Do you know Johnny?
On a cold, rainy afternoon in October, a tall, thin man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and carrying an umbrella walked into Sam’s Bar and Grill on Crosat Street. There were a few regulars in the bar talking with the owner, Sam Taylor about who the best running back was in the NFL. The tall, thin man walked past them and sat down at the far end of the bar and ordered a beer and a shot of Peppermint Schnapps.
“It’s Walter Payton,” Bob Washkowiak said. “No question.”
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This was Chicago Bears’ territory and anyone who said otherwise was a traitor and likely to get tossed out on the street; that is, if one survived the verbal pummeling that would most likely ensue from outraged patrons and the bartender.
“Hey Buddy,” Dave Smith, a husky man wearing a Chicago Bears sweatshirt said to the tall, thin man at the end of the bar. “Who was the greatest running back in the NFL?”
The man didn’t say anything. He just sat there and sipped his beer.
Hey Buddy,” Dave said again. “What are you deaf or something? I asked you who the greatest running back in the NFL was.”
The man took another sip and stared straight ahead.
“Well, the nerve of some people,” Dave said as he shrugged his shoulders. “He’s probably a Packers’ fan.”
Sam poured another beer for one of the guys and then walked down to where the man was sitting. “Usually when someone comes into my bar they want to socialize. When someone doesn’t I want to know why. You’ve got something on your mind, pal?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” the man said. “I don’t need to socialize.”
“Why’s that mister?”
Johnny took a sip of the schnapps. “My name’s Johnny and I know everybody and everybody knows me.”
“Is that so? Well, I didn’t know you and I don’t think the rest of the guys know you, so how could that be true?” Sam wiped off a section of the bar around where Johnny had his beer and shot. “Those are some mighty big words for a guy to say if he can’t back them up. I would be inclined to think that for someone to say something like that must have an attitude problem.”
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