CharlieG Jack gets out of a car on Park Ave outside the building I'm working in. The handyman and one of the porters (two old Irish guys, one sharp as a tack the other an innocent) are on the corner hosing down the sidewalk (path just doesn't sound right when you're talking about Manhattan).
Handyman goes up to him, 'Hey Irish how're you keeping?'
Jack responds, 'Good, good, yourself?'
'Arh you know, can't complain. John (the innocent) come say high to Irish.' Jack's loving this Irish bit.
He's there to visit a friend in the building, the brother of a famous Hollywood producer.
The innocent goes up, hose in hand, he kinks it to stop the flow, reducing it to to a pathetic drip, 'Hey guy, how're you doing?'
'Good, good, listen you guys you take care ok I gotta...' and off he trots, last seen conversing with the doorman.
The innocent, 'He seems like a good guy, which building does he work in?'
'Which building, you thick fuck, that's Jack Nicholson.'
Indignant, 'We'll I didn't know. I thought he looked familiar.'
That's it, my Jack story. Why didn't I meet him? What would I say?
