It was a rough part of town. The roughness didn't jump out at you too often, it stayed somewhat veiled behind the old style city streets. Bags, women, running, face adjustments were just part of life. Maybe there was a little more to life, but certainly no less.

Joe C's Cafe was just a joint on a corner that had blues on Friday and Saturday nights. It was a neighborhood bar meaning that the clientele was just the people in the area. There was a hand-written sign balancing like a sleepy drunk in the front window beneath the neon Budweiser sign that proclaimed, "JELLY BELLY AND THE TYMES FRI. SAT." Even though the music was good, few, if any people from the 'burbs found their way there. Come to think of it, why would they come? Hell, they weren't needed anyway. Unless, somebody needed a roll, a ride, or some auto parts to sell.

Like most bars, Joe C's Cafe had that certain smell of old beer and liquor and other liquids that had seeped into the flooring after years of spillage and not the most diligent cleaning. Like most bars, it had the usual type of regulars. The guy who came to the bar on Friday evening after working the job he tolerated. He'd have some pickled eggs with his beer, maybe a pizza from down the street. Hell, the band would start in three hours. Plenty of time to get something to eat and a good buzz so he could make the right pass at the "perfect 10" if she should happen to come in that night. But really, it kept him from having to go home to his wife -- sober. Yeah, get some eggs, beers, listnin' to Jelly, get a broad. Tomorrow is a long way off.

The married, "actin' single" gals came in to dance, flirt -- nothing serious, unless a good opportunity arose, so to speak. Mostly they were there just to have a good time. They came in around 9 p.m. while their husbands were asleep on the couch with the Bruins hockey game on Channel 38 blaring away to nothingness or out doing the same run as their wives. Ain't too bad a life, you know.

Then there were the not-so-usual regulars: like Bernice who was really Bernard, a hairdresser who came in every Friday and Saturday night dressed like $1.95 porno movie star. But he/she needed that expression. He/She was trapped, just like the rest of them. The tough guys knew that Bernice was really Bernard but they didn't seem to mind. Bernice even went to the "ladies" room. If he/she got beat up, it was before I got there.

Then there was Joe Black. He sat at the very far end of the bar. Joe didn't say much; he wasn't a happy man. But he could drink, goodness, he could drink. Joe by himself could drink the bar close to the "nut." He drank "Nasty-Gansett" -- that's slang for Naragannasett Beer and shots of Jack. Joe Black was serious about his drinking, maybe it was the only thing he was serious about and might have been the only thing he did well. I don't know if he had someone, every time I saw him, he was alone. He sat at the far end of the bar and folks pretty much left Joe Black alone.

You see, Joe had a bad habit. Like this old Irishman in the bar used to say in a voice that would resemble a young leprechaun, "Old Joe, well, he's got a case of the wind. That he does. No one can sit near him. No, they can't. Jesus, and he doesn't do it quiet either he don't. He just lets it go." Yeah, he'd just let it go. The regulars just wished that he'd lay off the pickled eggs and pigs feet.

And then there was the proprietor of this establishment. Joey C. was tall, about 6 foot one, in his early 30s with a rugged face framed by thick black curly hair. He wore his shirts open to the third button so his chains and medallions could be easily seen. A white belt was a complement to his white shoes and white nylon socks that offset the powder blue slacks he wore to blend with the powder blue on his muted red/black/purple/blue/white shirt. Joey C. had two blonde bombshells on either arm. Both had their blonde hair swirled high upon their heads with so much Rayette hair spray, it was hard to tell where the spray left off and the perfume began. Well-endowed ladies in short tight skirts, who talked somewhat out of the sides of their mouths while they were working on the Wrigley's.

Lou, who worked at the garage down the street, used to say, "One thing about Joey C., he's got class. He dresses classy, always has classy dames, drives a Cadillac. Shit, Joey C.? That's class."

Rosie was the "bartendress." She worked there but she wasn't there, if you know what I mean. She had kids to raise on the income she made from the bar. Her husband was gone. He was slippin' down, sliding his way out of life on drugs and booze. She loved her kids, so she made it. You see, Rosie knew how to sell booze. She knew how to lean over the bar to get the extra tip. She worked hard, made a point to know everybody's name and what they drank. If a regular came in the door, she'd already have his drink ready before he took his seat. Rosie was pretty in a rough way and she could handle herself. She had to.

One night during one of our breaks Old Joe really let one fly. It flew long and loud enough so that half the bar heard it. A non regular who was sitting one bar stool away got up and said, "Jesus Christ man, what the fuck you doin?" He backed away from Joe while he brushed the air away from his face and said with a tone of anger that had been around a helluva lot longer than just the past few hours, "What the fuck's wrong with you?"

Joe Black said nothing. The man stared at Joe as if to say "Come on man! I wanna break your face!" Joe remained silent as if he really never heard the guy. He just kept looking down at his rocks glass with the straight Jack in it running his finger around the rim. Finally the guy walked away to another part of the bar all the while shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief. But hell, he made the challenge and there was no reply. He was entitled to that show.

A few minutes passed and Joe raised up his right side and let one more ricochet off the bar stool. Well, that it was it for Joey C. He'd finally had enough and heard enough. There was an ominous quiet that was seemingly suspended in the air until Joey C.'s voice came on like a grenade launcher from his seat at the back of the bar,"Hey Joe Black!" Joe turned his head ever so slightly, peering over his right shoulder, looking for the voice with his tired eyes that replied, "Yeah?"

"You know what your problem is? ....Hey!....You listening to me Joe Black?" Joe kept his eyes on Joey C."Your problem," as he pointed his index finger from the shoulder of the blonde on his right, "You know what it is? You're problem is that you ain't got no fuckin' class." Both the blondes on Joey's arms nodded in agreement while they kept the Wrigley's working. Joe Black turned his eyes back to the rocks glass, ran his finger around the rim, picked it up, looked at the Jack, and shot it down.

A week later Joe Black died of a heart attack. The Friday night after the funeral we saw a large glass brandy snifter with an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels and an unopened bottle of Naraganasett at Joe Black's place at the bar. If you didn't know any better you'd think it was a shrine. Stapled on the bar stool was some black fabric. There was a sign on the snifter written with thick black ink that said: "THE JOE BLACK MEMORIAL FUND." Already there was a mess of $1s with some $10s and $20s. Close to $100. Eddie, the leader of the band, went over to Joey C. and said,"Man that's a nice thing you doin' for Joe Black. I guess he had some family huh?"

Joey C. said, "What you talkin' bout... family? He didn't have nobody." But you got a fund there for him?" Eddie replied.

"For Joe Black ? Are you kiddin? That's for ME."

Eddie said, "YOU?"

"Yeah ME! You know how much money I lost with that fuckin' guy fartin' in this place?"