In its heyday, Mickey’s on 3rd and East 21st was a happening place. Both young and old would stop in for a drink; maybe have some conversation about politics or the war. But as the streets outside the old bar got rougher, the crowd of customers disappeared. Now, the bar was a hideout for the local boys. Boys who were toughened by the years, by the war, or by heartache soothed with whiskey.
The owner and bartender was Mickey’s nephew, Joe, who took over the place shortly after Mickey passed away. Mickey was an Irish tough guy with a heart to match, but everyone respected him. He lived long enough to see his boy come home from Hanoi, and then the cancer got the better of him. Mickey was only in the grave about a month when his soldier boy joined him; he couldn’t handle what he had done, the lives he took. Everyone told him that was his job, as a soldier, but the guilt ate at him like an ulcer. He hung himself in his hospital room, leaving a simple note that said, “I’m sorry.”
Now, Joe stood behind the pitted and stained counter, wiping glasses and thinking about things. Tonight was Christmas Eve. There were no decorations in the bar, no Christmas tree, or fake snowflakes. The only thing that suggested a holiday was an old neon star in the bar window. Someone had put it up there a few years back, and Joe never got around to taking it down. But that was it, just the star and the haze from the cigarettes being smoked by the patrons. Patrons, Joe thought to himself. He gazed around the room, looking at each lonely face, etched with guilt, pain, and regret. Sitting at the bar was old Ronnie, who had been a hard worker all of his life. He loved his wife, gave her anything she could ever ask for, treated her like gold. But then one night, he came home from work and found her and one of his coworkers together. At that point, his heart seemed to shatter and freeze at the same time. For the last fifteen years, Ronnie has been alone, never being able to forget nor forgive.
The two boys in the corner booth, Fred and Gary, came out of Sing Sing on the same day, after serving a dime apiece for larceny. They’ve been straight ever since coming out five years ago, but the times being what they are, they may be seeing the inside of a cell once again. Some boys never learn.
Tony G. sat at a table by himself, nursing his fourth double bourbon, dealing himself a solitaire hand. None of the regulars know what the “G” stands for, but that’s how they always address him. Tony G. is somewhat of a mystery to the locals. Some say he was a soldier for the Gambino family, others say that he escaped from prison out west, somewhere in California. Most likely, he is just another lonely soul, looking for a place to hide. And tonight, that place seems to be at the bottom of the bourbon bottle.
Joe, himself, was one of these lonely souls. He had been married, all those years ago. He had been hurt also, like Ronnie. Except instead of cheating on him, his wife, his beautiful Alice, had the nerve to die giving birth to their son. The boy only lived three hours longer than his mother, and then joined her, leaving him alone and broken. His heart was truly broken, for after his tragedy, he seemed incapable to love or show sympathy towards others. He held onto his pain and wallowed in the agony for the last twenty two years.
After finishing his assessment of the room, Joe finished wiping the glasses, and refilled Ronnie’s beer. He picked up Ronnie’s crumpled ten dollar bill, and stashed it in the ancient register with the bum drawer. He had to hit the bottom corner of the drawer just right for it to open. I should really invest in a new register, he thought to himself.
The old Budweiser neon clock on the wall above the bar read ten o’clock, and a couple of more stragglers came in and sat down. Seeing more of the local boys, Joe poured the drinks without taking the order. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks. These guys were creatures of habit, same drink, same time. Joe looked down at the newspaper, and heard the door open again. Expecting to see another regular, he was shocked to see that the visitor was actually a small boy, no more than ten or eleven. Joe thought, what the hell are you doing here, kid? This isn’t exactly the safest place at night. The boy looked around the bar; everyone was silent, just staring at him. No one had seen him before, and he wasn’t one of the local kids from the neighborhood. The boy walked towards the counter where Joe was standing.
“Did you know that someone is outside in the snow, all alone? She’s lost, and she doesn’t know how to get home,” the kid said, in a confident voice. “She’s scared and sad, and she’s starting to freeze.”
Joe looked out of the grimy window without moving out from behind the bar. Across the street, through the falling snow flakes, he could see the silhouette of a young girl, standing under one of the street lights. The payphone that she was standing next to hadn’t worked in two years. Joe, looked down at the boy and said, “That’s not my problem, kid. How would you know that anyway? Are you two working some sort of scam?”
The boy looked into Joe’s eyes, almost searching for something. He stared at him for a moment, and then said, “If she could get home, on this night of all nights, she would already be there.”
At that moment, Joe felt as if something had unfrozen inside his chest. He looked at the boy, and then looked at the girl across the street. She was sitting on a low step, with her head in her hands. Quietly, Joe came out from behind the bar. The guys stared silently at him, and they watched him open the cash register drawer. He took what was in the till, about three hundred bucks, folded the bills in half, and walked over to the door. Joe opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air, followed by the boy. He walked across the street and stood next to the girl, who was crying silently into her threadbare coat. Shakily, Joe put out his hand and touched the girl’s shoulder. She looked up at him with tear-stained cheeks, unable to say anything.
The boys watched from inside the bar, they saw Joe talking to the girl, and the boy was standing a few feet behind them. The snow had let up a little, so they could see them pretty clearly. They saw Joe put out his hand, and saw the girl lay her small hand in Joe’s rough, calloused one.
Even though it was late, and the traffic had slowed on 21st, Joe whistled for a cab. The cab pulled up along the curb. Joe put the girl in the cab and told the driver, “JFK.” He handed the girl the wad of money that he had gotten from the cash register, looked into her confused face, and said, “Go home.” The girl looked down at the money, and glanced back at Joe, who smiled at her and patted her hand. She whispered a thank you, and the cab pulled away from the curb. He watched the cab turn onto 3rd, and disappear down the street.
He stood there for a moment or two, unknowing that the boys in the bar watched him in awe. They knew him, they knew his pain, and they knew what a tough bastard he was. No one noticed, however, that the young boy had disappeared.
Joe came to his senses, and looked down to where the boy had been standing, but he wasn’t there. He turned, looking behind him, but there was no trace, not even footprints in the snow. Befuddled by what had just happened, Joe slowly made his way back inside the bar. The boys watched him return to his usual position behind the counter, but he seemed different. Inside himself, Joe felt a lightness that he hadn’t felt in some time. Whatever had a hold on his heart had released its grip, and he felt warm. Warm. He hadn’t felt warmth since the last time he held Alice in his arms.
The rest of the night, in the smoky haziness of the bar, the loneliness that infected so many of the boys seemed to relax its hold on them. They talked to each other, and some even laughed. Joe sat and drank with Ronnie, played cards with Tony G., and laughed at Fred and Gary’s jokes. No one paid for their drinks, and Joe kept their glasses full. None of them went home that night. They sat there into the morning hours. They were already at home.
(This story is an adaptation of the song “Old City Bar”, written by Paul O’Neill.)
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