Angel’s Share, East Village. 2:47 am, September 1st, 2015

A man sits in a corner booth with a Microsoft Surface™ Tablet. He has been seated in the shadows — though many might define even the lightest sections of this establishment as a shadow, so what does that make the man’s corner? — since 9:00 pm, methodically nursing the plum whiskey highballs the tight young waitress has been delivering to his table every 45 minutes, per his routine. Fresh drink and fresh napkin on the left; retrieve the empty and wipe to the right. She found it strange that his glasses never had fingerprints but she knew why. She’d learned as a young Manhattan barista years ago that, sometimes, geography was the science.

“Only in New York,” she’d think, resetting her 45 minute mental timer.

Yes, she knew the man. Well, in that she was sure he was real. His polite “thank you” each time she set down his fresh drink was the only real assurance she had that he was anything other than her eyes and the shadows teaming up to play tricks on her mind. For, though the images of green and white men bouncing across the green backdrop of his tablet flickered a dull glow that momentarily exposed the features of the materials around him — the inlaid fleur de lis of the velvet wallpaper, a scratch across the center of the chestnut table from his first visit (mid-January — oh, but the scratch was its own story), or the small nick in the tufted red leather booth– when her eyes dared to move towards his face, all she could tell was that he was dark — not necessarily dark skinned, mind you, this was different. It was as if he was always sitting in a shadow. Every flicker of the light…just when you thought his face would be revealed, it wasn’t. It was as if light dimmed just for him. She was frightened of him, yes, but she also knew that he liked her. He liked her figure. He liked her scent. Soon, she could feel it, he would like her taste and the feel of his hips ground brutally hard into hers as he —

[Door Flies Open]

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

Mike Maccagnan: (Sets down tablet) Christ. Well – come have a seat, Coach.

Bowles: Humpdayyyyyy!!!!!! (Whips a chair backwards and pops a seat a la AC Slater.)

Maccagnan: It’s Tuesday morning, Todd.

Bowles: And we play Thursday. Thursday, Miiii-eeeee-ke! Mike! Mike! Mike! Mike! Mike!

Maccagnan: Yes. Well, I’m sure the reason for your text was important then. Would you like a highball? Lin Sue here will get you whatever you like. (He peers towards the waitress) I like her.

Bowles: Boilermaker! Boilermakers! That’s this Jet’s fuel!

Maccagnan: I don’t really think those are an appropriate order for such an establ–

Bowles: Strong enough to melt steel beams! Learned that shit in the West, MacDog!

Maccagnan: You know, coach, maybe drinks will just eat up time neither of us have. With roster cuts and new players on the market, I know we both have a lot on our minds.

Bowles: I have the roster spot! We HAVE the roster spot! All it will take is one single roster spot!

Maccagnan: I’m sorry. You want what?

Bowles: To get Rex! I know how to get Rex! I’ve been on that sideline! I’ve been Rex! I know the man! I know how to get him, the Bills, and the city of Buffalo!!

Maccagnan: Todd. I know you’ve been putting in some long hours in the Jets team offices and all but I have a more deliberate, more….sophisticated….method for approaching my work. I really need to ask that you slow down and explain what you are thinking.

Bowles: (Leans in to Maccagnan and high whispers) Now you listen to me, you World League pussy. I’m a fucking Highlander. Do you hear me? Rex Ryan was simply filling the role of Jets coach. He’s gone now and I am The One. It’s the motherfucking Outlook Hotel in those offices.  The occupants there talk to me. They tell me about feet. They tell me about the rushing game. Tattoos. Lap-band. Dyslexia. My god — the unholy things Mark Sanchez did inside those walls. (Calls back to bartender) Lloyd! Two martians over here!

Maccagnan: And you have a plan to get revenge for Rex picking up IK Enemkpali after he broke Geno’s jaw?

Bowles: They send one of ours to the hospital, we send one of theirs to the morgue!

Maccagnan: Oh Todd. IK wasn’t going to be on your roster by today anyways. Offing him still wouldn’t match up to taking out our quarterback.

Bowles: IK? That’s fucking lollerskates, friend. I’ve been negotiating and I’m very close to signing Fred Jackson.

Maccagnan: Todd, he’s 34. You could rest him until November and he’d still not do anymore damage than Stevan or Chris.

Bowles: He won’t see a snap. Just find a way to get him on the roster. The plan is simple. Week 10. Thursday Night Football. National broadcast. National audience. Those fat fucks in Buffalo are snowed in and watching the Bills come to our house. (Throws back martini) 

Maccagnan: Please…go on… (Reaches for his untouched martini)

Bowles: Jackson and I go out for the coin toss as captains. He’s there looking all green monster but Coach Ry…err, Coach Todd Bowles, is wearing a hazmat suit.

Maccagnan: Wait, you’re in —

Bowles: And when the coin goes up and Taylor calls heads, I say, “You called it,” and slit Jackson’s throat with a box cutter!

Maccagnan: (Speechless. Pulls glass from his lips and sets down unsipped martini.)

Bowles: I rip off his jersey so his soul can more easily escape his body. Our fans will go wild and the heart and soul of Buffalo will be destroyed! The children watching at the local hospital will wish the team had gone to Toronto! Jackson lives forever in Metlife Stadium, never to return to Buffalo for a one-day retirement contact!

Maccagnan: I don’t….love it.

Bowles: Of course you don’t. (Fishes olive out empty martini glass) Rex and John Idzick always had their tensions. But I thought we could come together to fuck Belichick on this one, since he’s showing interest. God — I never knew how much I could possibly hate that MOTHER FUCKING MOTHER-FUCKER!  

Maccagnan: Wait. If what you’re saying is true about the rushing, the tattoos, the feet…..then am I destined to be Id–

Bowles: We’re already scouting billboard locations. (Smiles and holds up a roque mallet, admiring the grip.) So just make the deal. 

{fin}