At the time, I couldn’t have told you how many years I had left to live.

Spring of 2004 in the city of New York.

The trees were on their yearly walkabout. Some going so far as to erupt in resplendent blemishes. Cherry petals rippled along Brooklyn streets and the walkways of Washington Square Park. Buildings like vertical shutter slats, allowing for thin grooves of warmth. Crisp temperatures meted against the quiet dread of a city just three years spent from Ground Zero.

I remained indifferent to the looming specter of another nine-one-one. Unconcerned by suspicious characters on the uptown express. No humbled respect for airliners cutting across the sky. Somebody out there almost certainly had my number, and there was nothing to do but keep on keepin’ on.

“Set me up with some sunshine,” I called out, trotting down the steps to Castlebar. “Only one-hundred and eighty minutes’ worth of Happy Hour left.”

“My, my, Lucky…” Brigid slid down the bar. Six foot, full-figured. Golden hair, silver-tongued, Irish accent nibbling at my earlobes. “What’s got you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this fine afternoon?”

“I may have done something right.”

“Do tell.”

“There’s a time and place for everything.”

She put her hands to her cheeks. Eyes wide, powder blue. “Is it now? Is it here?”

“Is it ever.”

Brigid slammed a coaster on the bar. “What’s your pleasure, sir?”

“What do you feel like making?”

“Ah. We have an arrangement today, do we?”

“We have an arrangement, Brigid.”

“I like our arrangement, Lucky.”

I hopped onto a barstool. “So what’ll it be?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve made an apple martini.”

“Hit it.”

Brigid throttled a bottle of vodka. I tapped my foot to Fats Domino. Gave a few regulars their due, tossed their crosswords a lifeline or two. Watched the sunlight pool near the entrance. Missed the way cigarette smoke used to wind its way along those lazy rays.

Times were changing, something fast.

“Apple martini for Mr. Lucky Saurelius.” Brigid presented me with a neon concoction the color of radioactive kelp. Maraschino cherry bellying up at the bottom. “Tell me what you think.”

I brought the rim to my lips. Three tart swallows took care of the first half.

“Yum.”

“Good, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Have some more.”

Second verse, same as the first.

Brigid served me up another, and I let her in on a little bit of luck that had found its way home.

***

Not more than two sips into my third drink, when Lincoln clattered down the steps.

His broad shoulders eclipsed  the doorway, darkened the bar before he shuffled in. Loafers sliding across the floor. Naked ankles. Shorts stained what could have been blood or wine. Undershirt cloaked by a light blue short-sleeve. Face consumed with fading bruises, nose split at the bridge. Looking better than whatever had come to pass, but not saying much about where things were headed.

“Jesus, Lincoln.” Brigid tilted her head. “Don’t see your face for months, and this is the one you bring us?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. Voice hoarse, breath stale with cigarettes and scotch, aged twelve years in his own mouth. “Won’t let it matter.” His eyes narrowed, buried deep in dark craters. “What the fuck are you drinking, Lucky?”

“Nice to see you, too,” I said.

“Apple martini,” Brigid told him. “The arrangement?”

“Still no excuse,” he said. “Drink it fast, get it out of my sight.”

I took it down. Swallowed the cherry whole. “Happy?”

“I’ll leave that to the experts.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pack of Chesterfields. “Meantime, Brigid, baby, think we can get us both some real drinks?”

“Anything you want. Unless you want to smoke, then you’re going to have to step outside.”

He grimaced. “Since when?”

“July, last year. Come on, you know this.”

“This is no longer my city, no longer my world.” He tucked his cigarettes away. “Brigid, baby. Please, two doubles of Johnnie Blue.”

“Johnnie Blue?”

“Also answers to the name Max Walker.”

“I’ll see if he’s in.”

“Doubles.”

Still wasn’t sure I’d heard right. Didn’t ask, though. Didn’t want to jinx it.

Lincoln caught me staring. Gave the left side of his mouth a bit of a lift. “You are the only other writer I could ever stand to be around.”

“Thank you.”

“Hm.”

Brigid placed a pair of glasses before us. Proper ones, weighted at the bottom. Must have had them stored away for just such an occasion. Whatever this occasion was crying for.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“Shh.” Lincoln motioned to the bottle in Brigid’s arms.

