| | | Editor's Note: When we got to work today, we found another e-mail from that bartending, skateboarding buddy of ours in California. We decided to pass it along again. A word of warning: always wear a helmet.
Chapter 10
... in which our hero brings peace to a strife-torn city
Being a bartender puts you in a unique position to help humanity.
A few days ago, this USC basketball player, Jeff Trepagnier, comes into Lore's looking like he's permanently been whistled for his fifth foul.
"Why aren't you at basketball practice?" I ask him.
"NCAA suspended me, Wheeler. I'm under investigation."
He points to his new car in the parking lot. A present from his fiancée's father. Unfortunately, gifts like that are illegal. And this freshman, Desmon Farmer, is taking his place in the starting lineup and turning into a lock for the All-Pac 10 Rookie team. Trepagnier's hoops future is, as we say
in extreme sports, slamming.
"Dude, you should marry her."
The idea sounds about as romantic to him as wind sprints. "I'd rather shoot myself than get married right now," he says.
"Listen, you marry her, the new car is a family gift. They can't suspend you for getting a new drive from your father-in-law," I say.
I tell him this is the best USC team in years. How they're a lock for an NCAA bid. Which gives him a shot at being drafted.
The next day Trepagnier marries his fiancée and gets reinstated by the NCAA.
|  | | Shaq and Kobe hardly see things eye-to-eye right now. |
My bud Puker begins looking at me like, how did I suddenly become Judge Mills Lane when just last weekend I forgot to take the lens cap off my
videocamera while he was doing triple somersaults and rollovers during free fall at 10,000 feet over Victorville?
The only thing I can think of is two days ago a sanitation truck broke down in the alley behind Lore's. Something was screwed with the mechanism that
lifts the plastic containers up and tips them into the truck. It was hurling the cans 50 feet into the air. So naturally my boss, Stu Getzler, bets me
$20 I won't climb inside a trash receptacle and get launched.
He lost. But maybe it was the mix of garbage I came down in, the chemical waste or bacteria. Maybe it got into the wound in my skull where I hit the side of the truck and had to get 20 stitches. Maybe my IQ stepped up big-time. To a whole new level.
"Well, here comes your toughest challenge yet," Puker says.
He's pointing at a giant of a man taking a seat in front of me wearing a T-shirt that says, "Can You Dig It?" across the front in letters the size of
the "Hollywood" sign.
It's Shaq. He comes in all the time to chill if he's tooling around on his chopper. Plus, he loves our Xtreme Nachos with Free Range Boar and Rim of
Fire Sauce.
Right behind him I see Kobe Bryant walk in. So immediately, I'm thinking this is one big cosmic mistake that can only end with the place looking like
Hiroshima. Stu always keeps a bat under the bar in case we have to break up fights, but you know that's only a toothpick to these guys. Kobe
sits down next to Shaq and orders a beer.
"I need to see your I.D.," I tell him.
Now everyone at Lore's is dead quiet, except Shaq. He's laughing because I carded Kobe. Which is kind of a miniature version of their whole situation.
Kobe's not youngblood anymore. He's old enough to drink. He's a veteran in the NBA. And the fact that he wants equal respect with Shaq is why they've
been on each other's asses all year.
"Check these out," Shaq tells Kobe, as I bring the nachos. He whips out an extremely numerical bill and slides it my way, saying, "Phil sent us."
Which I guess means this is the place they're supposed to work out their problems with the Lakers. But it's pretty clear they're having a tough time
doing it, because soon I hear Kobe saying to Shaq: "Why don't you cut it out with all that 'big dog' crap already? I'm supposed to be playing with a man.
And if I'm playing with a dog, then I ain't passing no ball to no bow-wow."
"I'll show you some big dog crap," Shaq says.
Shaq starts barking like a Doberman. Real loud and angry: "Grah! Grrrrahh ... Gggggrah! Ggggggrah!"
Next thing I know, Shaq jumps onto the bar and he's squatting in a crouch, his rear end facing Kobe, looking like he's about to undo his pants and do
his business on Kobe's plate, doggie-style.
That's when I whack Stu's bat down on the bar hard as I can. "I love you like a brother, Shaq, but you know the rules," I say.
Shaq sits back down. He and Kobe are angry and quiet. I look over at Puker. I can see even he's scared. I figure I better use the special power my
dunking in the garbage truck gave me or the city of Los Angeles is going to be ripped apart.
"What's on your nacho, dude?" I ask Kobe.
"What're you talking about, Wheeler?" he says.
"Stop biting and just answer. What's on your chip?"
"Piece of olive. Some sour cream. Little thing of cheese," Kobe says. "Some
rim of fire sauce."
"And what's on your chip," I ask Shaq.
"That's easy -- piece of pork. Some guacamole. Re-fried beans," Shaq says. "Oh, and a chili pepper."
"That's my point," I say. "See, each of you two has something different on his chip, OK? But it's all part of the same great big delicious dish. Two
chips, one dish. Big enough to satisfy everybody."
"You're right," Shaq says.
"Two chips, one dish," Kobe grunts.
"When me and my buddy Puker here take our boards out to skate, it's not about who's better or who does the toughest trick. I appreciate what he
does. He's the same with me. If I slam, he's not happy, he's not going, Good for me, Wheeler slammed. And vice-versa. Now, that chip in each of your
hands, I want you to feed it to each other."
Shaq and Kobe look at each other like Yassir Arafat and that dead guy Rabin on the lawn at the White House.
Then they do what I told them. Eye to eye, Kobe puts his chip in Shaq's mouth, and Shaq puts his in Kobe's.
The whole place goes crazy with applause. Puker is giving me that "you're-awesome-dude" look. I see Stu Getzler wiping his eyes.
I know I'm just a bartender. But I've brought peace to a city.
Puker tells me I should ask for a raise.
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