Band Reunion of Bad Boys

Thursday had been a long day at the diamond exchange. Manny was worried about money and Richie Boy had shown up late. His son was our big earner. Last night he had dined with clients. This morning he arrived schitzkah or drunk. His eyes the color of deviled ham and vodka vapors fuming from his flesh. Entertaining customers was tough on the body.

"Nice to see you." His father checked his watch. It was after noon.

"Same for me."

"Huh?" Manny at age 80 hears 10% of a normal person. I don't let him answer the phone.

"Richie needs some OJ." I used to be Richie Boy's co-pilot. Now I went home just as his customers wanted to see fun. We struggled through the rest of the day. None of us made a sale and Manny decided to close early for once.

Richie Boy was very grateful. He had a busy tomorrow. He headed home to his wife and I went to Grand Central for a bowl of oyster stew at the Oyster Bar. The terminal was bustling with rushing commuters and I turned on the western steps to avoid the rush of commuters.

A spectral apparition appeared from the well-fed faces.

A man gaunt and grey.

His head lowered in a heroin nod.

The ghost of William Burroughs.

Our paths had crossed often in the late afternoon of New York's main station.

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 acknowledged our affiliation with a finger to his head.

An old signal between comrades.

For a second I expected the same from the approaching man, except he was not William Burroughs. He had been dead for years. The phantasm was familiar for another reason. It was an old friend. Davy looked horrible. 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.

Davy's yellow teeth gleamed in the half-light of the sunset streaming through the terminal's cathedral windows.

"Hey."

"You look good." I would have said the same about anyone whom I thought was dead.

Davy 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 without my family.

I mentioned a soiree featuring punk rock. Emily and Pat were showing their film NIGHTCLUBBING at NYU. Davy had loved punk rock, but said, "I really don't go out much anymore."

"Neither do I." We had our reasons. His were more believable than mine. Davy was a junkie. "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 bad boys around these days and one day I might need to ask him for help, for my days of being a bad boy aren't over. Only delayed to a time near death. My wife thinks that date is years away. For my son's sake I hope she's right. I wanted to live to 78.

Fenway would be 20 then.

And Mem, my wife, only 46.

Ah, youth.