"'Notha round fer Dave!"
Jack Kelly smacked the coin down onto the filthy, sodden bar counter beneath his palm. The Edward Street Bar was crawling with men ranging from age sixteen to sixty drinking themselves into higher spirits. The crowded room reeked of smoke, sweat, and gin. It was a Friday night, their busiest night of the week. Citizens of this area of Lower Manhattan often stopped in for the evening after receiving their paychecks for the week.
Tonight being no exception, eighteen-year-old David Jacobs smiled almost sheepishly as Skittery Rockwell filled up five shot glasses of amber liquid before him from behind the bar. The boys that hovered around him—Racetrack Higgins, Jack Kelly, and Spot Conlon—helped themselves to a tiny glass.
"So I wanna just make a toast real quick…" stated Jack with a bit of a slur, his drink clutched in his raised hand.
"Always, makin' a speech, eh Jack?" joked Racetrack as the other boys chortled briefly. "C'mon, there ain't no girls around, just down that shit already!"
The glasses sat anxiously waiting to be devoured in each of the boys' hands as the charismatic Jack Kelly chuckled to himself in thought. It was true—Jack always made speeches. David's slowly glazing, blue eyes shifted from Jack to his drink; this was his third shot, and he wasn't a big drinker in the first place, so he wondered how long Jack was going to wait before he could get it over with.
"Screw it," said Jack finally. "Dave, we're gonna miss ya, pal!"
In unison, the five young men threw back their heads and let the strong liquid burn down their throats. Jack set his empty glass onto the sawdust-covered bar surface and hopped back onto his barstool to face David.
"So why ya gotta be goin' off to school anyway? In Pennsylvania, no less! We ain't gonna see ya too much."
"Yeah, what's up with that?" Spot took a seat on the wooden barstool on the opposite side of David. "Can'tcha just learn shit in 'Hattan?"
"Well…" started David slowly, "it's not really school…I mean it is, but it's not like I'll be in a classroom er anything. I'm just goin' to leave with my aunt and uncle there—he's a professor and he'll be home schooling me until I find a career."
"Ha! Listen to this kid!" Racetrack spun his three-inch glass around in his palm as he leaned his elbows and back onto the edge of the counter. "Don't need no schoolin' to make a little money, Davey. Look at me, I got my own place now and extra money to burn, all 'cause 'a my job."
Racetrack Higgins was born to gamble. It's how he lived life—on odds. So one day after selling the evening edition of the New York World, Racetrack waltzed right into O'Reilly's Social Club of Manhattan, placed all his money on a heated round of Texas hold 'em, and ended up with pockets of cash. The owner of the club, Shane O'Reilly, was so impressed by the nineteen-year-old's skill, that Racetrack landed a job as a bookie. Not just as any bet collector, mind you; O'Reilly's was infamous for its nightly attendance of men of all backgrounds to gamble away their large or small paychecks, watch the greatest prizefights of the city, and catch a little action from one, or more, O'Reilly's dancing girls. Racetrack had walked in on a chance, measured the odds, and cashed out as a winner.
"I mean, I see guys gettin' their heads bashed in everyday in the best fights I'se seen since…I don't even know when! Men from everywhere flock to the club, and I even seen a few famous ones too." The dark-eyed Italian nodded his head in satisfaction. "Fights, booze, money, girls…still wanna be goin' off to school, Dave?"
David laughed under his breath. "Well, it's a little too late to go back now. I'm already packed and everything's set up over in Pennsylvania. Anyway, it's not really my decision anyway. My parents decided this almost a year ago."
"Davey, Davey, Davey," Spot placed his arm around the intellectual's shoulder. "Ya gotta stop worryin' 'bout what ev'ryone else wants outta ya. I mean, Gabby wanted me to stay home tonight, but did I? Nah. She can take care 'a Noah fer just this night, right?"
It seemed as though the former, most respected newsie in all of New York had forgotten to leave one thing in Brooklyn—his "man's man" quality, the trait that allowed such infamous behavior. In his mind, it was perfectly all right for the keeper of the household to go out and have a drink a few nights of the week after work, with the wife at home with the baby. It was her place, wasn't it? Gabby was a wonderful mother, too, a better parent than Spot would ever be. She knew what Noah wanted, what he needed, and when to give whatever it was to him. So, Spot played off of that concept. He was in the prime of his youth! It was natural for him to satisfy the urge for a boy's night out, even if it did occur up to five times a week.
"Ya gotta seize the day, Jacobs. 'Arise an' seize the day.' Ya're eighteen and you ain't gonna look that way fer much longer! Don't go wastin' a couple 'a years bent over a desk with yer face in a book." Spot delivered a playful smack to the back of David's head. "Ya got pretty much the best guys in 'Hattan, if ya ask me…I know I wouldn't wanna leave."
Jack, Racetrack, and Skittery nodded in agreement with Spot's words of wisdom. Skittery, who was employed as a bartender at the Edward Street Bar, scooped up all of their shot glasses. He set them up side by side and, with great skill, poured more liquor into each of the row by a quick glide overtop of them.
"Italian an' Irish've got some good points there, David," said Skittery before knocking back his shot with a brief wince. "I coulda gone to school if I wanted, but I'd be missin' too much. Ya gotta live, Davey! And ya know…Ed's always lookin' fer more bartenders here." He raised his eyebrows and smiled as if trying to sell him a job enticingly.
