Doug Blough

Come listen to my story ‘bout a man named Graham; a poor Pennsylvanian barely had enough for Spam…

Actually, the cast of Pennsylvania characters numbers many, and the eventual moral of this story is: Never disrespect one relationship while doing maintenance on another. The friend you save may be your own.

Larry “Animal” Graham was a stout man whose high-rise, wild, red Afro made him appear taller than his 5-foot-7-inches. Animal was an unemployed, career partier from the Cheech & Chong tradition, often smoking a doobie as he walked the Jerome, Pennsylvania, streets to the next bar. He shared a small house owned by his aged granny.

I was a dedicated partier-in-training after returning to Pa. at 18 from my last summer of Cody baseball. The teetotaler who had left in June had come home with an education from the mean streets of Cody. Another innocent eastern boy corrupted in Coors County.

Bobby Davitch was well-known to the local Pa. police. Just a disheveled wisp of a man in his wool ski cap, he had steely, slitted eyes and lips that barely moved when he spoke, always with a dangling “Camel hump” on the verge of burning his lips. Those vacant eyes said nobody was home. He once offered me a $100 bet that if I’d go stand by my old Jerome Elementary School, he could shoot me dead between the eyes from the Buford’s Saloon parking lot.

We always got along fine, but he simply knew I loved to gamble, he loved to shoot, and hence it was a perfectly practical challenge in his hooded eyes. I told him I didn’t feel like staggering the half-mile to the school, but truth-be-known, you’ve got to get up pre-e-ety early in the morning to shoot me anywhere near the eyes for only $100.

Davitch pulled that same pistol on the Pagan’s motorcycle gang in their own Johnstown bar once. When the cops came, they found him still on the dangerous premises, passed out in his old Cadillac in the parking lot.

That was the same junker Cadillac he’d exited the time he ran into the Village Inn bar screaming that he suspected his French mistress Monique of being the source of the battery acid poured onto his front seat. After he stormed from the bar in a rage, everyone exploded in laughter because he still didn’t know his black leather jacket had also been nearly shredded from his body.

Davitch’s best friend was a big, older, bald guy named Leonard. He also had a dubious rep, but was articulate and commanded great respect from the saloon sub-culture. He always bought the drinks at the back-room poker games at the Polish Falcons, and one night I noticed Animal Graham was in Leonard’s entourage. But rather than watching the game, Animal was angrily eyeing another poker player, 6-foot-6-inches, middle-aged Dude Villa. Dude seemed oblivious to Animal’s menacing gaze, but there was obviously bad blood between the ex-drinking buddies.

True to his generous ways, Leonard bellowed “Graham, take this money and get us all a drink.” Untrue to his thirsty ways, Graham shocked everyone by saying, “Nope” as he continued staring at Villa, who was still ignoring the silent inquisition. A chill permeated that illegal basement room, my friends.

Eventually, Dude left and Animal explained to his hero, “Hey Len, that was nothing against you. I just don’t like that ##!!# Villa and refuse to bring him a drink.”

Leonard’s words have always remained with this impressionable derelict. “NO! Don’t speak to me, Larry. The favor I asked was for ME, not Villa, and I never forget an insult!”

Graham looked genuinely wounded as Davitch mumbled something to the effect of “I’d shood dat Billa right ‘tween the ears and I guaranteed ‘em” as a fiery ash from his Camel fell into his whiskey glass. And if I’m recalling correctly, I again tried unsuccessfully for a last-card inside straight with an obvious flush showing. Broke, I chirped, “I’ll run for that round if you’re still offering, Lenny.”

Lessons were learned that night. You don’t risk true friendship for unrelated grudges, you don’t pull on Leonard’s cape, and crazy Davitch is always packing heat. And it was for good reason Von Shroyer called me “Easy Money.” I’m a horrible poker player.