Brigit nodded. Took the bottle by the neck and tilted. A thin stream of blended scotch spun golden threads. Sound of the pour somehow killing the music as it filled in the blanks. The regulars leaned in, pack animals, the whole dirty lot.

Two mammoths of Johnnie Blue.

Sizeable.

Brigid pushed in, set us up.

Lincoln smiled like a man in love. “Thanks, Brigid, baby.”

“You’re welcome…” She bit her thumb for a moment. “You know I can’t let you run a tab, Lincoln. Not on these. I don’t know what today may be, but I’m going to need it up front. It’s for your own good.”

“Sure thing, Brigid, baby. What’s the damage?”

“That’s going to be thirty each, Lincoln. Sixty for the pair.”

Lincoln came through with a bankroll the size of my fist. Flipped through the meadows, then set five twenties on the bar. “Sixty for the scotch, and forty for your troubles.”

“Lincoln?”

“Every second passes I see that money on the bar, I’m putting down another twenty, so –”

Brigid took the cash, tended to the antique register.

Bells ringing as Lincoln handed me my drink. Took his in hand and tapped it against mine. “Here’s to the end of all things.”

I nodded and brought the rim to my lips. Felt the fluid caress my tongue, closed my mouth and swallowed. Tiny bite, no burn. Tasting the scent of fresh wooden floors. Sliding, settling into my stomach.

Pitch perfect.

Easy street.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Grab us a seat, I want to talk to you…” Lincoln pointed to a nearby table. “Going to tip the jukebox, get a little something going for us.”

I glanced at Brigid. She nodded.

I sat down.

Careful to keep my drink at bay. Make this moment last.

Got a little Billie Holliday for my patience, and Lincoln sat down with a tired grunt. Dragged his fingers down along his face, stretching the skin. Rubbed his eyes. Sighed. Reached for his drink. “How’s the book going, maestro?”

“Which one?”

“Which one, he asks.” Lincoln chuckled, shook his head. “Can you believe this fucking kid?”

“We don’t know.”

“The book you published, over across the pond. The one the Brits done brought out.”

“Don’t know. Don’t want to know the numbers. Can’t be distracted by numbers.”

“Amen.” He had a taste of treasure. “But now I can see, on beyond those big brown eyes of yours, that there’s something else, right? Don’t lie, now. I once had that same look on my face, some million years ago.”

“You’re barely thirty.”

“I’ll be thirty-five in four days.”

“For serious? Happy birthday.”

“Don’t you even fucking THINK of drinking to that.”

I paused with my toast in midair.

“Now,” he said, motioning for me to move on. “Why don’t you enjoy your drink and tell me all the muse that’s fit to print?”

I took a sip. Still marveling. “Brits sold the rights to their U.S. division.”

“Random House is publishing your book?”

“Yes.”

“Well blow me down.”

“What, right here in front of everyone?”

Lincoln cackled, and without warning, knocked back his drink. Wiped his busted lips and pointed. “Now you.”

“It’s Johnnie Blue, Lincoln. I want to taste it.”

“You ever want to taste it again, you’ll do as I say.”

But the threat rang hollow. Limp, without any promise of retribution. Toothless. Enough to get me drinking, just so Lincoln might think he still had it in him reach across the table and force the scotch down my throat.

I couldn’t even fake a grimace. “Which begs the question, how is your latest handling itself?”

“Stay put, I’m not through with you.” He picked up our glasses and hit the bar.

I watched the ritual unfold once more. Another hundred dollars on the table, another glass of Blue.

Lincoln raised his glass, and we drank.

“What’s going on today, Lincoln?” I asked.

“People lie, Lucky.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not going to be around forever.”

“None of us are, probably.”

“I’m going to start not being around forever far more sooner than you.”

“More sooner?”

“We are gathered here today, on this fine spring, so that I may impart…” Again, the emotion didn’t quite resonate. Words stripped of their intentions. “I want to tell you a few things before I die, and I want you to listen.”

“Before you die, when?”

