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Cleveland, The Treatment. Chapter 4: Meeting Sean
“Come over to the window, my little darling, I’d like to try to read your palm.
I used to think I was some kind of Gypsy boy before I let you take me home.
Now so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began
to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.”
– “So Long, Marianne” by Leonard Cohen, 1967
Chapter 4: Meet Sean
Song Selection: Leonard Cohen, So Long Marianne
JACOB hastily walked out of the pub and down street where building is on fire. Police, fire and ambulance vehicles blocked all intersections. News trucks and local reporters were everywhere, set up where-ever possible, reporting on story. JACOB, never to shy away from conflict, not so much for his own good but, more so, to, hopefully one day, make his father proud, noticed and approached a police officer.
OFFICER DUSáN, once a rising star in the Cleveland Police Force, never climbed very far because he, too, had an adoration for an insatiable man, Jim Bean. Still perceptive yet far less ambitious, OFFICER DUSáN stood across the street from the chaos, making sure no one crossed the wrong lines.
JACOB
Officer, I’m is Jacob Cohen, my father’s the owner of the building. Let me through.
OFFICER DUSáN
(annoyed)
Sorry, son, entire street’s blocked.
JACOB
(points)
Officer, that’s MY building. I need to see what’s going on!
JACOB tried to get past OFFICER DUSáN.
OFFICER DUSáN
(intercepted)
You need to stand right there, Mr. Cohen.
JACOB
Officer, do you know who my father is?
OFFICER DUSáN
I don’t care if your pop’s the great Mark Anthony. This area is off limits. You’re not getting through here.
JACOB, frustrated, looks around.
OFFICER DUSáN (CONT’D)
C’mon on buddy, what are you going to do? Piss on it?
JACOB left eye twitched and he sighed deeply.
OFFICER DUSáN (CONT’D)
See those fire trucks?
Both men look into direction of fire, then resume eye contact.
OFFICER DUSáN (CONT’D)
We got professionals working on it. If you want to give me your number, we’ll call you.
JACOB looked at the cop, looked at building, turned around and backed up the street he came from. While DUSáN looked away, JACOB noticed and headed towards a dark, smoky alley.
While Jacob was born with a silver spoon, Sean made due with a plastic spoon.
The streets raised Sean. Specifically, the West Side of Cleveland, where no mother had ever breast-fed him and no father ever disciplined him, much less left him a real estate fortune. And, like many young men before him and many after, he made the best with what he had, emulating soft criminals around him and aligning himself with an extended family that ran the underbelly of a once thriving N.E. Ohio metropolis. He never quite made it to a pickle conversation at The Theatrical, but he knew the legends.
In order to avoid the pattern of abandonment, he eventually married the daughter of the big boss, Colleen. The two of them knew each other and they knew the rules. Now also a father, Sean was determined to not only be a dad, but to be present. Being a family man gave him a certain legitimacy, to his crew and to himself.
The fact that he didn’t have anyone to teach him stability resulted in permanent life scatterings in his relationships with everyone around him. No duct tape could ever fix him. He knew this. And, yet, he still kept trying. This eagerness drew sympathy from those around him and has preserved a loyalty with those who matter most: his home family and his work family.
But the pressure was often more than he could take so Sean, like so many others, men and women, rich and poor, East-siders and West-siders, would partake in the occasional liquid reprieve. Every neighborhood had its Cheers and Sean frequented his, with simultaneously guilt and pleasure. Thus the life of a Catholic.
This particular bar was once a hip place, especially when The Flats dominated the city nightlife. Remnants of nice decor still lingered, but nothing’s been replaced in years. In order to attract new life, the owner began to dim lights, add candles and play more contemporary music. But, while a few post-college aged twenty-somethings would try the place out, in order to feel current and anti-suburban, 80% of the bar’s revenue still came from 20% of its customers – the regulars.
One night, as he always has before, a middle-aged, MALE BARTENDER wiped a glass. Holding the glass up to a narrow light piercing from the mostly covered window, he spat on it and continued wiping it. An old television in corner played the evening news. The BARFLYS sat on their stools, drowning their sorrows to the bottle. SEAN, 33, white, muscular, rough-looking, wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket, walked into the bar. One of the BARFLYS saw him and moved, knowing that all this time he was just keeping the king’s throne warm.
MALE BARTENDER
Boss, how it goes?
SEAN addressed everyone as one audience.
SEAN
Goes well. The casino coming here is just what this fuckin’ shithole of a city needs.
MALE BARTENDER
Where they setting up shop?
SEAN
Working on it, my friend. Working on it.
SEAN pulled out a cigarette. Everyone listened and nodded as SEAN talked, giving him the respect he commanded. The MALE BARTENDER then pulled out a clean ashtray from under the counter.
MALE BARTENDER
You know those assholes passed that law against smoking. I don’t want the cops closing me down. As is, I can barely pay the mortgage on this place.
MALE BARTENDER looked directly at SEAN, in a pleading way.
MALE BARTENDER (CONT’D)
Times ain’t what they used to be, boss.
SEAN gave the MALE BARTENDER an annoyed look.
MALE BARTENDER (CONT’D)
Where’s Colleen tonight? We haven’t seen much of her lately.
A BARFLY reached out to light SEAN’s cigarette. SEAN, nodded in gratitude, inhaled and then blew smoke into the dingy bar.
SEAN
Ah, she’s got a new hobby. Fuckin’ scrapbooking. Ever since Sean Jr. was born, she’s turned into Martha fuckin’ Stewart. Does that shit every Thursday night with her girlfriends. Suppose it keeps her out of trouble.
SEAN, while talking, leaned to the side and noticed a few smiling YOUNG WOMEN at the back of the bar. He raised an eye brow, his only level of acknowledgment.
BLUE COLLAR MAN
Look who’s talking. Since when did you become the god-damn Pope?
SEAN paused, cigarette in hand, got off his stool and walked up menacingly to BLUE COLLAR MAN. He then held up his cigarette a centimeter from the man’s eye.
SEAN
What the fuck did you just say to me?
BLUE COLLAR MAN
(sheepishly)
You know I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, boss.
SEAN
As far you’re concerned, I am Saint Sean to you, ya piece of shit.
SEAN then turned around and walking slowly, resumed his seat. He then looked up at the TV as the NEWS ANCHOR on reported the Cavs championship loss to the Spurs.
Everyone grumbled as the MALE BARTENDER pulled out a clean glass, put it on end of the bar. The men then took stacks of twenty dollar bills out of their wallets and inserted them in the glass while sliding glass down into SEAN’s direction.
SEAN (CONT’D)
Thank you, gentlemen, pleasure doing business with you.
SEAN, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, counted money, pulled out one twenty dollar bill, put the rest it of it into an envelope and folded the envelope into his jacket pocket. He then showed off the twenty dollar bill to everyone and slammed it on the bar. Everyone heard the bam and looked at SEAN.
SEAN (CONT’D)
In honor of their
(points to TV screen)
loss and my (points to self) win, drinks are on me!
BLUE COLLAR MAN
Only you would bet against your own city, Sean.
Cleveland the Treatment, Chapter 3: Meeting Jacob
