James Leightnin had a story about aimlessly shuffling through the streets of the Lower East Side very early one cold morning.
“HEY! YOU!”
James to some little degree came out of his hang over fog. Only then did he see the row of Harleys. He’d happened on the NYC Hq of a heavy duty Outlaw Motorcycle Gang — und das is Verboten.
“WHADYA DOIN’ HERE?”
“I . . . I . . . I’m headed to the moonasippi (ed. note: This was James’s rendition of “municipal.”) center to get something to eat.”
“You look lousy. WAIT HERE!” The biker then turned and went into the tenement.
James was scared. He thought about trying to escape, but doubting that he’d get very far, instead, stayed shaking, rooted to the spot.
The biker returned, alone, carrying a paper bag.
“HERE!”
“Thank you, Sir.”
James moved away as quickly as he could, but that wasn’t much better than a slow walk. James didn’t look to see what was in the bag until he got around the corner. It was a fifth of Johnny Walker Red.