“Ok, then don’t listen.” He pulled a pen from his pocket. Tossed it onto the table. “Take out one of those college-ruled nightmares you carry around in your bookbag and write this down.”

“Now?”

“Now, Lucky. Now.”

I put myself at the ready.

“Thank you…” Lincoln had a drink. Worked his lips, made a dying kind of birdcall. Cleared his throat. “There have been cases where people survive a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Even pressed against your temple, there’s still a slight chance you’ll just end up a carrot in some bed, some sanitized room at Mount Sinai. Only way to really do the trick, I’m told, is to actually suck on the barrel. Point it up to the roof of your mouth and squeeze the trigger.”

I pulled off a little shorthand, chicken scratch. Had a look to see if anyone else had heard. Barflies welcoming the late afternoon. Brigid taking a serrated blade to a couple of limes. I reached for my drink. “Are we live, here?”

“Meaning?”

“Are you doing this?”

“Who cares? You are here to write, Lucky.”

“And why are you here?”

“To give you a few words to live by, until you end up sitting where I am. Because things may be going good right now, but there are no guarantees. None. Don’t care if your editor at Random House thinks you’re the bee’s knees today. Come tomorrow, a few years down the road, they will ditch you for dollars. And when was the last time you tried hitting the bricks with a manuscript and a stack of manila envelopes? There are authorities, gatekeepers. Demons, Lucky, who get to choose what happens to you.”

“We’ve all done it. They’ve all done it. To quote the poet, roll the dice…”

“Do it, do it, do it. Please. I don’t care how much the Bukowskis and Paul Austers and Rick Moodys were made to suffer, they made it. And they can wax all they want, sing praises to a waning moon, but one look outside their window will say otherwise. This world is sick with failure, and we’re supposed to listen to the scant percentage who happened upon miracles, all dressed up as bootstraps. You think a single book, or even two or three makes for a levy against the floodwaters of the Mississippi? The second you get dumped on your ass for having guts, for writing what’s what, who’s going to be there? Who’s going to see that your words are heard over whatever the New York Review of Books claims is king?”

I didn’t even realize I had been writing the whole time. Felt that final word come pouring from the pen before clicking it shut. “Yeah, and I know someone at this table who got dumped, then went and did it on his own.”

“And I can barely make it to my own bed, because I’ve got stacks of books some four feet high, covering some twelve square feet of warped, wooden floors. The cost of vanity’s burning a hole in my pocket some several thousand dollars deep. Can’t you see, it’s not a goddamn game? It’s an actual risk, what you’re doing?”

“So the big guys dump me. I’ve still got my network.”

Something about this sent his scotch down a one-way street. He coughed, sputtered. I felt a few beads of spit land on my lid. He washed it down with more scotch.

I followed suit. Once gentle sips graduating to larger swallows. “I have friends,” I said.

“Friends?”

“I know people.”

“Any of them like you? Any of them give a serious shit about you?”

“Sure.”

“Sure? That’s what you got for me? That’s the sum total of your argument, Mr. Clarence Darrow? Sure?”

I felt a light buzz coming on.

“Well, you might as well go ahead and fuck the midnight sun, then.” He laughed. Colorless sounds, scraping against the reef. “If sure is the best you can do right now, just wait. Ten years down the line, they won’t give a good fuck about you.”

I searched for a counterpoint.

“Yeah, or they might,” Lincoln preempted. “But only in the abstract. Had any friends when you were seven?”

“Yes.”

“Hope they’re doing well?”

“Yes.”

“Feel inclined to make sure that’s the case? Drop a line? Lend a hand?”

“Yes. Whatever I can, if I knew it would help.”

“Just wait. Ten years from now, careers. marriage, kids. A whole new world, and then what?”

“I ain’t getting kids, having marriage –”

“No shit. You won’t, but they will. Or they’ll be chasing their own white rabbit. And as for those who follow their dreams, and get where they want to be, really? Think they’re going to lift a finger? You’ll be a footnote, Lucky. Afterthought. A pixilated blip on the world wide what. Another nobody on that My Place shit.”

“MySpace.”

