CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
2004- Take These Broken Wings
Jake dragged me to a generic Irish bar/restaurant located within sight of Penn Station. He elbowed past a couple who were heading out and snagged us a tall bar table right by the entrance.
The bar was packed with Long Island and New Jersey meatheads killing time before heading back to their version of prison- suburban hell. The sound system was blasting “Take These Broken Wings” by Mr. Mister. I hated myself for knowing that.
Jake leaned down and shouted in my ear, “Let’s do shots!” Then he started to move towards the bar.
I grabbed his suit jacket and shouted, “What train do you need to catch? You need to keep an eye on the time!”
He shrugged me off with a slightly unhinged sounding laugh and disappeared into the crowd.
And why did this motherfucker reappear ten minutes later carrying a tray with four pints of Guinness and four double shots of what appeared to be Bailey’s Irish Cream and whiskey???
He set the tray down with a flourish, like he was really doing something incredible.
“Irish car bombs, Jake?” I asked. “You’re bugging, homie!” I knew he could barely hear me, but I’m sure he caught the gist.
“I got two rounds, so we won’t have to battle it out back at the bar, at least for a few minutes!”
I tried to remind him that he had a train to catch[1], but once again, he waved me off.
Three rounds later and Jake was smashed. I hadn’t seen him this wasted since that time at our tenth-grade dance, when he’d projectile vomited directly onto Mimi Paisley’s decolletage.
“Okay, Jakey,” I tried to coax. “It’s 9:45pm- didn’t you say you had a train to catch, like 3 hours ago? You don’t wanna get in trouble with wifey boo, now do you?”
His response was an eloquent “Argggggh, fuck it!”
“Fuck it?” I asked.
“I’m already so late it doesn’t even matter. Fuck it! Let’s go somewhere else and get really fucked up!”
“I think we’re already fucked up,” I told him.
“Not yet!” he replied.
And then he looked deep into my eyes and asked, “Do you know where we could score some blow?”
Sadly, I did.
I knew exactly where we could score some blow- and score it safely.
[1] In 2003, the last train to Manhasset left Penn Station around 11:30pm. The next train to depart from Penn Station wouldn’t leave until 6:30am.
