PIERRE AUGUST LENOIR

One day they will talk about those happy Sunday afternoons when the last of the Baby Boomers would congregate on the deck at Cobbleheads where they would drink copiously while Emilio Crixell and his eclectic band of musicians would belt out the blues as well as the sixty and seventy tunes that had stood the test of time.

Proprietor Joe "The Irish Prick" Kenney, healthy once again that his throat cancer had been declared in remission, would stroll between the tables and greet everyone in his thick Philly accent. A cigarette would be dangling from his mouth. His many customers would bum a smoke from him with the intention of saving his life.

All the characters would be in attendance. Time had taken its toll as the men did their best to hide their beer bellies behind loose fitting shirts while there wasn't much the women could do about the wrinkles searing their faces. They were also from a time when being natural was the mantra, so their principles excluded breast jobs. They weren't concerned about most males' opinions since the latter's hanging penises were down for the count and there was little hope that their members would be rising from the dead a la Jesus Christ.

It wasn't uncommon for old lovers to bump shoulders as they squeezed between the tables. In fact, new lovers might be past lovers of old friends. Everyone remained civilized. The past was the past. Sadly, the numbers of the revelers had been reduced as the inevitable had sentenced several great guys and good gals to their eternal rest.

"Did you hear about Mario?"

"Sure did. I couldn't believe it. Somebody said it was suicide."

"He had terminal cancer. Who knows!'

"Let me buy you a tequila and we'll toast him."

"Cool. That's the least we can do for him. He was a unique motherfucker."

"You can say that again."

And so the afternoon waned into the evening. It wouldn't be a late night. Most the patrons subscribed to the strategy of starting early and ending early because the next day would offer its challenges and nobody wanted to be operating under hangovers.

Slowly the crowd thinned. There were abundant besos y abrazos, kisses and hugs, as each individual departed. The majority would return next Sunday as this traditional gathering was the highlight of their weeks. 

"God bless ya," Kenney would say as he lit up another cigarette.

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