Angel’s Share, East Village. 2:47 am, November 13th, 2015

In the after-hours of a typical Thursday night, and to the displeasure of the one-women closing staff, two parties seem interested in staying past closing time. The first, an early-30s couple who had been camped at the high top near the window since the after dinner rush cleared, were still heavily flirting, heavily drinking, and telling stories that ended with a sharp laughter — surely only because of the flirting and the drinking — with the same punch line of, “Only in New York!”

They had been informally cut off some hours ago.

The second party, a single man at the first seat at the bar who had originally deferred from ordering before his date arrived, had been locked to his stool for the better part of six hours. As the date had never arrived (and his cell phone battery had died long ago from checking his texts), he now seemed more likely to stay at the bar until it was dry, regardless of the hour.

The barkeep had set a bottle of Jameson on the counter for the solo patron an hour ago before taking off for the night. If the couple by the window requested anymore drinks, “Fuck ’em. They can have beer. I should have fucking thrown them out when they ordered White Russians,” he complained to Lin Sue, the young vulnerable waitress he left behind.

She didn’t mind though, she joked later to herself, it’s not like the bartender could work his shift and grow that ridiculous fucking beard at the same time. This made her smile — though only she could seem to make herself smile anymore. Not since —

[Door Flies Open]
Right on cue, in walked the local football coach. Talk had been that his game was moved from Sunday to Thursday this week and she had hoped this change would have sent him to an Applebees or a strip club for his post-game….daze. Unfortunately, days of the week meant nothing to Coach Todd Bowles.

As he did every week, Bowles walked to the corner booth — his booth, as he had before established (more than once by means of violence) — and eased himself into his seat. With every visit, his body seemed to age five years. Still, he always had the energy to raise his right hand out of the shadow and flick down to his table in the darkness, signaling another martini. It was also an informal warning to clear the bar, the staff had learned, because this was one patron who did not share space.

He dug in his pocket for a couple folded up sheets of paper that consumed his attention before he could gesture that he wanted his drink — and his privacy — immediately.  Fortunately, the couple was ready to settle up their tab and the solo man was easily convinced that the best course of action was to head home and charge his phone in case the date was still interested. They were rushed out the door in less than three minutes and, after the door closed for good, there was complete silence. Even the sounds of Lin Sue removing the pictures from the walls behind the bar —  old menus, skyline drawings, and snapshots of historic events in the building’s history — just in case the coach became destructive, were inaudible.

The silence was broken as the words read from the paper were projected in a low mumble from the darkness of the corner booth:

 “Dear Todd, I have followed with enthusiasm the course of your recent Jets quarterback controversy. My own never bothered me, except for the inconvenience of being publicly disgraced and shamed. But you may lack perspective…”

A tap on the shoulder startled Lin Sue and broke her hypnotic stare on the booth. “Oh hello, Coach.”

“Hello Lin Sue. It’s been a long time. Please tell me you remember my usual.”

“Of course. Let me go dig up the sours.”

Rex Ryan picked at the embroidered Jets logo on his sweater vest as he watched her exit to the storage closet. When she was out of sight, he appeared before Todd Bowles, who was now flipping to the second page of the letter that had come from his pocket.

“Know why we called Geno Smith ‘blunderbuss’?” Rex broke Bowles’ trance but did not startle him. “Because, shooting one of those babies, it’s impossible to hit anything further than 15 yards and impossible to miss anything closer. It’s a gun for fuck-up turkeys.” Rex rubbed his rotund belly with pride and pleasure. “But I guess now you should call him…whatever you call a gun that can’t hit anything at any distance and doesn’t pay it’s debts.”

His laugher boomed from his gut and engulfed Bowles as it reverberated from the brick walls on all sides.

“Tonight was something else, Todd. And I’ll tell ya, I’m proud of you. That was some ballsy playing calling all around. Not ashamed to say you kept me on my toes.” He bounced on the front of his toes twice, as if that were a prompt. “Being the caretaker for the New York Jets is something I’ll never forget. And, sure, the AFC championship were fine but I most miss the people. The events. Man, the Independence Day parties this place had.” He looked around, soaking in the scenery.

