I was 16 years old and in all probability working illegally.  I had taken a gig as a busboy at a local diner.  I was working the graveyard shift from midnight to 5:00am on weekends.

After hour gig

bussing tables of the drunks

virgin cherry popped

I befriended the dishwasher.  He told me everyone called him Pakistan Joe.  He assured me I couldn’t pronounce his real name. I only asked once but we were pretty high at the time.  We got high out in his car during breaks.  It was usually my weed.  My weed was usually cheap dirt weed.  I was buying it on a busboy salary.  He did offer me swigs of some rot gut whiskey in return.  He talked about the world, weed, wine and women.  He was always quick to crack a joke about anything and everything.

That rot gut whiskey

burning brightly in my gut

eyes popping open

It was always a good time.  Every 16 year old needs to be exposed to the suburban drunks filtering into an all nite diner for 3:00am breakfast.  It’s really how you learn about life.  They say it causes great harm but I survived and thrived.  I learned since to drink better whiskey and smoke better weed among other things.  Pakistan Joe may not have been the best sensei but there was wisdom gained from the friendship and I pour a shot to his memory tonight.

Old Pakistan Joe

a not forgotten mentor

remembered fondly.

Published by fuchebuyahoocom

poet, philosopher and comic. Philadelphia born but suburban bred.

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