There is three hundred dollars in my pocket as I walk around Manhattan like a somnambulist. Seventy-two hours are gone, and my money is depleting with every step I take; buying hot dogs and slices, kenish, smoked white fish from Russ and Daughters, pastrami sandwiches at Katz’s, a lox and bagel at Carnegie Deli, beers at The White Horse Tavern, and packs and packs of cigarettes as I play the juke box at Rudy’s. It is my wonderland. And soon I’ll be broke, back to normal. Strolling streets and pissing in alleys. But, it is glorious. Simply glorious.

Your luck changes on a dime in New York. With a few dollars on me, I fall into the Playwright in the Theater District and take my place at the bar next to a gentleman who looks as though he’s had a few. Drunks can go either way; incredibly generous or demonic in their actions. They offer money, drinks, and perhaps a bowl of soup. Kind souls. Or, they tell you to scram and threaten to kill you and your dog. It’s a flip of the coin.

He asks, what’s your game? What do you do? I tell him I’m a writer looking for material, and he’s the type of character I would love to put in a book.

Let me buy you a beer, he says. In fact, I’ll buy you several,  he laughs. I’ve always wanted to be in a book, he takes a drink. You know, I’ve had an interesting life, another drink is had. We toast. To your book, glasses clink.

So, where do you live? He asks. And I tell him the truth. Homeless? I would have never guessed that, he says. I nod my head and look around at pictures of Irish writers on the walls.

Well, not anymore. Let me write you a check. A grand ought to do it. Right? I tell him he is too kind. Yeah, I’ll write a check. What’s your name again?

And so, I’m back in the pink. Another grand. Saint Thomas Schmidt is looking after me.

You need anything else, I’m always here, he told me. Now, good luck to you. David.

Yes. Fortunes change quickly. The kindness of others. I cry out in the streets. The beauty of drunken souls.