The Walking Mouth smacked his lips together, tasting the aftertaste of whatever it was he had been drinking. He forced a chuckle and sighed. "I'm not sure what you guys are really askin' me to do here," he laughed. "I can't stay, it's already decided."
With a minor slouch of defeat, the rest of the boys nodded slightly and turned around.
"Just come back an' visit as often as ya can, a'right?" directed Jack with his ever magnetic smile.
"Yeah, then we'll live it up as we should be!" added Spot. He clasped a cold mug of beer that Skittery had just served and took a gulp.
The remainder of the evening was spent at the same places of the bar, reminiscing about past times and drinking their way into lighter moods. Skittery continuously served up the drinks, refusing service to most other customers (much to the dislike of his boss), hoping that with enough alcohol, they would change David's mind.
Ever since Spot's move from Brooklyn a year before, the five of them had routinely spent nights out "on the town," David had once called it. Usually they consisted of barhopping and going out to the Brooklyn Bridge to try an walk off their drinks; Spot even had the idea that urinating into the Hudson River would drain you of all alcohol consumed that night, and you were completely free and sober to go home. It was an early, tragic idea.
Although the entire five had only gone out once or twice weekly, there would always be at least someone at the Edward Street Bar waiting to share a drink and conversation. For the most part, it was Jack and David unable to attend most outings, as David had piles of schoolwork, and Jack sometimes had commitments to Sarah Jacobs, his love of two years and sister of the former.
"Well boys…it's benfun," slurred Jack at two o'clock in the morning. "Dave, I'll misszyou, man….I'll misszou." He smacked his hand on the back of David's shoulder a couple of times before simply letting it rest there, with his other hand holding up his head on the bar.
"Y'too…Jack…you too…" replied David. "But yer taking m'home…we don't gotta say bye juss yet."
They stumbled their way out of the bar and into the streets. Racetrack, always able to hold his liquor quite well, grabbed a hold of the back of David's collar and propped him up to walk down the four blocks to the Jacobs' apartment. They got to the end corner when Spot stopped in his tracks and placed his hands on either of his hips.
"What a beautiful night…" he pondered as he looked up at the star-filled sky above him. The black, cloudless night served as a canvas to display thousands of twinkling dots shining in his glazed over, shockingly blue eyes. He suddenly wanted to see Gabby really badly.
Skittery stepped next to him, and soon the other three were planted at the quieted corner half a block from the bar, with their heavy, spinning heads tilted upwards at the sky. Hushed murmurs of its beauty circled around them and their mouths fell agape for nearly a minute. It's amazing, Spot thought, how beautiful some things can be…once you really, really look at them…
What regularly took them ten minutes to reach the Jacobs home, took the boys thirty-five. They said farewell to David as he made his way up the five, rigorous flights of stairs, both himself and Jack hanging onto each other for support. The rest walked in silence the rest of their way home. They dropped off Skittery around the corner, and Racetrack a block and a half after that.
What neared a half hour later, Spot staggered up the two flights of his apartment building with an aching pain in his legs the whole way—the only downside to boys night. Before placing his feet onto the final step, he took a breather and tried to pull himself together before getting to apartment 6B, his home, where Gabby would be waiting for him.
A door down the lengthy corridor stretching before him creaked open slowly. Spot's curious eyes darted towards it, successfully able to make out clearly the distant shape of Mrs. Walton. She stood at her doorway in a hideous flower-patterned nightgown, fuzzy gray shawl around her shoulders, and short silver hair under an even uglier nightcap. Her bare foot tapped against the floorboards irritatingly, and her arms folded over defiantly her chest. Upon her face was an expression of utmost disgust as she eyed Spot down the hall.
"A word of advice," began Mrs. Walton in her usual annoyed tone, "the Lord does not favor those who are overly fond of the drink, Mr. Conlon. As much as I frown upon your relationship, I can't help but feel extremely sorry for Gabrielle."
It took Spot a few moments to register what she was saying to him. He blinked slowly once realizing that she was insulting him and the way he lived his life. Unfortunately, he was both exhausted and drunk, and unable to dig up any comeback stored in his brain. Finally, without any care in the world, he simply stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. Mrs. Walton, more offended by any reply given to her in the past, scoffed and quickly slammed the door.
Once safe inside 6B, Spot kicked off his shoes in random places, threw his shirt somewhere to the ground behind him, and walked into his bedroom. To his left, Noah slept soundly in his crib. In front of him, Gabby slept on the right side of the bed, her usual side, with a kerosene lamp glowing lightly on the nightstand. Spot stumbled over to the foot of the bed and let himself fall face-down onto his pillow. Gabby stirred beside him and turned her head.
"Hi," whispered Spot in a boyish voice, facing her now.
"Hi." Gabby's tone was quick and irritated, and she rolled back over once she saw that Spot was in bed.
"I misstyou." Spot scooted over and planted two loving kisses on Gabby's cheek.
Gabby let out a simple "mhm," and went back to sleep. Spot sighed again, turned down the light, and situated himself underneath the covers to go to sleep as well. Though he was too drunk to walk a straight line or have normal speech patterns, Spot could have sworn he heard a couple of sniffles from Gabby's side of the bed. And he knew for a fact that she was not sick.