen guys like him. You can tell that they don’t give a shit whether you like them or not. And they can give a shit about what you want. They’re going to do what they want, when they want, how they want to do it. If it comes down to a fight, they’re okay with that too. Andy wasn’t afraid of me or anyone else. If it came down to gettin’ physical, so be it.

Aside from a few skirmishes when I was in grade school, I had never really been in a fight. But I knew I was about to be in one. Very soon. I was beyond angry; I was angry to the point where I couldn’t see anything. If anyone ever really deserved an ass beatin’, it was Andy Trout.

There’s a move that I had seen a dozen times on TV shows and in movies. One guy is sitting at a bar and another guy grabs the back of the guy’s head and slams his face down onto the bar. I decided that I would do that to Andy. But it didn’t work quite as well as it does in the movies. I think maybe the motion has to be faster than the way I did it. Or maybe I was supposed to grab Andy by the hair. Or maybe both. It don’t matter none, it just didn’t work.

As I tried slamming his face into the hard wooden bar, Andy quickly turned his head toward me and stood up at the same time. And in the same motion, he threw a wide right hook and connected with the left side of my face. This happened in a split second and I didn’t even have time to be stunned. I hadn’t even moved my hand from the back of his head. But he turned so quickly that my fingers were now wrapped around his neck. So I squeezed his throat and pushed him backwards over his barstool and continued to hold him by the neck while I wildly punched him in the face with my right fist. He was hanging helplessly backward and there was nothing he could do. I continued to beat him until a few of the other regulars stepped in and pulled me off of him and separated us. While he was being dragged outside, I quietly sat back down and finished my drink. No one asked me to leave and no one said a word about what just happened.

After several minutes, I called out to the bartender. “Janie, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t worry about it Jimmy,” she interrupted me. “He was due for a good ass-beating and we all knew it would happen sooner than later.”

The side of my face throbbed, but I wasn’t hurt. I had settled this the way men have been settling things for thousands of years.

I had never felt so alive.

[oldsmartskunk]

Nicely written. I enjoyed it a lot. Next time you write something - i will read with a glass of whiskey in my hand. Well done mate!

[mistah willies]

This one got me riled up a bit. It's painful to work the jaw for a day or two after you get sucker-punched while trying to sucker-head-slam someone.

Finding that character who will do his own thing, whatever situation you put him in. That's a gem.


Cheers to Jimmy Fucking Lester

[oettinger]

It seems construction workers all around the globe tend to drink heavily every day.

[oettinger]

In this autobiographical story Jimmy Lester comes away as the de facto hero.
In the original bartender story Dear Booze described him more like an asshole.
Jimmy, your self-perception reeks of drink infused narcissism.
To Jimmy Lester!

[Dear Booze]

In this autobiographical story Jimmy Lester comes away as the de facto hero.
In the original bartender story Dear Booze described him more like an asshole.
Jimmy, your self-perception reeks of drink infused narcissism.
To Jimmy Lester!

Having met him, I can assure you that he was one of the biggest assholes you'd ever want to meet.

Remember that Jimmy Lester died when he was in his 50s (in You Are A Bartender). He's in his 20s (so far) in the Jimmy Lester series. He's becoming an asshole.

It's funny how true assholes never know that they're assholes. And they always think of themselves as the hero. I think this is the reason this tale is so much fun to tell.

Here's to Jimmy Fucking Lester

Stay tuned. There's a "love story" in Part III.

[Patchez]

What if an asshole knows he's an asshole but thinks he's a heroic asshole?

To Jimmy Lester! Cheers!

[Paninaro]

Enjoying the Jimmy Lester stories. Keep up the good work.

[Dear Booze]

My boss came into town about twice a month to call on vendors, go over the books and to visit job sites. The day would always include the two of us having lunch at Robert’s Prime Rib and Seafood, an old school steakhouse. It was dark and smoky, with worn red leather booths, a collection of haggard old waitresses and a bartender who had worked there for 40 years. In my opinion, the food was decent, but my boss thought it was the best place on the planet. He loved it and I secretly thought that lunch at Robert’s was the true reason for his semimonthly trips to Fresno.

About halfway through our steak sandwiches, my boss changed the subject from payroll and workers compensation insurance regulations. He exhaled and paused. “Jimmy, I really hate to bring this up,” he started.

Oh fuck. This sounds serious. What does he know?

“…I’ve been looking at our numbers…”

He knows that I’ve been taking side jobs. Essentially stealing from him.

“…and I think I know what you’re up to every single day.”

Shit. He knows about my work schedule, or more like my schedule of not doing shit but spending the better part of each day drunk off my ass at The Hideaway.

“You work too hard.”

What?

“I just… well… I think you work way too hard. And, well, I appreciate it and all, but you gotta enjoy some of your youth.”

What the fuck?

“This is hard for me to ask, but I promised the missus I would. You see, we have some friends that we’ve been close to for thirty years, and they have a daughter, Patty, and, well, Patty is moving to Fresno for a job, and well, we were hoping that you would take her out. You know, show her around a little. Take her to a movie or something. She doesn’t know anyone here and we think you two would have fun together

I just sat there with a stupid look on my face.

“Look Jimmy, I’m sorry. If you don’t want to do this, or if I’m outta line, just say ‘no’.” we sat and stared at each other for the better part of a minute. He was looking for some kind of response from me, and I was still shocked at how little he knew about me and the day-to-day operations of his own company. Then the look on his face changed. “Oh Jimmy, I’m real sorry. Hell, I’m pretty embarrassed. I shouldn't intrude on your personal life. I'm outta line here... I didn’t mean to…”

“No, no,” I interrupted, “I’ll be happy to take her out. You’re right, It’ll be fun. And you’re right. I can use a little break from all this work.”



Patty and I had our first date sometime in August. It went okay. We watched a movie that she picked and then we had one drink at a bar that I picked. She was a nice girl, but her company bored me to death; we were done by 10:30 PM. After I dropped her off, I headed straight to the The Hideaway to try to salvage what was left of my Saturday night.

It wasn’t until late November that I called Patty for our second date.

By June, we were married.

[oettinger]

Ha! I was thinking a true Jimmy Lester would get her pregnant on first assault.
I was mistaken.

To Jim and Peg!

Prosit

[oldsmartskunk]

You went deep into a mind of an asshole. Great stuff, keep it up!

[mistah willies]

Really enjoying this back story.

More up us should put some effort into contributing in these thigns

thichs

thighs

this stuff.

Or some thing better written but you known what I mean

Keep it up fellow Fucknosian.

Indeed.