To the Guests who Adore "Our Josh"

To the Guests Who Adore “Our Josh”-

He wakes up daily around noon, takes a pull from his one hitter and calls out to Fenway. 

Never one to make his bed or pick up his clothes, there is a maid for that. 

He pulls on a jersey usually sporting a Chicago team label, Cubs, Bears or Hawks. Been to experience about every Boston team game thus far but can’t find a way to part with his home-grown boyish roots. He pops in the toaster a couple of slices and finishes whatever stale beer is left from the early morning hours before. Fenway is getting restless and begins to prance back and forth from the couch to the front door in anticipation of the 30 minutes she will spend with her guy. Toast in hand, water to replace the beer, he calls out to whoever stayed the night that he would be back in 30. If she makes it past date number 3, she is invited on a walk with Fenway.

He loves movies, has a collection easily over a thousand and still growing. Favorites, well that’s simple, always Good Fellas, God Father Trilogy, and Star Wars. His musical interests range from anything country to rock and roll, missing his days when he could have been someone in his high school band he jokes. His sense of style is nothing short of hip hugging jeans faded to black, tight fitted t-shirts just enough to show off the slender muscular design of his body, and the sleeves rolled up enough to reveal the arm length tattoo over his right forearm of his family crest.

His hair often a cross between a soft caramel, although these days a bit of wispy gray is peaking through. More hair products than any guy should have the right to own, but each one has its own specific use. Shoes, always a low-cut black leather cowboy boot, cut just under the jean cuff, a thick belted line across the foot peaks through. He wears boxers, or nothing at all.  

Days when the New England weather is full of surprise, his leather jacket always available on the back seat of his Jeep Wrangler.

An array of keys clipped on his jeans pocket to be tossed in the register at work for later. 

Cash guy doesn’t own a wallet or care too. Another one hitter/cigs stashed in his glove box in case the evening’s atmosphere lends for a calm before the storm. He stops off at the gas station down the block, purchases a new pack of Camels, and two Naked Juices, sometimes Red Machine, other times Mango. Knows the gas attendant by name, they exchange a quick word or two about work or the weather. Back in his car, he revs up the engine and just like his Jeep is ready for anything so is he.

Pulls into the bar parking lot, looks around for any litter or butts on the ground. Enters through the back door and salutes the door guy/host that night. Slides behind the bar, putting his keys in the drawer of his register and slaps the girl who he is there to relieve, playfully on the ass. She lets’ out a squeal, and you can just tell she wishes for more. 

It’s Friday night, the bar is packed, the usual variety of young thirty something females have staked their claim front row in anticipation of their favorite bartender and his cocktail magic. Not missing a beat, Josh starts to shake up colorful potions that leave the mouth hungering for more. If looks could kill, well in this case he has mastered Marshall Arts and has a couple of black belts under him. At six foot two, lean, stealth and that smile that melts any heart strides over to take your order. His favorite expression of all time is “come on now, don’t be shy, what is your pretty heart’s desire?” Then he sits back, flashing those intense baby blues, and watches as his victim of the moment stumbles something about not too dirty but well just as sweet, so next moment into a jigger he throws Absolute Vodka, Jalapenos, olive juice and a touch of Elderflower. Walks back over, “Here sweetheart, this is the Hot and Dirty named after you.” A twelve-dollar drink in price, is handed a twenty, she bats her eye lashes, and tells him to keep the change. “Thank you, madam, be sure to come again”. And she does, every Friday night for the past three years. 

A few of you asked whatever happened to "our Josh", and his magic "hot and dirty" cocktail magic. As time went on one person in particular who denied his charm, and his cocktails, but fell for his sense of humor, walked down the aisle with our Josh. She now has two beautiful children, they moved home to Chicago, and he can be seen once in a while with Fenway at a Chicago Cubs' game, with his son Joshua Jr. Once I bumped into him, shared this letter and he just tipped his head back and laughed. He complimented my voice and agreed that he is indeed that guy still, and once a month he guest bartends at an undisclosed location but this time, his wife is the one orders his specialty but now it's called the Sweet and Salty for what he hopes is for their eternal love.

As I walked home, I allowed myself to remember just for a moment that feeling he would give me when I would be one of the lucky ones that would walk with Fenway on a random Sunday morning, and then sip a Bloody Mary with my legs casually tossed up on his lap. In my brief dating history Josh was a guy who somehow got it. He could create the fantasy in reality as well as in fiction. He is kind, honest, and completely unaware of his bewitching charm. He never asked for permission in life! More importantly he somehow knew to give you what you needed when you yourself had absolutely no idea.

That my friends "our Josh" if anyone ever doubts love, refer back to this letter. I promise you it's out there.

Sincerely

An admirer of "our Josh"