Angel’s Share, East Village. 2:47 am, May 22nd, 2019

Door handles. Door handles jiggle when they are locked. Why do door handles jiggle when they are locked but turn smoothly otherwise? This thing isn’t even supposed to be locked.

These are the thoughts of a typically straight-laced professional on the tail end of a weeklong bender while he is trying to get into his apartment door. However — and possibly due to the aforementioned bender — this was neither his apartment nor was this door locked. A simple wipe of the hand on his now-filthy slacks provided enough grip that the next attempt turned the knob over and, with the weight of his exhausted body pressing against the door, the hinged whipped open.

His body crashed to the floor.

Was this rock bottom?

“Welcome back, sir.” Through some combination of his alcohol poisoning, the dim venue lighting, and the head trauma from the wood floor, he could not see the small-framed individual who helped him up and was assisting him to the corner booth. But his sense of smell, impaired as it was, picked up the familiarity of a scent that could never leave his memory. “Let me bring you a fresh plumb whiskey highball.” His remembrance of her voice confirmed the suspicions of his nose.

“Thank you, Lin Sue.”

He rubbed his temples, embracing the temporary relief of the small verberations provided by his dull groan. Life was hard and, he knew, it was time to face it. One could only drink so long after being unexpectedly let go from a job he’d held for four years, including through a recent draft and multimillion dollar signing period. But how would he get up? How would he recover from…this?

He felt a hand on his shoulder as a body slid to the seat next to him.

Todd Bowles: Mi-eeeee-ke! Mike Mike Mike Mike! Do you know what daaaaaaaaaaaayy it is!?

Mike Maccagnan: Good lord. I don’t Todd. I really honestly do not.

Bowles: Mike, my friend, today is your independence day.

Maccagnan: Independent of what? I’m a disgraced, unemployed, embarrassed, ashamed pariah. And I think I pissed myself.

Bowles: If you’re lucky, that’s all you’ve done. Don’t smell like it to me though.

Maccagnan: Look Todd, I had to let you go. You were 14 and 34 over your final three years. And you know I protected you so you weren’t a mid-season firing, Todd. You know that, right? You know how it is.

Bowels: Mike, I’m not here to kick you while you’re down. I mean, sure, Devin Smith and Christian Hackenberg — I’ll admit that those hurt. But you know that and it wasn’t malicious. You didn’t draft Bryce Petty with the expectation he’d be anything other than a project. Such is life, friend, and I am here today to help you take the step to that better life.

Maccagnan: Todd, this is end for me. I’m done. I’m stuck here.

Bowels: Mike, believe me when I say these words — you do not know the meaning of being stuck here. You have been blessed a thousand times over. The time I spent in this hole. The effort it took to break free. I’d a take a defensive coordinator position under Bruce Arians every single time when put up against the prison that is the Jets head coaching job. If you knew of life within these walls, you’d throw a parade to hear the Rough Riders wanted you back as director of scouting!

The waitress returned to the table placing the promised highball before Maccagnan. He slowly lowered his head to the rim and delicately sipped the fine amalgamation while she slid a sweating cocktail glass on the table where Bowles was seated. She gave him a sideways wink that was not returned.

Bowles: No thank you, darling. Martians are for prisoners. Leave it though, I’m sure a stiff drink will be appreciated by Mike’s subject.

Feeling the drink slide down his throat and warm his stomach, Maccagnan finally had the focus to hold his head up to notice his surrounding.

Then the music.

Then the revelers.

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

Bowels handed a butcher paper wrapped article to the man and pointed back to the bar area. The man vanished back into the sea of celebrators. Bowles stood up and assisted his still-dazed former boss from his seat. Ignoring his shock, Bowles escorted him to a ladder at the front of the room. He handed Mike a camera, leaned forward, and spoke softly in his ear. With an about face and four steps into the crowd, Maccagnan would never see him again.

Looking at the camera — a hulking box that hung from his neck with a flashbulb like a headlight — he helped himself up the first rung of the ladder. After a breath, he climbed to the second. When he reached the top, he looked down at the sea of partygoers and called for their 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!”

A pattern in the crowd indicated that someone was snaking his way through the crowd. When he took his position front and center, the man with the mustache slid a butcher paper wrapped package out from under his arm and held it behind his back as he struck his pose. The man looked confused. The view gave Maccagnan a sense of warmth in his stomach — one that reached deep down to his soul.

Atop the ladder, invigorated as he had ever felt in his life, Mike Maccagnan held up his flashbulb. “Alright everyone! Freedom on three! Now, 1…2…3!”

“FREEDOM!!!!”