...Johnny was a painter...a house painter, an incredibly gifted, talented, professional, and expensive...house painter.  He was a high-powered commercial and residential painter—a calibered, meticulous, measured individual who was sought one time to paint some secretive military project. And, he was expensive.  Johnny always said, "If you're good, you can be expensive."  He knew he was good...and wished his painting talents bled into his golf game. It didn't. Johnny never met a stranger.  He was the kind of guy who would not only go out of his way to speak to everyone, but always made them seem like they already knew him but forgot his name.  Sometimes people would receive Johnny's gregarious self-introduction with laughter and wholeheartedly embrace the meeting...for others it was a horrid shock.  Johnny was in no uncertain terms, perplexing...his physical size and overt demeanor put most people into a state of, at minimum uncertainty, at maximum, which was most of the time...fear. Johnny Gando stood a little over six foot six weighing in at a paltry two twenty-five.  Johnny was like a dead branch on a tree...he looked like a stick-man caricature.  His arms hung to his knees and his size fifteen shoes went on forever compared to a normal human being.  "Stick," was Johnny's everyday name tacked-on by his buddies when he was young and a goalie in the junior hockey league.  Can you imagine "stick-man," in goal, let alone playing hockey?  Basketball was not his thing...it was hockey.  And naturally, he said he was good. “What time we going off?” I asked.  “Who’s coming?” I continued. “Dun no, I need a sandwich or something, I gotta eat!” said Johnny. It seemed Johnny was eating most of his spare time—he loved good food.  I’m not saying he was a connoisseur but he knew what he liked and always had a comment about his food.  He always reminded the group of a special meal and the whereabouts of a newly discovered eatery. Johnny was one of five miscreants I call my golf buddies.  They were as varied in their golf games as their personalities. Johnny was a giant, had a 50's flattop haircut, pencil mustache and olive brown complexion—and he was a funny guy. But today Johnny seemed somewhere else, deep in thought. It was weird, as J.G. was not normally deep in anything, particularly thought.  He was always stringing independent "stand-alone," sentences together that made no sense...so the listener had to keep more than one story going at the same time.  Not this time, he was quiet.  It was obvious something was digging at him besides making solid contact on the first tee.          I putted a few more balls while Johnny searched for something in his golf bag.  Finally we went into the clubhouse and headed for the table in the corner...our usual spot.  The waitress had already spotted us and was placing two frosted mugs of Bud on the table as we pulled up our chairs.  This was the ritual of our Monday's...it felt good, comfortable, like a pair of old socks, like a new haircut, like someone paying you off on an old golf bet you forgot about. "This old lady put me in a fix!" Johnny said under his breath, in a low monotone voice...unusual for him. Being your typical fifty plus male and hard of hearing already, I said, "What?" With my best “you're a dumb ass,” expression for people who talk softly...I shaped my face with a crinkled, scowled, go-to-hell, condescending look, that most intelligent people picked up on—except Johnny.  So I asked again...with some louder emphasis... "What did you say?" Johnny spoke softly, like he had just got his ass kicked by a bigger guy..."This old lady got me in a fix!"     I heard him right the first time.  Now I'm thinking...what in the hell can be so important to this guy that I've only seen flustered standing over a two-footer...not business, not personal, not anything but golf...and particularly a woman and specifically an "old woman."  This is too good to be true. "You got some old lady pregnant?" I quipped with a smile. He just sits there sipping his beer, his eyes shooting daggers at my face.  He shifted in his seat and lit up another cigarette even though he already had one going in the ashtray.  I gulped my beer, puffing on a cigar...waiting for his best shot...his well thought out comeback, and his short but stinging verbal jab, his best acid tongue.  I expected an FU, but his delay told me he wanted to make it more damning than his normal quick stupid comeback. "Spencer you're an idiot!" Johnny matter-of-factly shot back. Crap! I thought...he truly caught me off guard with his response...this coming from an individual who is known in our golf group as having the complete makeup of an exemplar idiot himself. Continuing to smirk and chuckle with my best abilities, Johnny’s reaction to my funny lines was not being wholeheartedly received.  The moment appeared to be serious with Johnny, a time I only remember happening in one other instance, last year...when his Mom died. I thought what could have happened with an old lady to put Johnny into such a sober state. He sipped his beer and stared down at the floor, finally Johnny said, "It's not funny damn-it!  I got a problem with this bitch that won't go away." However...I did think it was kind of funny—that here was “Johnny Gando super-freak," and he had, what he thought was a serious problem with an "old bitch” lady.  Was it personal? Was it business?  I definitely couldn't see Johnny having a "personal" problem with an "old" lady, if you know what I mean.  It damn sure had him paralyzed beyond belief.  My initial thought was this was funny in itself, him being the kind of guy who is on top of things all of the time, but I held back my snickering and sorted through my mind the kind's of issues might a house painter have with an "old bitch" lady.  Pre-Order Character Happens!