You don’t get to be in my position unless one has spent a great portion of ones life being a night person. By that, I mean to say that I have held little interest in the goings on during the light of day. It was only when the sun had descended beyond the horizon that the urge to live truly arose within me.
It had been this way for pretty much as long as I could remember. And I could not attribute this to the mere fact that during my youth the action began only when school let out. No, there was much more to it than that.
I found truth to be a prisoner of the night. A man could be one person during normal waking hours, but his true personality revealed itself only in that period of time from dusk till dawn. And for reasons still unbeknown to me, perhaps an inborn God given trait, I have always been possessed by an intense aversion to falsehood.
All said till now is meant to be a prelude to the predicament I find myself in tonight. I am in my late thirties, married with three children. I am presently residing on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Making my living as a freelance writer, I do most of my work at night, catching what little sleep I do during daylight hours.
Times being what they are, I’m kind of forced to accept any form of assignments that come my way. Though having a predilection to fiction writing, a local newspaper asked me to interview Bobby Calaghan, a former Irish gang leader recently released from prison after serving three years of a five year sentence for aggravated assault.
Aggravated assault. What a frigging joke. I personally knew two guys that Bobby whacked some years ago. And I was never even close to their circle. But the newspaper wanted someone to interview him, which wasn’t an easy thing to do. The man was as tight lipped as they come. They figured since we were about the same age, and had grown up in the city during the same era, I stood about as good a chance as any of getting him to open up. But no one was really counting on it.
So I arrange a meeting with him at a local hangout in Hell’s Kitchen, Sloppy Joe’s. It was basically your typical neighborhood bar, and if you felt like it you could chow down some real greasy stuff they called food.
I decide to walk the whole way. Besides saving me a few bucks, it was smack in the middle of the evening rush hour, and I’d probably get there faster than if I took a taxi. There’s something very real about walking these streets at this time of day. Sidewalks jammed with all types of people coming home from work. Angry, happy, fearful, apprehensive, and Mother’s and Father’s rushing home to be with their families.
Anyway, I finally enter the bar at twilight. The place is pretty packed, and Bobby is holding court at one of the tables. Shawn, who arranged the meet, spots me out and waves me over to grab a seat. He hands me a Bud, and looks squarely at Bobby.
“You remember Hal?”
“Can’t say that I do”.
“Bobby, don’t make me look bad. Hal, from the Lower East Side. You agreed to let him interview you”.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. You and Shawn used to have the hots for that same chick. Sharon, Sandy, no, what the hell was her name?
“Sally, Bobby. Her name was Sally”, Shawn says.
“That’s right, Sally. Damn, I knew it began with an S. You got something to drink, Hal?”
Hal holds up the beer that Shawn had just given him.
“Great, great. Listen Hal, I know you think you ain’t gonna get much out of me. But you’re wrong. I’m a changed man. Did a lot of thinking in that hell hole. And I’m in a talking mood. Whaddya say just me and you go around the corner to a real restaurant, and I’ll answer any question you put to me. Sound good to you?”
So we get up, and Bobby puts his arm around me like we were the best of buddies and escorts me out of the joint. I’m walking down the street with one of the most notorious cold blooded killers this city has ever known. In the old days, he’d waste you just for looking at him the wrong way.
“So you say you’ve changed, Bobby? How’s That?”, I ask while we’re strolling down the street.
Now we turn the corner, and it’s pitch black. The street lamps are broken and clouds are for the most part hiding the light of the moon.
Bobby stops and turns towards me, staring me hard in the eyes.
“I found God, Hal, God. You know, I never really had a clear thought in my life till I was put away. And they knew enough to let me just be there. No one messed with me.”
I thought he was just given me a line.
“I know you think I’m full of shit, Hal”.
Then he does one of the damndest things. He sticks out his head, like a chicken, and says “cold-cock me, Hal. I’m not shitting you. Give it all you gotw”.
Now I’m thinking he’s totally lost his marbles, or, and it was a big or, he wants to prove something to me with one dramatic action, dispensing with all the small, philosophic bullshit in one dramatic moment.
Now, I was the crazy one. Because I thought, what the hell. Either he’s on the level, in which case I got myself one hell of a story, or he’s playing games, in which case I’m probably a dead man anyway.
I had done a little sparring in my day, and I knew how to throw a punch. Well. I gave it all I had. The punch, all my 210 pounds behind it struck him squarely on the left side of his face. He fell to the ground, a little blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. I stood over him quietly for a little while. Then, he reaches out his hand for me to pull him up. Once standing, he starts laughing hard, real hard.
“You know you would be dead by now if you had done that before I was sent away to the joint?’
“I know that, Bobby. I damn sure know that real well”.
“So when I tell you that I’ve seen the light, a guy like you has got to know where I’m coming from.”
In the dark of the night, I knew exactly where Bobby was at. He was, indeed, a changed man. The remainder of the night, he kind of just filled me in on the details.
