Philadelphia: The Salad Dressing King

When Reuben and I settled in Northeast Philly, we had a local called Arugula.  They had great chicken cheesesteaks and cheap drinks.  It was a diner/bar at the bottom of a hill in the center of a three-way intersection.  They had cloth napkins, vinyl booths and a jukebox that seemed to be stuck on “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan.  You would find us there almost every evening drinking beers and chatting with the bartender, Tracy.  Tracy was a pretty woman with long bleach blond hair.  She is one of those women who is pretty in her youth, but because of smoking and drinking wasn’t going to age well.  She was thirty, which already seemed pretty old to me. I was 23.

One afternoon, I got off early from work and raced back to Northeast Philly. I got back too early to pick up Reuben from work.  My young dumb self rationalized it would be best to wait for him at Arugula. I mean, Reuben worked just up the hill from Arugula and who doesn’t love a little day drinking?  Home was an extra two minutes away and I had to pick him up in an hour, makes sense, right? Oh 23, dumb, dumb 23.

When I got there, Tracy greeted me with her normal enthusiastic “Hey!!!”, like I was Norm at Cheers. I ordered a pint of whatever was on special.  There was a man at the end of the bar who looked like a construction worker, his name was Gary. He had a perfect Fu Manchu and was wearing a t-shirt with no sleeves. The Fu Manchu has always been a popular choice in Philly.  This was the late 90’s, pre-hipster ironic facial hair. Gary was Tracy’s boyfriend. The three of us chatted it up, mostly about traffic.

About a half-hour later, the front door opened and an older gentleman walked in.  Tracy said, “Hey Morty!”  I had never seen him before.  I also had never been to Arugula at 3 pm on a Thursday. Morty was an older gentleman in his early to mid 70’s.  He was wearing pleated light blue Bermuda shorts, an elastic waisted shirt, white knee-high dress socks, dress shoes, and a straw fedora.  It was everything you would expect from an elderly man named Morty in Northeast Philly. He sat down and ordered a whiskey and we continued chit-chatting.  Eventually, Tracy and Gary broke off and were having a private conversation at the other end of the bar.   That left me and Morty to chat.  We talked about everything. I didn’t have much to say, I was 23 and answering the phones at a Medicaid HMO. Morty had a lot to say. He was divorced with two children. He referred to his ex-wife as “That Bitch.” It seemed a little harsh, but who am I to tell my elders how to speak. He also told me about his business. He, along with his brother, supplied the finest restaurants in Philadelphia with their salad dressing. Morty then referred to himself as the “Salad Dressing King of Philadelphia.” Then Morty started droning on about his new Cadillac.  He begged to go out and look. I knew he wouldn’t shut up until I looked, so I went to the front door and stared out the window. It was big and white and looked expensive. He started listing off its features, leather heated seats, sunroof, and a cd player. I pretended to be impressed.

The jukebox started playing Beat It. Tracy started singing and my attention went back to the bar. I was finally relieved from Cadillac talk. Tracy grabbed Morty’s fedora and did the Beat It dance behind the bar. Then Morty got up and did a little dance in front of the bar. It was a dance you might see a grandpa doing at a Bar Mitzvah. Morty really seemed to be enjoying the company, because he started buying the drinks. (SCORE)  I was having a great afternoon.  I got off work and I was drinking for free.  Life was grand at 23.  Tracy went back to Gary, so Morty and I were alone again.  He seemed to be getting drunk and started slurring his words.  I guess six whiskeys is a lot, what did I know.  We continued our chat, but Morty was making less and less sense. Then out of nowhere Morty leaned over and whispered

Morty: I want to take you to Jersey.
Me: Oh really, why? (I swear to you I was this innocent.)
Morty: I want to rent a hotel room and tie you up.
Me: Um……..Um…..

Morty smiled a very drunk horny smile.

I blurted out “I have a boyfriend!”

Morty’s face changed.  He was enraged.  The same venom with which he spoke about his wife, he leveled at me.

Morty: You are lying!!!!  (He was spitting and gesticulating.)
Me: I swear to you I am not. (I totally was.)

I yelled to Tracy and said, “Hey, don’t I have a boyfriend?”  Praying she would catch on. She did and said, “Yes, she does, they live together.”

Then Gary got in on the action and said: “Oh her boyfriend is so nice.”

Morty was screaming at me at this point about how I led him on. He paid his bill and stood at the door screaming some more. He called me a cock tease and a bitch among other things.  If he hadn’t been wearing orthopedic shoes and white dress socks, I might have been scared, but instead, I was just stunned.  I was nervously giggling. I didn’t think it was funny, but I was so shocked I was no longer in control.  I think it made him angrier, because Morty stormed off in his Bermuda shorts, but not before flipping me the bird.  This man looked like one of my Grandpa’s friends and he was calling me a cock tease.  How do you even process a grandpa calling you a cock tease? When the Donald Sterling scandal came out, I thought of Morty. He’d be in his 90’s now.