“Baphomet.” Todd snarled, exposing his teeth but never moving from his seat.

The laugher was instantly restricted. “I know coaching this team is tough. The players are, to put it politely, subpar. The fans, horrible. The media — unimaginable. Even the stadium — sure it’s nice and new but you have to share it with another NFL team.”

“What are you doing here?” Bowels’ upper lip stayed rolled back, exposing his bright sharp whites.

Rex ignored this as either inquiry or threat and continued. “But the parties. Oh man, this place could throw a party. I remember there used to be a funny little man here who used to just hang around me at parties. Kind of a Groucho mustache. Had the glasses. Hair was more civilized. Don’t remember his name but recall he always wore a white bow tie, which I found odd considering the fashion in New York has always been –”

The cocking of a hammer broke his concentration. It came from under table where only one of Bowles’ hands were visible.

“What are you doing here?” Even repeated slightly slower, Rex took no more consideration to the words. He simply performed an about-face and walked behind the bar. This time, Bowles followed and took the stool previously inhabited by the stood-up drunk. He stared hard at Rex’s face. Rex paid no attention, instead shifting his consideration to fingering through the stack of framed pictures that now sat on the bar top.

“He’s right here. I think you’ll like him.” Rex pointed down at a black and white print about halfway deep in the pile. It sat in a walnut frame with engraved vines around the edges. Bowles’ eyes did not shift from their lock on Rex’s. Rex looked over to the corner booth. “Oh, did you finally get around to reading the letter I gave you tonight at the pre-game handshake?”

No response as Bowles’ revolver peeked at Rex from behind the bar, his eyes still starring daggers at Rex.

“Look, I know this all seems a bit convoluted now, Todd.” Rex set aide the picture, reached behind the bar, and set two lowball glasses on the bar top between them. Next to them, a bottle of Lagavulin Single Malt. He turned the label to Bowles and grinned, “16 year. Aged just right for Nacho, eh?”

As Rex held in his chuckle, Bowles grabbed the bottle by the neck and slammed it on the counter. Whisky and glass exploded on both men. Rex pulled back holding his exposed forearm. Bowles’ expression never changed and his eyes moved only to follow Rex.

“Goddamnit! Look at what you did to us!” He kicked the counter and the tower of frames tilted over and spread across the wet mess. He peeled away his hand to expose the gash up the outside of his left forearm that a shard of glass had caused. The blood poured from the jagged incision and onto his wrist. He wrapped it with a fresh bar towel and looked up at Bowles, who remained unmoved by the situation. “You need to smile more.”

Rex looked over Bowles’ shoulder and nodded. The sincerity of his expression was so convincing that Bowles dropped his gaze from Rex’s face and looked over his shoulder to the entrance door. There was no one there. When he turned back, Rex was gone. He finally noticed that whiskey was still running from the counter onto his lap. He grabbed a fresh towel and wiped across the bar to clear the shards of glass and divert the stream of booze. It was then that he noticed the jagged scar running down his left forearm.

Then the music.

Then the people.

Then his tuxedo.

In the chaos of the revelers in the now-packed speakeasy, a little man with a Groucho mustache pushed through the crowd to Bowles.

“Special delivery from Buffalo.” He handed a butcher paper wrapped article to Bowles and scurried back into the sea of celebrators.

Bowles ripped back the paper to expose a black and white print in a walnut frame. He stared at the picture, running his fingers over the engraved vines on the frame. It was a photo of a thin Rex Ryan in a Buffalo Bills sweater vest, holding a martini in one hand and a box of Sour Patch Kids in the other. Looking up at him with admiration was the pretty waitress from the bar whose name he never learned. They both wore smiles and the photo caption read, Friday the 13th, 2015.

A voice calling from a ladder in the front of the room caught Bowles’ attention.

“Gather up now, all! It’s time for the picture! And make way here in the front for our man of honor! Someone bring to the front the man responsible for fixing our beloved Jets!”

Coach Todd Bowles made his way through the crowd and took his position front and center. The man with the mustache was right behind him.

The man on the ladder held up his flashbulb. “Alright everyone! Freedom on three! Now, 1…2…3!”

“FREEDOM!!!!”