“You had to be right about something,” he said. Finished his drink. Picked up my glass before I realized it was empty. Fought his way to the bar as though an actual crowd had formed around us. “No, you won’t have a career, Lucky. But you best oughta. Those sad examples may be trapped, maybe desperate, but at least they gave up…” He turned to the bar. “Two Blues, Brigid baby. Two baby blues to match those beautiful eyes.” He leaned against the bar, shadow of a stately lion, voice growing. Catching eyes. “They gave it up, and they’re trapped maybe, but they’re trapped by their fallback. And that ain’t a bad place to be. ‘Specially compared to you. Think about it. Thirty-five years old, still sitting at that same warped fold-out bridge table you call a desk. You’ll be lucky if you even have a frame for your futon at that point. Doing time in some no-name city. Same place you were in the bad old days. Only back then there was hope. You could laugh, still, because there was still a corner or two to turn before you ended up just plain done. Who’s going to want you then? Will you be able to point to a single person who isn’t bored out of their FUCKING mind by the very SIGHT of you, let alone whatever you’ve got left to WRITE about?”

“Lincoln…” Brigid served up the drinks. “You want to keep it down, dear? It’s early.”

His mouth smiled, kept his face out of the loop. “Of course.” Struggled with his pocket. Turned his shorts inside out, bankroll fluttering to the floor. He bent down, knocked over a stool as he sifted through his twenties. “That’s sixty, right?”

“Sixty, yes.”

Lincoln turned to the barflies, their grizzled faces mean with envy. “Know what? One, two, three, four… four more! Let’s murder some fucking memories!”

The regulars suddenly remembered their posture, put their hands together as Brigid set up the entire bar.

“Yeah, yeah…” Lincoln counted out two hundred or so dollars. “Fucking vultures. How about you, Brigid, baby? Buy a girl a drink?”

“I’ll meet you halfway and pour myself one on the house.”

“Then it’s an extra thirty for you, sweetheart.”

“Lincoln –”

He picked up our drinks, headed back my way. Called out over his shoulder: “Can’t take it with you, Brigid, baby! Nobody can!” He plopped himself down, handed me my drink. “Oh, Lucky, you will fuck so many things up. In wilder and worser ways than your little rodent brain ever thought possible.”

“I’ve fucked up plenty,” I said.

“You fucking idiot. Do you know what they call World War Two?”

“The good war.”

“They have to. Because you know what they called World War One?”

“What?”

“The war to end all wars. Been to Iraq lately? Afghanistan?”

I had a heft of top shelf.

“Oh, that’s going to be the worst part,” Lincoln said. “It’s already started happening, and you don’t know it. They’ll lie right to your face, to your very body. The men will lie about their loyalties, their interest in your almighty struggle. And the women will lie about whatever they can to keep you. They’ll lie about your brilliance, their hopes for your hopes. They’ll lie to you about the size of your cock.”

What was the pen doing back in my hand?

“Sizable,” Lincoln said. “There’s a word for you. Jot them letters down and save ‘em for a rainy day. They’ll say you’re sizable, and it won’t mean a goddamn thing. If you had a big cock, you’d know it. If you had a big cock, they’d know it, the whole world would be lining up to suck it.”

I glanced back at the bar. Saw Brigid taking baby sips of her scotch. Staring.

“Yeah, she’s an angel, so you’ll fuck things up with her, too. You don’t know it yet, but you’ll be sitting by yourself in a bar with no doorknobs, wondering why you haven’t heard from Fiona, or Kate, or Leah, or Misty –”

“Who the hell is Misty?”

“– any number of women who once thought you’d be somebody. Interstates connecting every last corner of your conquests as the sun sets, and they’ll be somewhere else. And if you’re really lucky, Lucky, with any luck, they might even bother to look up as a car breezes past, and take the time to bother to ask: Lucky who?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I am trying to prepare you.”

 I snapped my notebook shut. “I am prepared.”

“Incorrect, Lucky, that is just –” He made to slam his hand against the table, punctuate the point. Too tired, and he kept on without the visual aid. “That is just wrong. Fucking wrong.”

In place of a cigarette, I bit down on a straw.

