His father had been a doctor, an internist. The good doctor spent thirty years on a steady rotation of patients and veal cutlets until his heart gave out and he died in the middle of fucking a nineteen year old whore. The funeral was on a Thursday. The very next day, Justin moved to New York City.
The bar on 3rd and Avenue C was, in the words of the July 1995 issue of Village Voice, “a hiLARious (sic) explosion of noisy shit, venomous semen, and Coors. Homies and tweakers alike will nest here. It’s fun fun fun fun.” In the summer, it smelled strangely of ground coffee. In the winter, it was impossible to stay warm in its basement. But in the months between, Justin held court.
The last time he was in the neighborhood, parking was a nightmare. After more than an hour of circling and prowling, he double parked the Cooper and ran in, paying the lonesome accountant with a combination of cash and traveler’s and certified checks. Back outside, Justin shooed away a sweaty hobo, then pointed the car towards the George Washington bridge so he could take the scenic route out of town.
Photo by Monsieur Jerome.