Books stacked in milk crates. Beckett, Dostoyevsky, Miller, Kerouac, Mailer, and others nestled tightly. A card table with a wine bottle used to hold a candle. Red and orange wax melted over the label. Two metal chairs warmed by sunlight came through the windows. A radio tuned to WKCR.

He holds a stack of quarters in his hand. Shuffling change, he tries to think clearly of how to spend it; phone calls at the corner payphone or a slice of pizza bigger than your head. Or maybe a tall beer at Rudy’s with a free hotdog. The last seems to be the logical choice. He doesn’t like talking to people, and a beer sounded good. The gray-haired dreamer continued trickling coins through his thick fingers and thumb.

The old man looked down on 24th Street from his open window. It is summer, and the city smells. Trash piled up, dead rats in walls, and exhaust from trucks,  cabs, busses, various toxins, whores perfumed and piss in alleys. It’s a smell he likes. An acquired taste.

His sneakers have holes. Socks are dingy black. He puts them on and smells under his arms.

Walking up 9th Avenue to Hell’s Kitchen, he sees the famous pig mascot outside of Rudy’s. A statue for all of New York to behold. Perhaps the bar’s greeter or host for many of Manhattan’s drunken casualties or gin and tonic storm troopers throughout the years. He touched the swine’s belly for good luck before entering the establishment. The fool was glad he’d made this choice.

Handing over his dirty money, he got a hotdog with mustard and  cold beer from the tap. Salty music played on the jukebox. The old man hummed along.

He sat at the bar and gave thanks for his life, his luck. He whispered, it doesn’t get any better than this.