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The Jello Martini Bar incident

Updated: May 1, 2022

My lifelong friend Marion has a wonderful son named Thomas, whom I’ve known all of his life. He’s now in his forties.

Growing into a fine man, Tom has done quite well for himself using grit, his wits, and uncommon perseverance with his most current years devoted to skydiving as a respected instructor with over ten thousand jumps to his credit.

His many years of bodybuilding have also given him an impressive physique.

I’ve been absent from Tom for most of his life for various reasons, although keeping in touch mainly through his mother.

About eighteen years ago, I decided that it was time for him and me to go clubbing, and I suggested the Jello bar in the gay village, a trendy spot that specialized in Jello shooters, newly popular at the time.

So off we went and arrived after a twenty-minute drive and joined the ever-present line-up.

Once in the club, we went our separate ways chatting up assorted women of different age groups as we had an age difference of some 20 plus years between us.

Back in those days, I still used to imbibe generously, something that’s tapered off to nearly nothing now that I‘m much older.

At one point in the evening, I was chatting up a lovely woman when her boyfriend took great offense, leading to the usual name-calling, posturing, and shoving match, which got me and Tom ejected while the other guy wasn’t since he was with a large group.

As we left, I caught a glimpse through the large window that gave out onto the street of my recent opposing antagonist, giving me the finger from inside the club.

So wishing to respond with a loud bang on the window, I elbow the large window closest to him and his group of friends.

Beyond tasteful intoxication, I misjudged the amount of force needed, and the entire window came crashing down, splintering into a million glass shards mostly inside the club to the great alarm everyone around but no more than to my own astonishment.

No sooner had this happened than I got spun around by one of the bar’s substantial black doormen, slash bouncers, who immediately kicked me with his boot right in the solar plexus with all his might, sending me to the ground completely unable to get a breath and in a state of sheer panic.

Tom rapidly jumped in and got between him and me to prevent a second blow as I was choking on the ground, while another bouncer came around and lifted my wallet out of my back pocket.

Fortunately, the Montreal police were constantly camped out on this street, being a bad neighborhood on many levels, and arrived in a flash, injecting themselves in the fray.

Finally catching my breath, I got up and had the police secure my wallet after they took down my info with my promise of defraying the window damages as soon as possible with the owner. They then told us to get the hell away.

Needless to say, Tom was not impressed with my juvenile lack of judgment.

Getting back home in pretty bad shape, I sported a black and purple bruise on my chest the size of a dinner plate.

A few days later, I drove over to the bar owner’s condo to cover the costs of the damages, where I learned how expensive a colossal pane of commercial-grade glass was to replace.

I never asked Tom to go clubbing again.


Excerpt from my upcoming e-book “Recollections from my time on earth” - Snackable short stories



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