Thursday had been a long day at the diamond exchange. Manny was worried about money and Richie Boy had shown up late. Schitkah or drunk. His eyes were the color of deviled ham and vodka vapors were fuming from his flesh. His father is a hard worker, but at age 80 his hearing is 90% of a normal person. He can't answer the telephone without saying 'huh' a hundred times. His son was transported to the same age by a fierce night on the town. I was suffering from Padraic's Day. Too much beer.
Manny decided to close early and I headed to Grand Central with my pillow as a final destination for the evening. dinner would be a bowl of clam chowder at the Oyster Bar. The terminal was bustling with rushing commuters and I descended the western steps to the main floor. As I poised to turn, a spectral apparition appeared from the well-fed faces.
A man gaunt and grey. His head lowered in a heroin nod. At first I thought that I was seeing the ghost of William Burroughs. Our paths crossed often in the late afternoon. Grand Central Terminal had to be close to where the infamous novelist scored his drugs. He didn't know my name. in fact he knew nothing about me other than we shared the same affliction, mine a mere shadow of his colossal addiction. still he would acknowledge my affiliation with a finger to his head. An old signal between comrades.
For a second I expected the same from the man approaching me. it was not william Burroughs. He had been dead for years. The phantasm was familiar for another reason. It was an old friend. He looked horrible. Heroin had stolen his youth in his 20s. Younger than me by a decade he looked twice my age, although just as likely to survive every person in the terminal with a junkie's determination. I almost let him walk by, then called out his name.
His greeting was bereft of any surprise or pleasure.
He yellow teeth gleamed in the half-light of the sunset streaming through the terminal's cathedral windows. My sober morning was an anomaly. He was happy that I didn't ask many questions. Even happier that I didn't ask him if he was holding any dope. I would have loved some. A little smoke would take away the pain of being in new York. The pain of being in my late-50s and the remaining residue of my hangover.
I mentioned a soiree featuring punk rock. Emily and Pat were showing their film NIGHTCLUBBING at NYU.
"I really don't go out much anymore."
"Neither do I." We had our reasons. His was more believable than mine. "I have a picture of you, Barney, and Phillip. We look like an old rock band re-uniting for an oldies tour. I'll send you a copy."
"I'd like that." My friend bid me farewell.
I wanted to say that I wouldn't tell anyone about seeing him. His name sets everyone's heads to shaking. He's a bad boy. Still alive and I am glad for that too. There are too few of him around these days and one day I might need to ask him for help. My days of being a bad boy aren't over only delayed
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