Mr. Smith was a hustler, and no one was really set on how he kept his money. He would call up the private jet brokerage I used to work at, trying to get a deal. For whatever reason, when he called he always got me. After a month of his fuckery, we were on a first name basis.
I'd answer the call, "Thank you for calling_____ this is Jessica. How may I assist you today?"
He'd answer in a long, slow, southern drawl, "Jessica. Like the Allman Brothers'sooong?"
Without fail. Every single time.
He was a bit skeezy, always asking me what I was wearing, telling me I should move down south, admitting he had a couple cocktails. His daughters were my age. His second wife was about 20 years younger than him. While I didn't condone his advances, he was a character and I appreciated that.
When my colleagues and I Googled him just for the hell of it, we found out some interesting stuff. He was a practicing lawyer down south in the 70's and got his licence revoked when he was caught smuggling 2 tons of cocaine into the US. He appealed and made such a mess of the case, that the federal court said he was making a mockery of the judicial system and they disbarred him for life.
It's funny. To this day when people ask me my name, sometimes, usually the older folk will say, "Oh, like the Allman Brothers' song?" It always makes me think of him.
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