Stories
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One morning I bought my coffee and saw a one hundred dollar bill in the tip jar. What's that I said. JoeJoe - he won at the races. So I said to JoeJoe what's your secret. He said he didn't play the horse, he played the jockey. The ones that won the most often.
JoeJoe was a sweet guy and he smoked a pipe. He had a wife and kids, of who as the rule we never saw. His dream was a coffee shop of his own and the way he spoke of it I knew it was just a pipe dream and told him so. Someone else privy to the conversation got mad at me for spoiling his dream. Well I said, he should do it rather than talk about it.
Up against a wall the other side of which was a stairs to the office and apartment above, the front south was pretty much our window table, round against the wall. My favorite seat was my back against the wall next the window looking out down Mission toward Army, with the El Rio and Sis Boom Bah bars across, and once a bowling alley I could remember now a large auto parts store with garage in the back. The table would seat six besides myself if a crowd. And next along the wall were three small two seat tables so the closest were sometimes and annex if the table was full.
One of our gang at some point rode a Harley and would park it out front between parallel parked cars. He was tall, substantial but not fat, wore tight levis, black again tight leather jacket and had brown slicked back hair and a prominent nose. He had a few interesting stories.
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