Creative Writing

It was a bar you had to earn your way into.

Oh, sure. They'd serve you if your money was green. You'd probably even get a clean glass. But the place was a gin mill near a busy subway station and the proprietors were more interested in keeping the cops away from the establishment than in turning a profit. That meant screening people carefully. If trouble broke out, if tempers got heated, they were quickly doused.

The bar itself was dark. The kind of dark bar where people went to do things that would make the front cover of the Post. About thirty feet of imposing wood stood between the patron and the top shelf, four and a half feet high and about as wide, and a century long. The stools were simple: four straight legs angled in at twelve and a half degrees to support a round seat with red naugahyde cushions comfortable enough to sit in for hours, but not so comfortable that, well, you got comfortable.

That was a good way to describe the place: an uncomfortable comfort.

A few wooden tables littered the floor, most missing at least one chair. Many had been broken. At least one had be taken as evidence in a criminal investigation. There were four booths in the back, the only comfortable seats in the joint. This is where deals were made, lives were bought and sold, and orders were issued. Despite being in one of the toniest, priciest neighborhoods of New York City, this was one of the last bastions of the working class mobsters.

The world had its own special corner for Murph. That was the name everyone called Xavier Aloyius McMurphy and wouldn’t you?

One man got away with calling Murph “X”, but when you’re the father of five, you can’t call all your kids “Murph”.

Murph’s special corner of the universe was apparent from the get-go. He grew up in perhaps the richest neighborhood in the richest borough in the richest city in the world.

His dad was a plumber. Pretty good one, too, able at a glance to look at a rough-in and diagnose the exact failure points by eye. No pressure testing for him.

Senior, as the few people who knew both Murphs called him, never graduated college. Or high school. Or grammar school. He learned to read, write, and speak. And then he became a farmer. By age ten, he was helping his dad plow and seed.

After the war, he moved to the States because his uncle had a job opening for a plumber, which meant a decent salary in a union job with benefits, and a headstart on the American dream.

America. Where he taught himself calculus. And did the New York Times crossword puzzle in ink. But after 60 years, he couldn’t lose that brogue.

Senior wanted his children to do better and for the most part, they did. Murph went to college and despite his best efforts at drinking, sex, five different majors, and rock and roll, he was graduated with the degree in accounting his mom wanted him to have.

She wanted him to be Treasury Secretary, but not President.

Ed slowly scanned the darkened dressing room. The rustle of activity out in the hall had subsided. Normally after a show, there is a flurry of noise lasting well into the late night. Ed ought to know, many has been the time he's invited a "guest" to spend time in his dressing room and had waited until the studio emptied out before making his move. 

There was that one time with that certain blonde "conservative" commentator who had a predilection for dating pornographers, when she thought they were all alone, so he took her back onto the set, and stripped her naked and took her. That tape was sold back to her for a handsome fee. 

Christmas Eve. Right. People were rushing home, abandoning their tasks until two days from now.  

"Fucking people. No commitment." And with that, Ed sucked his glass of scotch dry and stood up to pour himself another one. Swirling in his brain alongside the barley malt extract was the vision of his heritage in New York City: the Irish, his people, hated. Treated like subhumans, despite their achievements. Mocked and poked fun of. he thought back to his own childhood, to school, to classes, and remembered how Tommy Vitoro used to poke fun of his father's accent all the time, especially when they were playing tag. Tommy used to punch Ed hard and say "You're it, Mickey!" He always punched Ed. In fact, he always made Ed "it." 

Ed steadily put his hand on the dresser, and then unstoppered his decanter, and poured himself another scotch. Walking back towards his chair, he felt his foot...well, miss the ground, and he flopped forward, to be caught in the arms of...nothing. He felt someone there, but saw no one, and could not feel anything beyond a presence: no muscles, no sinew, no skin, no bones.    

"Ed, you really didn't think that you'd get off easy now, did you? After all, wasn't it you who who claimed illegal immigrants were all criminals and should serve jail time? If you're such a stickler for the law, then know you're not going to be given special treatment." 

There are, in my experience, two types of human male: men, and what can politely be called “guys.” Impolitely, “fucking idiots,” “asshats,” and “MEN!” followed or preceded by a deep and angry sigh. It’s this last epithet, specifically the confusion it implies, that this discussion is concerned with.

First, let me preface the exploration by saying this: There is nothing wrong with being a guy, just as there is nothing inherently right with being a man. It’s the behavior we learned growing up and interacting with our families and environment. We are who we are. We live our lives as we best see fit, and ultimately, when the time comes for us to return to the dust, our coffins contain only each of us, and no one else. Men learn to be men, guys learn to be guys, and there’s nothing really wrong with that.

It’s just that, well, men are evolved. Knuckles off the ground, toilet seat left down, and the whole bit.

The key, however, is any of us can change if we choose to. Part of my hope in writing this treatise is to help women raise a mirror to at least one guy — and I hope many — and have him say “So THAT’S what I’m doing wrong!”

This implies, correctly, that some guys learned to be guys but really needed to learn to be men. There’s that three-way conflict again.

An Excerpt from my work-in-progress: