Sweaters in ninety degree weather. Old pizza crusts in a box marked Luigi’s found in a trashcan. Taxis rush by on Eighth Avenue. The Port Authority takes in more kids from the Midwest in awe of a city, a country they never knew existed. Businessmen  carry brief cases with secrets inside. A hooker offers her services.

A small bar is open at seven in the morning. Some Irish joint serving Guinness and corned beef  sandwiches on rye with mustard creeping over the sides. Fat slobs with brogues eat and drink after working the third shift. Distancing themselves from their wives. Soon, the horses will run at Aqueduct.

He looks in the window. Waves at the bartender. Holds a ten in his hand. Petey motions for him to come on in.

The barkeep sets him up with a sandwich and a pint. He eats and drinks slowly. Chewing every little bite, sips on stout, washes it around in his mouth before swallowing. Sits back and enjoys a smoke from St. Pete.

He feels human again.