It always rains.

Call it a midlife crisis. Call it getting into drugs late in life. Hey maybe it was just time to admit that, as far he had come alone, there was something in life to be said for the love of a good woman, or lack thereof. Frankly, it didn’t matter; a point on a plane is defined by its coordinates, not its path within a range. 24 hour sports talk radio would have many in this high-paced city believing otherwise but, as an individual who unabashedly will point to himself as The Man in the Arena, he walked with the confidence of a man who knows — truly KNOWS and makes every life decision with this confidence as a guiding principle — that there is no effort without error–

and without shortcoming.

Angel’s Share, East Village. 2:47 am, September 11th, 2023

Riding alone in the elevator to meet — well, not meet — extract his head coach and general manager, Aaron Rodgers watched the dial smoothly roll its count of the floors as the lift glided quietly along hardened iron tracks. In near silence, the mechanics stopped, the lift secured in place, and the doors opened. An overpowering draw flowed into the elevator and surrounded Aaron. He acknowledged the presence of the energy, flicked a stray raindrop off the hem of his denim jacket, and casually rolled into the hallway, buoying in the current of the energy that brought him towards the entrance doors.

He did not belong here. He knew he did not belong here. But he knew what had to be done. He was in this city to fix the New York Jets. But the men he’d been given to manage the enterprise — “I’m sorry,” Aaron had entrusted to his therapist when explaining his bid for this effort, “but I’ve got notable Alex Jones doppelganger, Joe Douglas, and Stupid Robert Saleh. They can’t handle this city. I’ve got to fix them before anything else.” They’d been inviting — nay, insisting — that he “come work with us har har har” at this place since he’d agreed to sign on. He hadn’t until tonight.

The hostess, of whose beauty, sexiness, and raw attractiveness Aaron had heard Jets brass rave about as the main part of their overly-excited late-night cocktail invitation, was taller than expected but otherwise moved the needle not as he waited for her to finish her warm welcome and subtle bid to establish familiarity. Seasoned himself, he presented charmed and humble — a lowly enlisted man who had been invited to this sort of historic New York Jets Officer’s Club and was in her hands to show him to his party safely in these confines. And, responding to her furtherance as she led him with a bounce and a float — which he effectively mimicked without misstep — between the tables, chairs, and booths towards a full semi-circle booth that offered both a view and relative privacy from the packed but tame crowd, that a plum whiskey highball was an enticing drink order suggestion that he appreciated.

Seated already were the two men in need of fixing. The darker one broke off his telling a story with some exasperation when he saw her smile approaching the table. “Lin Sue! Another round! This is number eight! I call it a — ” The chubby man had turned around at the call of his lust’s name but finished the sentence with the first pair of piercing eyes that caught his own. “Aaron!”

Like an airplane hitting a single pocket of turbulence, the room felt an end-to-end lift to go up, then back down, and then as if nothing had happened the longer time went on after Joe Douglas presented himself as the welcomer of this outsider. They engaged him to sit. He declined. They insisted he let them order over shots. He declined. They pointed about all the different artifacts on the walls and all the New York Jets greats who had sat here or there or, in the case of Adam Gase, had his own stool at the bar. He offered baren acknowledgement.

Then Robert Saleh smiled and ran his hand over the tufts of booth, remarking on the fine condition of the leather. Joe called attention to the premium view on a gorgeous rainy night in the center of the world. Lin Sue arrived and before the two drunks could finish stumbling over their latest celebration of her return, a new drink replaced their empty highball glasses.  Three martinis, identical to the rotation of the olives on the pick and the location of where it settled on each patrons glass — 4 o’clock.

The room went up.

Here were the results of a previously-calculated risk. Aaron was no Reiki Master himself but it always seemed to him, he’d explain to his therapist, that a night with more psychokinetic energy activity going on would provide him cover to infiltrate and, one hopes, communicate with the men long enough to get them out. Hence his decision to aim for cover in the chaos of 9/11 in New York City.

It seems he’d been correct about the former as only the chaos of the evening prevented any of the guests or servicemembers to unsolicited identify him. However, standing here now in a tangle with the scent of gin, he was sure that the sheer volume of patrons in the establishment would not be advantageous to his need to communicate and influence two men who, he admitted, were far more inebriated than he had expected. He could feel the eyes of the guests were passively on him.

His two partners began sliding their hands towards the martinis. The walnut table beneath their fingers showed wear along the same tracks. Without the southern moonlight illuminating the table surface, a guest — an outsider — would never otherwise see the two pairs of pentaparallel tracks that had been formed by hundreds, maybe thousands,

(millions?)

of similar reaches by men in similar states of mind who thought they were galvanizing their successes with a drink that was, in actuality, shearing them off from their personal worlds of merit that had delivered them here.

Each word he spoke made a public notification that one character present was a vibration off the acceptable communal frequency. And, though surely he knew it wouldn’t work (and maybe this was part of that good woman thing), Aaron approached the manner with simplicity and logic.

“What New York Jets lineage do you see here that you care to be a part of?”

Their hands picked up the glasses and awaited only Aaron to join before they would cheers their unavoidable future successes, poureth over their drink to each others glasses, and together chant.

The room went way down.

Drunk and impatient, Joe and Robert looked to Aaron. They’d invited a lowly player to their insiders club and these were the buzzkill manners he was presenting? This did not concern Aaron.

Sober and intent, every single other patron in Angel’s Share stared at Aaron Rodgers. This did concern Aaron.

He breathed in 4-7-8. The weight of the attention evaporated. And they could not hurt him if he did not drink. But, the challenge now presented, was that he could not extract Joe and Robert without first committing himself further.

Committing himself to the Jets.

Committing himself to the history.

Committing himself to those who came before, regardless of their story.

Committing himself to those who will come after, regardless of their journey.

He looked out the window and saw a rain-obscured pattern of lights that grew his heart three sizes. And in this view he saw clarity of how to fix the New York Jets. It would not be by fighting the powers that pull at this organization. It would not be overperforming to make up for a failing GM. It would not be criticizing the decisions of a head coach with a plan who, like himself tonight, finds himself far behind his game script but with no choice but to look for the next best path forward.

He slid himself into the last position of the booth at the vertex of the eastern edge of the moonlights blade and the nailhead trim along the cushion. Unaware, but also with disinterest, of any wear to the table station before him, his denim sleeve mimicked the motion he had made so many times in preparation for this…task. With each draw to the Tea, he now saw that the experience was preparation for tonight. He swept the third glass up until all in the party heard the impact it made kissing the rims with the other two glasses. The clink was followed with the sounds of a room full of tables copying the tradition with their own tablemates.

A fresh sheet of rain obscured the window presenting Joe Douglas’ favorite city view.

“Cheers.” Saleh brought the glass to his lips.

“Salut!” Douglas threw back his entire glass.

No words from Aaron Rodgers. Give me the rock, he thought as the first sip flowed smoothly down to his throat.

The three men returned their glasses to the table, each pick settling back at 4 o’clock along its rim. It was done. We would save the beloved New York Jets.

Maybe a moment passed. Maybe no time at all. Before Aaron Rodgers learned what it meant to be all in on the Jets…

“HOW THE FUCK YOU DOIN’ BOYS?!”

{fin}