Just West of Seventh Avenue

Jack and his schoolmates had spent too much time drinking at the Yale Club again. The Big Game had been at home this year so naturally, they’d all taken the train to New Haven to be in attendance. They’d been sipping cheap beer all day except for right at the end when Conway Roberts showed up late – as he does – with the supplies to make the most superb martinis. The contrasting cool bite of gin and tang of the olives went down with elegant ease.

The men rode back to the city together in high spirits, chanting and singing the fight song the entire journey from New Haven to Grand Central. Smoke swirled through the cabin from the tips of lit cigarettes and burning of thick, rolled cigars. Tripp Connelly, in all of his red-headed ferocity, had stolen enough canned beers from the stands for them to all have a drink aboard – they had long since robbed Conway of his martini supplies. 

“Jack, I think that Sally Martin is a fine girl, and anyone would be lucky to spend any amount of time with her.” Simon raised his cigar into the air, saluting Jack as he fell back into his seat.  

“But, Simon,” Jack got up, martini glass loosely hanging from his right hand, cheap beer spilling from its fine, crystal edge. 

“That’s just it, no one can spend any time with her. She’ll just give you a smile and, in her ever-charming way, simply tell you,” he pitched his voice higher, adding an airy, melodic lilt to his speech, “I’m terribly flattered but perhaps another time.” He gave a curtsy and the group erupted into raucous, drunken laughter.

“I swear, there is no one less capable of getting a date than you, Goldman.” Jack was often referred to with his last name by his schoolmates, as many of them were.

“No, Simon, but that’s not it at all. He’s too devilishly good-looking to not get the opportunity of a date. The problem lies in the moment he opens his mouth.” Tripp Connelly took another large swig from his beer. That was the other thing about Tripp, he drank beer too liberally and too easily to have been cut from the fine cloth of the upper crust. He was also Irish, which never worked in any person’s favour.  

“But here’s the ticket of it all: the poor boy has no problem amongst us. It’s just the moment a lady crosses his path, he’s completely spellbound.”  

“Mute I should say is quite a better term for it.”  

“Yes, quite dumbstruck by each and every woman to look his way.”  

“And yet,” Conway leaned forward in his chair, spilling his martini just a bit as he did (he’d saved the last of the supplies for himself), “He never says a word to them. Not one.”  

“Poor boy has got the women of Yale and beyond so perplexed they hardly even look his way anymore.” 

“Well, except for Sally Martin.”  

The train car burst into laughter again. Beer was spilled on the floor and bits of peanuts fell from their bowls onto the tables and below. Smoke poured out from cigarette-filled lungs in explosions of laughter and released air. Jack, smiling faintly, turning red, drained the remainder of the beer from his martini glass. Connelly came up behind him and wrapped his arm around Jack’s back, jostling and pulling him in closer.  

“Fear not, Jack old boy. We all still have faith that you will find a girl yet!” 

Jack could feel Connelly’s fingers lingering on his shoulder before he released him, fingers trailing lightly along the tailored spine of Jack’s coat.   

From the train, they stumbled directly to the Yale Club. By now the men were rolling and having a grand time. They ploughed through the gilded double doors of the station, their arms spread around each other, singing out into the cool of the night along the brick-laid sidewalk of 34th street. The rain, which had hit Manhattan and hadn’t moved north to New Haven, caused steam to rise from the pavement. Upon arrival at the navy door to the club, Clive Barnes had been just witty enough to convince the Maitre'd that they simply needed a table.  

“You see, old boy, we all know each other from our days at the old Alma Mater. We ran into one another at the game and caught up on all of the goings-on during the train back to the city which was simply not sufficient time to give the full update on each of our–” he smirked, looking around with a grand spin, “our extremely unique and far spread-out lives.”  

Jack sat on the end of the rounded booth, watching as lips moved through smoke and sharp-cut jawlines caught the light of the dim lamps and candle flames. The outline of Connelly’s lips pulled into a soft bow of a smile before he spoke up.   

“I’m afraid I have to leave, dear chaps. Matters to attend to at home.”  

He tipped his hat and moved off the leather end of the bench, walking over to Jack and placing both of his hands on his shoulders with force enough to shake his frame.  

“Don’t let these old boys wear you down, Goldman. Sally Martin still stands a chance yet!”  

