He lived on the corner of Eastern Parkway and Northern Parkway. He was younger than me. He ordered food and I went up there the first time. In his living room he has no furniture, set up for a rock and roll band with drum set, keyboards, all instruments, like it was a stage at a rock concert.
He ordered some kind of subs and fries. We delivered subs and wings, wed run more of that than pizza. He was mid-twenties, probably 5-8-10, thin, kind of pasty complexion with dark hair—probably dyed. Didn’t look like it fit him. He looked like he should have been a redhead.
He invited me in, and says, “You wanna come in, smoke some pot and drink some beer.”
I said, “No, I’m workin.”
The biographer, sensing some incongruent Big Ron reticence, says, “You had no problem drinking on the street corner with dope dealers, drinking with the Johnny Walker Blue guys, even the Mayan Calendar guy. What about this guy set him apart?
It was obvious he was gay. I didn’t want to go in there hanging out with him. He asked, what my name was and I told him, “Poppa Ron,” a spin on Poppa John, and he gives me a ten dollar tip. So, he ordered food a lot. I don’t know what he did for a living but he smoked a lot of dope, drink beer and play music. He would call down to the shop and order food and request “Poppa Ron,” and I had these assholes at the pizza shop callin’ me Poppa Ron and telling me, “Your number one fan has called!”
I went out there probably a dozen times and gotta 10 dollar tip out of this guy every time. Tiara—the girl I was bangin’, who worked the phone—was a prime instigator of the Poppa Ron thing. Even the Indians were calling me Poppa Ron.
The biographer, asks, “Does this make you more appreciative of the plight of such celebrity icons as Kim Kardashian?”
It’s tough being beautiful.
When the world is ending you she needs a guy to swoop in on a rope and make everything okay and she won’t have a need for these gay dindus anymore.
-Big Ron
Welcome to Harm City, White-Boy