“Most of us only have so much in us, Lucky,” he said, knee bobbing, making the entire table shake. “Energy is neither created or destroyed, but it is, by every day of the Christian calendar, depleted. By the minute. It’s coming out your every last pore, even as we sit. Speak. Roll over and play dead. You can rail against the dying of the day for what may seem like your whole life, but suddenly you look around, and it’s only been ten years. Or five years, or five measly little fucking seconds, see, you don’t know…”

He paused, trying to force the words out.

Reached into his pocket with automaton hands and freed a pack of Chesterfields. “You don’t know, Lucky. You don’t want to know. What it’s like.” He unsheathed a smoke, snug between his fingers. “You do not want to wake up one day and realize you’re done. That the aches, pains, fuck-ups, that all of it is just too much.” He pulled out his battered Zippo, and I was still two steps too shy from the law to realize what I was seeing. “You don’t want to know what it’s like to wake up and realize you’ve got no fight left in you…”

He lit up.

The smoke curled from his shredded lips. A winding Chinese dragon, magnificent grey reminding us all of what we had lost.

“You don’t want to end up on the dark end of the street, Lucky…”

“LINCOLN!”

Brigid was rounding the bar with fast, furious strides.

Lincoln came to. Brought the cigarette close to his face. Panicked, began looking around with wild eyes. Unable to find an ashtray. Pointing helplessly at the tabletop as Brigid stalked over. Snatched the Chesterfield from his hand and dropped it in his glass of Blue Label.

You could hear the cigarette smile as it died.

“Out!” Brigid lifted him by his arms, had Lincoln beat in size and strength. “I cannot afford to get fined or fired, now go the fuck home!”

I watched from my seat as Lincoln took a few steps towards the door. Stopped by the jukebox. Searched the bottles, walls and barstools in a daze.

“I don’t understand,” he said. Barely qualifying as a whisper. Stared down at his hands and sniffed. “I don’t understand what happened.”

He turned to walk away.

“Thanks for the drinks, Lincoln,” one of the regulars said.

Lincoln didn’t stop. Met the stairs with stiff steps and dissolved into afternoon.

Brigid sat down at the table. Glanced at the cigarette floating in Lincoln’s glass. “Shit. Wish I hadn’t done that.”

“It’s not his house, Brigid,” I said. “He’s just…”

We both inhaled the remains of his cigarette.

“No way,” I replied to silent questions. “He’s probably just on the ropes. For now…” I picked up my drink. Set it back down. “He’ll be back… I mean, he’s barely thirty-five, right?”

Brigid nodded. Reached out and took my hand. “Apple Martini?”

“Yeah… Yeah, sounds about right.”

“Why don’t you have a cigarette, and I’ll have your drink waiting when you get back?”

I gave her hand a squeeze.

***

Stepped out into the afternoon. Lit up and scanned Third Street with heavy lids. Trying to catch Lincoln’s scent. To my left, the door to the Beantown Comedy Club remained closed. Padlocked, awaiting the next entrepreneur to step in.

When Zelda walked past, we almost didn’t recognize each other.

“Lucky?”

“Zelda?”

Five years since our last encounter, and she hadn’t changed. Round face. Large eyes. Dark skin. Small mouth, abbreviated lips that bordered on violet dusk.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I’m ok.”

“You sure?”

I frowned. “Yeah, sure I’m sure. Want to come on in and have a drink?”

“Oh, what? No. No, thank you.”

“Well, it’s great to see you…”

She sent an uncomfortable hand up and down the strap of her bookbag.

I realized I was swaying slightly. Smoking a cigarette outside a bar at three-thirty in the afternoon.

I think she realized it too. “Well. Bye, Lucky. Good to see you, too.”

“Yeah, sure. Take care of yourself.”

With a charitable smile, she continued her way east.

I smiled, shook my head. “Guess I did fuck that one up pretty good, this time.”

Then I remembered there was an Apple Martini awaiting me inside.

Courtesy of Brigid.

And in a few more weeks, I’d fuck things up with her. Wouldn’t be long before Fiona joined those ranks. Followed by countless wrong turns, poorly placed bets and several misspent springs. Right on schedule, all the way to thirty-four and one-half years old, when I would be faced with the reality that Lincoln may have been right, and that there was a decision to be made.

# # #

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so long and thanks for all the pish.