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.