The Police Man Revealed

Last year, when I was introduced to him by a very excited Giuseppe, the ex-boss whom I adored, I politely said, "Hello, John." Without looking in my eyes, without shaking my hand, he said, rather indignantly, "Uh... it's Johnny?"

Johnny K. as he is know around town.
Johnny K. aka The Police Man.
His real name is John Katsuras.

Why did I decide today to disclose his true identity? It is because on Friday night, he finally felt unencumbered enough by my missing presence to show his true colours again.

Giuseppe felt under duress when Johnny K. had come to him demanding my immediate removal from the place. It was me or him. I wasn't prepared nor willing to do the required work involved in overseeing the place full-time. I came in, did my thing, left. I promised Giuseppe nothing other than loyalty to him and him alone. Johnny K. promised him freedom. Like a dog with a bone full of marrow and strings of flesh still attached, Guiseppe heeled.

For the last 9 hours this is what I have been doing:

I purchased a membership at Stratenger's, that delightful bar that allows anyone to respectably smoke indoors, for a one time fee of $10.
I drank 9 beers and I am as sober as a judge.
I sat and listened to Kissy, my old work comrade, as she explained that she, too, had quit.

I was released. Matty quit and now Kissy.
Dissolved is the Dream Team.

Kissy had given her notice to Giuseppe last week. The reasons she gave was, though she was committed to him as a decent employer, he did have a tendency to drop sudden bombs on the staff. For example, if things weren't working out with someone, he had a tendency to simply remove that someone from the schedule. He would never say they were fired. He simply said, "There's nothing for you do this week, but try again next week."

He doesn't make it a habit to confront and dismiss. My termination was a rare occurence. Nobody's received a parting lunch before. Also, he decided at the last minute to close the restaurant down for 10 days without giving the staff a respectable amount of notice. He gave us a one week notice prior.

A few years ago I invested in real estate. When Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, and I dissolved our marriage, we split the proceeds. He went on to buy another place. I decided to rent until I decided what I wanted to do with it.

Thus far, this is what I've done with this money:
A) Took last summer off.
B) Loaned a rather large sum to a co-worker to build his dream cottage.
C) Loaned money to Ack to ease the transition.
D) Loaned money to 3 other friends to help pay their rent.

I don't ask for interest. As stated in a previous post, I'm not in the business of usury.

When I was 23 years old, after leaving my first marriage, I had $20 to my name. I had an apartment, a Jeep I needed to make payments on and a family that refused me any help. I worked 70 hrs/wk and within a year the Jeep was paid off and I had $10,000 in savings. Though I learned to rely on my ability to survive, it would have been nice to have had help.

I am not on Easy Street, by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm not going to get kicked out of my house this month because I don't have any money. However, there are people that I have worked with that subsist from paycheque to paycheque. To have a 10 day stretch without any advance notice doesn't give anyone time to make provisional plans. Everyone needs to eat. Everyone needs to pay their rent.

Last Friday night, in an attempt to offer an extended olive branch, Kissy, my dear, sweet ex-work comrade, who is the embodiment of goodness, fairness and graciousness was on her way out of the restaurant. She did her rounds dispensing her signature hugs. She realised nothing bad had ever been done by Johnny K. to her, not really. I mean, asking whether her tits were real wasn't really all that bad. She embraced him as a kind gesture. She does it to everyone. That's part of her immense charm. As she was pulling away from him, he laughed and grabbed her crotch.

He hadn't been in the restaurant for a while. He hadn't been in any restaurants he'd had any stake in for quite some time, mainly because they don't exist anymore. He stayed clear away from Giuseppe's place if he knew I was working. He effectively had me removed. I was the source of his shame. My ever smiling visage was the constant reminder that he is, was and always shall be A Disgusting Pig of a Man.

What? You don't like that, Johnny? I've always said it.

For 7 1/2 hours I allowed my good friend to purge every ounce of what she felt across a formica table. I validated every point she made over the course of the day/evening. The table accumulated countless rings on its surface, though didn't resemble a tree.

She'd made the decision to not finish her final 2 weeks, the notice she'd given.
The only compensation she wanted was an equivalent in pay for the 2 week duration.

After news got out, Johnny K. had called Kissy. At first he denied it. Then he said, "If I had done something like that, which I don't know why I would, I'm sorry."

He was very, very sorry... for something he didn't think he did.

He wanted her to come by the restaurant so he could talk to her about it. Just him. Just her.

Allow me to add Stupid in front of Disgusting.

I offered her money for a decent lawyer.
I offered to take a half page ad in a local newspaper trying to find other victims.
She refused twice.

She didn't want to press charges. She, like I, adore Giuseppe and his family. She didn't want to ruin him.

She laughed at one point at the expression I had on my face.
Seething rage is rarely funny to me, or her.

I asked her one question: Prefacing first with never wanting to force her hand in any decision she was going to make, I asked: "When you look back at this when you're 60 years old, will you say you did the right thing?"

By the 8th hour, after rounds of drinks were bought for us by lonely men with enlarged muscles pulsating deep within chest cavities, she started to get mad. She finally understood that this behaviour was wrong when she could attach proper language to it. It can only be called sexual assault. She got a little madder. When my extraordinary friend Ian, who happened to come into the bar and offer his advice, and it's interesting to note that people who have been on both sides of the law are quite knowledgable of legalities, he told her her rights. He validated her further. He fanned her fire. Madder got even madder.

This is what I did yesterday:
I drank 9 beers.
I held my friend's hand.
I watched her cry for herself.
And I watched her learn to love herself.

This is what I'm doing today:
I am going to hold my friend's hand.
Together we will walk into Police Precinct, 55 Division.
I will sit silently supportive as she presses charges for sexual assault.

He once asked Giuseppe,"What have I ever done to her?"
It's got nothing to do with me, Johnny. You wouldn't understand that, though, would you?
You'd have to understand love first.

Madder gets even.