I was an old man.
But I didn't feel like it. I felt young and alive and ready to take on any punk who needed a good thrashing.
But maybe that was just my memories being played over and over in my dreams until I woke up believing I was in them.
Until I realized my legs were stiff and I was alone in my bedroom, not surrounded by voices. I couldn't jump out of bed and be out on the streets before dawn anymore.
I still got up early, as all old people do, but it took a lot longer now, and I wasn't working to making a living on every penny I made.
My kids visit me often, but even when they weren't at my apartment, shouting and laughing and making a fuss over me not eating as much as I used to,
I am never alone.
I have all my buddies from my youth laughing and cheering and joking.
I have my wife, who died a few years ago, her beautiful smile still shining through the wrinkles on her face
and I still had the image of the day I asked her to marry me and to my surprise, she said yes.
I had my memories to fill my days.
Maybe I should have written them down, but no one would have been interested, and anyways I wasn't so good with words.
I still had a hat I faithfully put on every morning, of course not the same one, but still a grey cabbie hat. I walked to the bakery down the street for my morning coffee,
I would sit and talk to my neighbors about the weather, the latest Mets game or their grandkids.
I walk to the park and sit on the bench, sometimes, while looking at the city around me, I do not see it as it looks now, but as the Brooklyn of my childhood.
I think,
I used to own this place, I used to be the best.
I smile to myself.
My name's Spot Conlon and I used to be the King.