RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,294
(knowing Jeddi Fine)
Jeddi Fine was probably the
oddest guy I ever knew - I've
known lots of people, arts and
creative types, and he wasn't
one of them; so that's not exactly
what I mean. He was perfectly
normal; normally intense, like
possessed and he could never
get off that. There are some
people who are like that;
weirdly wired and intense,
at every moment. Jeddi was
the only guy I ever knew, as
well, who had a detached
retina. Untreated too, I guess.
He'd say mostly it was little
blobs, like a posse, floating
across his vision, trying to
take over the scene; or some
gray blanket that would slowly
drop down over his vision.
Difficult to see or focus. He
said he was mostly always
reacting to that, and wasn't
really as intense as it all made
him look. I thought a posse of
blobs taking over a scene was
kind of a cool idea.
-
Someone once said his actual
name was Jedediah, which may
have been true; the problem was
Star Wars - the way that the
movies and film industries
screw up everyday life is pretty
bad. Of course, everyone began
only connecting his 1980 name
then to being a Jedi knight, or
warrior, or whatever all that crap
was. Jeddi (as we all knew him),
just laughed that all off. He'd say,
'They're all assholes. They're all
assholes. What cares I?' Jeddi's
real claim to fame was his fixation
on gambling - chips, horses,
sports, and other things he really
didn't know anything about. We
all watched him carefully enough,
but he was always screwing up.
-
Jeddi always had this thing about
Monika Voltare. He said she was
his Jewish Dream-Queen, and was
the only woman he'd ever care for
or care about. Maybe it was true;
I often thought Jeddi was way too
stupid to actually ever think about
his fixations - a man's got to have
some sort of self-reflection to look
back on things with; maybe to judge
an error or a mis-step, or even to
just take stock. Everyone else just
laughed, about Monika. She had
like quadruple Double D breasts;
so large that it would have been
best for the world had her father
owned a string of bra-stores. To
hell with Victoria's Secret, years
later - those things couldn't act
as a napkin to one of her bazookas.
In the bar, they were so large they
ordered their own drinks, and at
their own table too. All it ever did
was make Jeddi the butt of lots of
bad jokes. But, he withstood.
-
So, like I said, Jeddi's biggest
problem was some really seedy
addiction to gambling, or maybe
it's even called playing the
numbers, or book-making. I
never knew. There were some
shady guys involved; barroom
creeps and alley guys, always
lurking. Every once in a while,
Jeddi would come back bruised
up. You could tell he been busted
about - they said it was when
his debts were getting too deep,
and his means of repayment were
getting even slimmer. It always
remained a mystery to me; even
some of the words. Things I'd
never heard - one word in
particular that was new to me
and that I never got to the bottom
of except it was trouble. That
word was 'vigorish.' He'd say,
like, "Horses? What do I know
from horses? I should'a never
layed that bet down, dammit."
It was when he owed somebody
a bundle. His friends, and Monika
too, went around saying 'He was
in trouble; he could hardly pay
the vigorish.' You see, there was a
great quote here. I asked someone
what was the 'vigorish' that Jeddi
couldn't pay? The guy said: "Vigorish?
The vig is like Interest on a Visa
card, except this Visa will break
your fucking kneecaps if you
miss a payment." GULP! I'd
heard of penalty fees, being
assessed, but holy shit! The guys
who seemed always after Jeddi
were referred to, also oddly, as
'The men who held his papers.'
-
Poor old Jeddi; yeah once again
he took a massive and nasty beating
and I don't know what else. They
might'a taken any money he ever
touched or stashed. Maybe Monika
too, because she was never seen
or heard from again. They said it
wasn't the mobsters, more just
like local syndicate guys. The
barroom guys weren't talking,
and the TV kept blaring: the
odds and the football spreads
and the games and the horses
and the races and the muds.
None of it ever seemed to
touch Jeddi Fine - he still
bounded about here and there
along the bar, bouncing to the
stupid doo-wop music the old
bar still played. He never spoke
much, nor talked about what had
gone on. Kind of an inveterate
NYC guy, gone forever to seed,
lost in his own weird reverie. And,
I suppose, willing to take whatever
and any lumps and bumps along
the way that it might bring him.
'What's the story, Mr. Fine?' I
asked. He simply put a finger
to his lips, to say, 'Stay Quiet.'
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