Southpaw love in the Big Apple.

A guy like me doesn't wander
Manhattan alone by himself often;
if he does, it's probably got something
to do with a woman or what she's driven
him to, in this case Puerto Rican Rum--
the same kind slugged by one of the two
grandfathers I never met, ironically not
the Hispanic one.

It was well before midnight, for the record.
Thankfully the liquor stores were still open--
one advantage of staying in such a dump of a city.

"You want anything while I'm out?" I slurred.
She shook her head from the bathroom floor.

That one step in her building tripped me up a bit.
It wouldn't've been so bad if I'd stumbled down
the stairs, the outcome being the same
for all intents and purposes.
My strategic boxer choice for the evening
no longer mattered.

The street didn't smell as strongly of
spoiled ethnic food and urine
in that sangria state. My non-descript black T
preserved my anonymity. I was glad
I'd foregone my typical thift store shirt.
The ones who could read might've figured out
that I was a tourist if I'd made that mistake.
I'd wanted to look presentable in case we went out.
That wasn't happening anymore, not at the rate
things were going. All I wanted was another cocktail
and some peace and quiet. Maybe another
beautifully out-of-key song to lull me to sleep.

Hell's Kitchen. What a perfect waste of a name.

A well-kept homeless man was haggling with
the Muslim shop owner as I staggered in to the narrow
closet of a liquor store.

"Come on, buddy. I'm a regular here. All I have is
three bucks. Give it to me, I'll bring you the last dollar tomorrow."

The flask of rotgut was already in the paper bag that'd
eventually become its curbside coffin. We all knew
it was only a matter of time.

"Alright, but you better pay me tomorrow," said the
slightly less brown man behind the counter
in his cliche sing-song Middle Eastern accent.
It was no stretch to say that in some point in time
soldiers wearing our nation's flag on their shoulders
had fired something at this man's countrymen;
now he was playing God with an alcoholic, the
American Dream gone awry. Tables turn quickly
when the battlefield comes home.
Still, it was good to see he had a heart.

"Thanks, brother. I swear I'll be back." He left
the store clutching the paper bag like a long-lost friend
that'd probably kill him in the end.

"Bottle of Bacardi, please," I said when the clerk
had closed the register.

He reached for the bigger one
but I knew the night wouldn't last quite that long.

"No, the smaller one."

I handed him a twenty. He slipped the bottle
into a black plastic bag and slid my change
across the counter towards me.
I scooped up the coins and pushed the dollar bill
back in his direction.

"Take his dollar. He's good now, alright?"

A smirk fought its way to the surface of his skin.
Three beads of sweat rolled down his neck
to his soaked collar. If the clock on the wall
wasn't digital I probably would've heard it tick.

"OK, my friend," he laughed, both of us knowing
he'd still hit that sorry bastard up for his loan
the next day. "You have a good night."

The pavement felt softer on the walk back to her place.
Part of me was shocked when she buzzed me in
to let me back upstairs.

"You alright, Babe?"

"Yeah. Almost. Yeah."

The ice had already melted in the glass
by the time I downed her cocktail an hour later.
Only one of us was good at nursing.
I didn't mind, it saved me a trip to the kitchen.

We fell asleep once the skeletons stopped rattling.

Somehow the city
became big enough
for the two of us again.