We used to go to LaMonica’s, too, a pizza-dive on Sixth, for New York style pizza or sometimes just for beers and to reminisce. They had a “Fulton Fish Market” sign tacked up on the wall. Jimmy D and I had both been to the Chinese New Year celebrations on Mulberry Street, and the Italian street fairs, and we’d bought bread at Zampieri’s bakery on Sullivan Street, near Saint Anthony’s Cathedral. Once we demolished the pizza the rest of the interlude was devoted to Jimmy D’s getting it out—his despair, his hopelessness, his defeat.

          “I thought when we came back from the Nam that there’d be something. I don’t know, some sort of recognition. They could have fucking done something.”

          “Like what?’

          “I don’t know, man. Like they could have given us… They could have given us a parade.”

          A parade? Sorry, Jimmy D. The parades are only for the generals. Do you mean to tell me you haven’t learned that by now?

          One night we went to see Jasmine at Dreamland. But first we had to get tanked up. Jasmine was one of those girls from Minnesota who come to LA to make the movies. She’d worked at LaMonica’s earlier on. Then she got the dime a dance job. Her dream, besides making the movies, was to get enough money for piano lessons. Jimmy D was sweet on Jasmine, and so was I.

          We go to Maria’s. I choose the tacos de pollo, refritos, rice, and a Carta Blanca to wash it down. I feel a momentary surge of importance as I dictate my order to the pudgy waitress sweating in her white ruffled blouse. Jimmy D leans back in the booth and hoists his beer. “Here’s to ya, bro!” He’s at his best now, it’s early in the evening and the Sinatra fantasy seems real. I’m feeling good myself. I enjoy Jimmy D’s company when he’s in this mood. He doesn’t require as much attentiveness as when he’s pouring his misery out, bleeding all over me from South Broadway to Bonnie Brae Street.

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