They cheered and raised their glasses as Connelly saluted them before finally turning to go. Not one of them noticed Connelly’s thumb travel the length of exposed skin on the back of Jack’s neck. A direct, slow descent from his hairline to shirt collar before lifting his hands from Jack’s shoulders to leave. The hair on his neck stood at attention. Jack ordered another martini.

In a true testament to a night run a poor course, Jack found himself in the Village, just north of Washington Square Park. From the Yale Club, the others had wandered elsewhere. Jack got loaded and was kicked out after the last of their party had made their exit.

 Just inside the park near the fountain, a curious group of women all stood smoking. Their legs were exposed up to their knees and bits of fabric hung from their torn stockings. Their hair was pinned in near identical curls, plastered to their head in carved-out spirals that barely moved as their heads shifted from side to side. Though not beautiful, something about one woman’s frame captured him. She lacked the rounded curves of vivacious women, and her figure was stocky if not hidden by the long, ragged layers of her coat. She looked up and stared at Jack, wisps of smoke dripping into the air and spinning around her head. 

“Hey, Sugar, you look good! You know, you’d look better standing a little closer to me, honey!”  

The women beckoned, drawing Jack in closer, the blood that had been pounding in his ears now gathering just below his belt. 

“Oh, c’mon, baby. Don’t be shy!”  

The third member of their party turned to look at him. She had a shadow along her jaw, her cheekbones were jagged and cut up high, coloured in with rouge so opaque it looked more like streaks of paint. Her dress was tighter than the others, bulging beneath the fabric that hung around her waist.  

“Sugar, don’t make us beg!” 

A woman in a head scarf rolled up the edge of her skirt revealing thick, black hair just above her gartered thigh. The woman with the hooked nose hit her shoulder and whispered into the ear of the third woman, who then reached down and grabbed her crotch, thrusting her hips at Jack. The other women laughed, turning and linking their arms, walking southward towards SoHo.

The blood, skin and bones faded from Jack’s legs. His body bent and gave way to the pressure, his knees falling hard on the concrete. When he got up, he ran.

Jack was sweating. The cold air cut at his strained lungs with each stride. Somewhere along one of the less traversed corners of the avenue, music dripped through the air, catching on the gathering raindrops. He had to slow to a walk and regulate the pitch of his breath to hear. There was no awning nor any signs of indication, just a small red door at the bottom of a winding staircase hidden just below street level. He had to steady himself on the narrow metal railing before attempting the descent. His nerves caught in his stomach, and he threw up his last martini into the gutter. 

He walked over to the railing, more stable now. With clearer ears, he could hear the jazz music rising from the basement. What appeared to be a thin, brass letter door slid to the side, revealing a pair of haggard eyes that glowed in the dim light that leaked through. The eyes looked left, then right, then finally landed on Jack, scanning the whole of his figure.  

“Whatdayawant?”  

The speaker’s voice was gruff and baritone, carrying the thick layer of a New York accent, slurring all of the words together.

“Please, I would just like to step inside for a moment to hear the music.” 

He gripped the railing, steadying himself and hoping it would, in turn, help to steady his speech as well.  

The eyes narrowed.  

“D’ya have a ticket?” 

Jack cleared his throat, standing up taller, swaying slightly like a tree fighting against the wind.  

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid I don’t. However, I’m willing to pay whatever cost is necessary.”  

When he was trying to sound his most posh and impressive, Jack often clipped the vowels in more elongated words. Ne-Ce-Sa-Ry became Ness-Ess-Ry as if the illusion of a foreign tongue would entice anyone to see past his obvious inebriation. He was lying to the man, of course, having exhausted his funds earlier that day with no way to obtain cash until Monday when the banks opened again. The day had just barely tipped from Saturday night into early Sunday morning.  

“No cost. You’re supposed to call ahead.”  

The mail slot slammed closed. The sting of metal-on-metal echoed up and into the air around Jack’s head, ringing in his ears. A series of clicks and slight squeaks came out from the other side of the mail slot. When the red door swung open, a small man all dressed in black stood in the doorway. Tufts of grey hair stuck out from underneath a black beret tilted at a slight angle to the left side of his face. 

“We're about to close.” 

Jack stood still.  

“Get the fuck in or getthefuckout.”