By Greg Masters – published in It Wasn’t Supposed to be Like This (Crony Books, 2020)
I remember when the Great Jones
Cafe launched in June ’83,
a more adult establishment
than the neighborhood had ever
posed – enhanced with blackened catfish,
a solid jukebox, amiable staff,
plus, I was friends with the owners –
Phil Hartman and Rich Kresberg – my
first dalliance with pals who had
any business sense, who could
turn plans into reality,
a complement to the workers
in ideas and word slinging with
whom I had embedded myself.
As if in a Frans Hals painting,
the carousing and merriment
stretched into many a late night
with the regulars, hours-long
comrades and potential lovers.
I watched the 1986
World Series there, the Mets’
greatest triumph, celebrating
the final out jumping on the
back of Kirby, the dishwasher.
We danced on the tables after hours
to The Wild Tchoupitoulas
with a bust of Elvis keeping
watch over our shenanigans.
It was a privilege to have
been young there with sufficient cash.
