Richie Smirnoff. Or, just plain Smirnoff. That's what they called him at Brownstone Car Service on Union Street where he was employed as a driver. He's one of those people I wish I'd kept in touch with somehow. He's had a profound effect on me.

It started back when I was waitressing at McFeely's on Union Street in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I may have even started bartending there by the time I'd met Richie. In any case, it was the late 80's/early 90's and I was working at McFeely's and raising my two children. I'd call Brownstone every night at the end of my shift to get a car home. I used to drive my own car but three break-ins in less than two months and stressing about being ticketed for being on the wrong side of the street (alternate side parking rules in NYC) as I crawled out of bed in the morning after a late night working left me completely disgusted and frustrated so...I sold it...for $50 to a junk dealer (it was an 82 Corolla).."uh, sorry miss, I can't give you any more than that."
"really? I have two kids to feed. Are you sure?"
Anyway...

The conversation between me and Vinnie, the dispatcher at Brownstone, went pretty much the same way every night -
"Hello, Brownstone."
"Hey Vinnie, it's Dawn."
"Hello doll. Ready to go home?"
"Yep."
"I'll have a car right outside in three minutes. How're the kids?"
"They're great, Vinnie. You?"
"Very good thank you, sweetie. You take care, alright?"
"Yep. Thanks, Vinnie."

He'd give me a "special" price and the car would be right outside the door, just like he said, in three minutes. And then, every night, as I got into the car I'd hear Vinnie on the radio dispatching the same message to the driver as the night before -
"$6, Smirnoff. $6 for Dawn. Take good care of her and make sure she gets in safe."
"10-4 Vinnie," Richie would say into the mouthpiece.

The first night I rode home in Richie's car I noticed something. It was quiet. Many of the other drivers kept their radios on, pumping out of the back speakers, tuned to the party music station. I think they thought people liked it. I didn't. I'd just come from a loud, smokey bar where every thought, word or interaction was punctuated with music. Loud music.

I sat in the back, never behind the driver so as not to make him/her uncomfortable, and made small talk for a minute or so and then sank into the seat and my thoughts. After riding with Richie for about five minutes he asked me if I would mind if he put on some soft music. I said I didn't - with trepidation. He put on a jazz station. Not fusion. Jazz. Not Andreas Vollenweider. Thelonius Monk. I was a fan. I didn't know much but I knew what I liked. Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, Charlie Haden, Sun Ra, Ed Blackwell, Coltrane, Monk...many of whom I got to see play live at places like The Village Vanguard, Continental Divide and Town Hall. Monk played on the radio and Richie mentioned the fact that Monk was pretty much self-taught on the piano. I think he even said that Monk could not read music.

Richie had a soft way about him. I looked at him from behind and guessed him to be about 55 or so. Checked his eyes out in the rear view mirror. They looked clear and blue although I'm not sure. He wore his jet black hair in a sort of DA - slicked back. He also wore a black leather biker jacket. And still, he seemed soft. The car smelled like coffee and occasionally I would see him take a sip from the cup he had tucked away between his legs. There was something about the way he spoke that made me think he had peanut butter or a cookie stuck to the roof of his mouth. In a good way. It made me want to eat...well...peanut butter...or a cookie.

Richie soon became "my" driver. Every night when I called Brownstone, he would be the one sent over to pick me up. I loved it and began to rely on it. It was my favorite way to end my night of work. He'd have the radio going and a story at hand. I soon found out that Richie was, in fact, a drummer. And that he'd played with many jazz greats including Chet Baker. Richie regaled me with stories about music and food. He'd talk about his apartment and the little Italian joint up the street that he went to often for a bowl of spaghetti marinara with fresh basil and warm, crusty garlic bread. He was one of the first people I'd met that seemed so, so present.

One of the great stories he told me was about a time he was touring with Chet Baker - probably in the late 50's, early 60's - They were in Italy in a hotel lobby awaiting the arrival of Romano Mussolini (yes, Benito's son), who was an acclaimed jazz pianist and slated to join Chet Baker and his band on this leg of the tour. Before Romano arrived, Chet's bandmates talked to him about Romano and pleaded with him (though he was high on heroin at that moment) not to make any mention, WHATSOEVER!, of Mussolini's infamous father.

When Romano arrived, Chet was in a full junkie nod in one of the hotel lobby's cushy chairs. Richie said he elbowed Chet just as they all stood up to greet Romano and introduce themselves. They all shook hands and said their names and when they got to Chet, Richie introduced them -
"Romano Mussolini - Chet Baker. Chet Baker - Romano Mussolini."
And, he said, without missing a beat, a weary and very high Baker extended his hand and said -
"Wow, nice to meet you. Drag about your old man, huh?"