Joe Frazier's Gym

4 SALE, as snapped from a moving train. I have a signed photo of Smokin' Joe somewhere, but couldn't find it just now. In 1988, I talked to a guy at McGlinchey's who said he was Joe's cousin from North Carolina. Joe was pissed that he hadn't found a job yet, so if I agreed to pose as his boss, he would take me to North Philly to meet Joe at the gym. When I got there, he took me upstairs to look at Joe's huge bed and his wardrobe. After I shook Joe's hand, he asked me how much I was paying his cousin, so I made some shit up. He asked where we were working. I was drunk enough to bullshit Joe without flinching. Joe asked about the papers I had in my hand.

"It's nothing, Joe."

"What is it?"

"It's really nothing, Joe, just a short story I wrote."

"A what?!"

"A short story... You really don't want to see it, Joe."

"Let me see it!"

I handed it over. This story, one of my first efforts and never published, was about some Mafia shooting in South Philly. It was pretty stupid. Joe read a few lines and gave it back to me. "Get this man a picture," Joe said to the cousin, then, "What is your name again?"

"Linh."

"Say what?!"

"Linh. L, I, N, H."

Joe took out his marker and signed, "TO LEE, RIGHT ON!"







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