"My Night with Janos..."

Here is a wonderful entry from a special guest columnist who would liked to be credited as Dominique Dero.

My night with Janos.

Janos Marton is stinking fucking drunk.

On the night Dazrazzle visits me in my Upper West Side apartment Janos’ parents are out of town, leaving their three sons with an empty den in the northwestern pocket of Manhattan and endless potential for unmonitored overindulgence. A bit of brainstorming yields “Augustfest,” more a mindset than an organized celebration, in which all parties visiting the Marton residence during mom’s absence must shoot Jack Daniels and drink shitty vodka with warm cranberry juice until their taste buds go numb. Never having met Daz’s Steve and Barry’s contemporaries I agree to take part in the festivities, hoping to get a feel for the staff of the oft-talked-about home of impossible prices and unbeatable quality (since 1985!).

When we walk out of the elevator/sauna to Janos’ front door it is eleven o’clock and the night still feels young and ripe for debauchery. The door to apartment 12A swings open and Daz and I look at each other, sweaty, sober – and apparently way behind the ball. Aside from the clan of sixteen-year-olds groping each other while watching Fear and Loathing in the living room (friends of Janos’ younger siblings and their interpretation of the Augustfest mantra), everyone in the apartment is at least two shots and a few cocktails deep. Daz introduces me to her coworkers as we attempt to suck down our turpentine drinks, inquiring about Janos’ absence at the fest of his creation.

Janos, we discover, is passed out in his bedroom, dead drunk, eyes unnaturally open. Apparently this is a fucking hilarious sight, but I don’t know Janos from Yoni and don’t really give a shit about seeing him in his alcohol-induced coma.

After opting not to carve an “S&B” into the side of sleeping Janos’ head, the Steve and Barry’s workforce finally decides to pursue colder beverages in the heart of the UWS. As we prepare to leave, Janos’ super chipper girlfriend Margo implores us to jump on top of her man to wake him for continued partying. Not even considering that it might be wise to let the dude sleep off his liquor, the crew of sweatshirt peddlers piles into Janos’ room. I stay behind, lurking in a bedroom off the kitchen, prying into the book collection of the well-read drunk. I’m perusing a shelf stacked with sports writing compilations, Roald Dahl stories and historical non-fiction when a tall, olive skinned Janos comes barreling through the room, into the kitchen. He is wearing a blue headband, eighties-style in a mussed shag of hair. He opens the freezer and sticks his head inside, standing in only a t-shit and his boxers.

“I don’t even know why I’m in here,” he says to no one in particular.

The group rallies poor Janos to accompany us to the bar and he is surprisingly enthusiastic, considering he can barely stand erect. The only problem is, Janos can’t find his pants. He’s looked everywhere and according to Daz, he just may have to leave the apartment without them. Margo finally finds the elusive trousers (“Remember? We left them in your parents’ room!”), and the group is on its way.

Earlier in the evening Daz and I walked from my apartment at 83rd and Amsterdam to Janos’ apartment at 99th and West End Avenue. The entire journey took about 15 minutes. Our jolly group of 6 now begins to head down to a bar a mere block from my residence. It will take us over half an hour to get there. Along the way Margo will sing “Ziggy Stardust” to an imaginary audience at the top of her lungs. Daz will barely resist laughing at a midget. Janos, Margo and Mike will fall a full two blocks behind the rest of the group for no apparent reason. Margo will take fliers from the windshield of one car and mischievously affix them to the windshield of another. Sarah will find a Ziploc bag in the street of what looks to be marijuana. She will show it to the rest of the group who will spend a full five minutes trying to decide whether or not the grass is actually weed. They will determine that the grass is just grass. Janos will sprinkle the useless greenery in my hair and we will continue along our merry way.

At 83rd street and West End Ave, Dazzy and I, who have led the pack for much of the odyssey, turn to indicate we are going to start our way cross-town. This is met with vehement opposition from Janos, who insists that for “religious reasons” we must continue on to 82nd street before making the turn. Daz and I are not about to contest Janos’ spiritual obligations and we round the corner at 82nd a bit puzzled, but we accept that we are dealing with the reasoning of a complicated man.

A large concrete stairway immediately rises up along the left hand side of 82nd street and Janos walks up to it. He caresses the block of cement and mumbles something about devotion, old times and loyalty as he traces imaginary letters in the craggy wall and seals them with a kiss. He explains that we are walking the turf of his old gang. This, apparently, is where they held it down.

“We couldn’t lose.” Janos says to me. “We were never taught how.”

I decide then and there that Janos is a maniac. Daz can’t hold herself up, she is laughing so hard. When she pulls it together she asks, “Is this the gang of friends from your private Manhattan high school or your Ivy League college?” For the first time all night someone manages to shut Janos up. I decide that no matter what Steve and Barry say, Daz is a quick one. Even without an Ivy League degree.

A block from the bar we run into a homeless man rapping about his plight for spare change. Daz’s friend Mike has no coins to offer so he gives the gift of beat boxing. Mike is hardly Justin Timberlake, but the homeless man is happy to have accompaniment. Janos begins to dance, legs flailing like a hippie at the farewell Phish concert. I look to Margo for acknowledgement of her boyfriend’s silliness, but she too is busy boogying. We are now seven, our midsection a motley, roving musical troupe moving swiftly towards more alcohol they obviously don’t need. Daz and I look straight ahead, hoping to escape association.

The bar, packed with ex-frat boys and Canadian baseball players, offers much in the way of amusement. The group drinks until everyone is loose enough to dance. The DJ plays ample hip-hop, satisfying even Daz at her dazziest. He breaks up the rap-fest with that shitty Bon Jovi song people in bars can’t seem to get enough of. The bar has Blue Moon on tap, but the bartender makes shitty Black and Blues. Half Blue Moon, half Guinness. Get it right bitch.

On the dance floor, Janos grabs my pint glass of Blue Moon-tinged Guinness and empties half the contents in two gulps. Half an hour later he does it again. Janos owes me at least five bucks.

Around three-thirty I decide we need to get some eggs. We walk seven blocks to the diner. I don’t know how Janos is still standing. Margo orders for him. It’s convenient she’s around when Janos can’t find his pants or doesn’t remember how he likes his eggs. She seems to have the inside information on these things.

By the time we finish eating Janos and Margo are making out at the table. I decide I’ve had enough. Daz and I finally say goodbye to the Steve and Barry’s crew and start the walk home, rehashing the most quotable lines of the night as Daz clutches her side and repeatedly chants, “I can’t handle it. I just can’t handle it.” I promise her I’ll remember the gems to log in her blog.
After spending a night in the company of the most infamous, pantless, Dartmouth-schooled, rough gang street fighter/spiritual messenger, how can I really forget?