He was called Tiny Tom and worked as a bouncer at a dive on Queen street. He looked to be about 6’5″, 300 lbs.
A girl I dated whose name I can’t remember said she went to his place one time where he lived with his parents and he slept in a single bed in the bedroom he grew up in and the wallpaper was cowboys and Indians.
He wore a black bikers vest and stood at the doorway with his massive arms folded under a scowl that seemed to say fuck with me at your own peril.
The girl told me that his shins were as soft as jelly, and if he was ever hit in his legs, it would cripple him; he was in constant fear of being challenged.
One night after drinking way too much and wanting more, I left the bar with Tom who knew a bootlegger who lived close to where I lived.
Close by was a storage plant for American Standard toilets and a 5 ton truck with the engine running outside the plant. Tom decided he wanted to steal the truck and I left him and walked home.
The last I saw of Tiny Tom was the driver of the truck climbing up to the drivers door trying to stop him as about 10 to 15 American Standard toilets fell from the back of the truck and smashed on the road.
“Stop! Stop!” The driver yelled. The truck and Tom jerked to a stop… A long time ago.