That’s what I like about NYC … the peculiarities of the local economy there prevent much change from happening to the facades of those buildings, and much change from happening to the human contents of those buildings. A gentleman could visit some nondescript street on the Upper East Side somewhere, say above an hospital supply vendor, or down the street from a Yank-your-tooth fucking dentist, say around the corner of some church, say down the street of yet another Greek diners that changes ownership more often than it changes its menu, but still makes the famous Breath Mint Julep, named by none other than Rick Yukon when we was dumped there by the King’s County Sheriff, as a favor instead of leaving him at a processing station that the NYC Sheriff has to share with the NYC Police, because in NYC, even the fucking sheriff will say “Howdy” to you when you say “Howdy Sheriff.” And Rick Yukon got dropped at the door of that Greek Diner on Tuesday at 3:16 pm, a few school kids from PS-whatever-number-that-was-next-the-firestation walked by and asked if he was okay, because Hippie Parents taught their kids back then to be respectful of homeless political prisoners. He swept the dirt off his standard-issue Brooks Brothers suit but still looked like one of those old timey Irish miners in Colorado who used to wear their best suits to work in the mines. One can only assume that they wore them because those were the clothings they bought with them, back when shipping clothing out to the remote mountain shitholes like Colorado was expensive enough that only millionaire mountaineers like Tabor and Greeley and those guys and their families were buying fancy Eastern clothing. The rest of em went into the mines in their best clothing because that was all they brought, every last one of them. Before they leave, Mick MacLefkowitz is looking at all the shit in his closet, and he asks his wife “Oy ya babe, what’ll I bring with me to our new lives now that we’re about to be millionaires out in the silver fields of Colorado?” “Millionaires, you fat lazy bastard? Who told you that?” “Fuck you, I read it in the one of Horace Greeley’s newspapers. Millionaires!” So then the poor schmuck is out there, smartest guy in the bar back home, but there, he just stuck to digging trenches, and when the silver runs out, he’s still in that hole digging coal, organizing a union, a bunch of years later the same photographer from the Rocky Mountain News is in front of the same miner that once wore his tattered suit in front of that silver mine, from his old life because that was his penance for believing in fairy tales and make-believe and happy endings and he ended up a low-level employee with a life deemed disposable by his employer. And now he’s standing in front of that coal mine, and his employer wants to see him dead, because he organized a union and he took bread out of his children’s mouth. (Why in the hell should I be responsible for those lazy bastards?) The same photographer took a photo of the same miner, only this time with better gear, and this time he was dressed like a miner, only he kept his clothing clean somehow, even when he went in the mine. That was his job. He needed to appear to those miners that he could jump into any executive’s chair in that boardroom at the Brown Palace, any time he pleased, but he chose not to, because he has allegiance to the people from whom he came.
Yeah, he could have taken the board job, they all but offered it to him just so that the union could bring in a leader with all the charisma of hardtack and all the abilities of a plate of snails. But he was a dangerous man, because Scots teach their childen a bit differently than everyone else in the Holy Highlands. His dad taught him to never peach on a fellow, and his mom taught him to build an empire out of matchsticks and hairpins. They needed a new guy, a less effective guy because they saw the end of mining on the wall now that someone figured out how to make money pumping it out of the ground instead of having to dig it out of the ground. So yeah, they organized what happened to him and his brothers, and then they did it again a lifetime later because who the hell is going to remember a bunch of striking Colorado miners who get shot full of holes? But before there were holes in his work clothing, and before he stood before the photographer the second time, there was that first time, in his best clothing, covered in dirt, standing in front of that silver mine with a shit-eating grin on his face that you can see even with the long exposure times. He had a little money to at least buy some food for his children, he actually enjoyed picking away at the rocks, following the seam. If he worked hard maybe the mine owners would give him a promotion and he would become a millionaire after all and make his beautiful wife proud, and make his kids proud, and make his old man proud, and his mom proud. That dirty face, with the most elegant filthy clothing that photography has ever known, that was the image of Rick Yukon as he stood up from that courtesy ride from the Kings County Sheriff. He wanted a Mint Julep and he was damned well going to get it. Then the lovely Canadian employee of the Greek Diner Overlords said “we have the bourbon, we have some sugar packets, we have crushed ice, but we don’t have any mint here.”
“No mint?” Damnit, he was going to have a Mint Julip. And that afternoon was when Rick Yukon became legend, when he ground up a few breath mints from the counter tray with the edge of a Susan B. Anthony Dollar, lined it up like a few lines of blow on the hood of a 1969 Alfa Montreal, then sliced it, diced it, slid it, and lid it until it was the consistency of Peruvian Powderhorn. He brushed it all onto the back of a business card that was sitting on the counter from some guy at Datek Online Brokerage who probably would have really identified with Mick MacLefkowitz. Ricky handed her the card, said “use this”, which she did, and that was the very first Breath Mint Julip. Invented by Rick Yukon after being detained for questioning for that whole thing with the pre-production Alfa Montreal snafu, but they needed to get him out of harm’s way for a few days, so whatever works with Ukon.
A gentleman can stroll around a place like that near the diner and the hospital supply, down the street from the dentist, and year to year, the only thing that really ever changes are the dates on the tops of the newspapers. There are people who like their change to be well-controlled and predictable.
