The City That Never Sleeps

TW: Alcohol Use, Some Profanity, Blood

Manhattan.

Dark tenements loom like jagged teeth, tattooed with gang affiliations. Hollow-eyed black windows reflect the void. Garbage and urine scented air, with a whiff of street food—greasy and burnt—fills my nose. Sirens of emergency vehicles, honking from taxis, footsteps and disputes, hollow laughter, and the occasional gunfire filter through my ears. A harmonious cacophony. A tang of rot and copper lingers on the back of my tongue, like a green penny. The sharp wind cuts at my skin like a thousand pinpricks. Indifferent elbows and shoulders and knees jostle against me. 

The City That Never Sleeps. Scorsese. Sinatra. Ask anybody on the streets here, and they’ll tell you that’s where it came from. Does anybody remember Riis? He’s the true pioneer of the nickname. Nobody knows him. Whatever. 

Bzzt. You have 1 new notification.

I open my emails. New message from the Observer?

“Important Update Regarding Employment.” Nope. Now’s not the time.

I silence my cell and continue wandering west down 100-and-something street, the frigid December air stinging my cheeks. Three years and I’m still not used to this Yankee weather. I tuck my head down, chin to chest, and crunch through the snow. A metallic crash. Eyes locked to my brow, I torque my entire body to find the source, like a human periscope. Some bums rifling through a bin. Survival of the fittest, I scoff. I swivel my torso and march on. A well-oiled machine in an arctic wasteland.

The Golden Sip.

I trudge through the heavy wooden doors, thirsty. The bar itself is empty aside from a few bodies—a burly man snoring closest to the door and a shadowed man at the far end, a bowler obscuring his face. I slunk down on the wooden stool. I desire booze.

“Whiskey. Neat,” I request.

The bartender has a pixie cut hairstyle and a push-up bra beneath a dark blouse, accentuating her cleavage. Her face isn’t pretty, but I don’t care. I’m just a man. 

I gulp my drink in one swift motion and tap the bar again. The second goes down easier now that my whistle’s wet. I feel a warmth spread from my chest. I tap again, and she’s there, filling my glass. A smile spans her round face.

“Tough day, love?” she flirts. You have no idea. 

My attention shifts from her chest to the television that breaks with a developing story. 

“Reports coming in now… hundreds of jobs lost at the Daily Observer. Staff layoffs were announced earlier today…”

She flicks the television to some sports broadcast.

“Much better,” she says, bouncing with glee. Another tap. Down the hatch. Flood the terror.

“Can you change it back for a second?” I ask curiously. Suddenly I’m invested; the hooch lit a fire inside me.

She rifles back through a few stations: an explosion on the Gaza Strip, a Hallmark movie with a mother and a child, an infomercial about some electric contraption… 

“...more on the layoffs later, but sources are saying the cutbacks are severe…” Tap. Drink.

My fears are confirmed. I’m about to be out of work in a city that doesn’t know who I am. The idle sounds of the bar fade from around me. I start to worry about fizzling out before I’ve made a name for myself. Why do bad things happen to good people? What will Mom and Dad think of their son coming home, defeated and without a place to go? How does it feel to be a failure, ol’ Jimmy? My mind circles around the word ‘forgotten.’ Tap. Drink. Drown the panic. 

I throw the glass down with too much force, and it explodes in my hand, serrated glass flying across the polished wood. Blood pours from my palm, the pain hot and sharp. Oh fuck. My instinct is to make a fist, forcing a shard deeper into my skin. My arm tenses up, and I pry the piece out of my flesh and drop it onto the bar like I’m in an operating room.

“Jesus! Are you—oh my God,” she yells frantically. “How bad is it? I’m not good with blood. Gregory?! Get out here!” She scampers off to the back in search of her knight. 

My body is surprisingly calm compared to my mind. I just sit there stupefied, my hand bleeding profusely onto the bar. I chuckle. The sound returns to my ears, the bar is muted, and I feel every set of eyes on me. My face is hot. I’m drunk. I wince and look at my hand; a giant red gash from my pinky to my thumb leaks across the epoxy. 

I see a figure approach from my right. Gregory, perhaps. You’ve really done it now, Jimmy. I brace myself to be lifted by my collar and coattails and thrown into the street. Instead, it’s the bowler man from the end of the bar. He doesn’t move with urgency, almost as if he hasn’t noticed my grand gesture of idiocy. But how could you miss it? My brain feels fuzzy. I peer at him drunkenly. 

He’s a tall and slender man, built like a marble statue. He’s got on a leather overcoat that stretches past his knees, black trousers, and wingtip boots. His face is old, but not in a sagging or decrepit way. His once-sharp features are softened with age, wrinkles around his eyes and mouth like deeply grooved features on a forgotten map. He sports a groomed mustache and short stubble the color of sterling silver. A few loose curls poke out from under his tilted cap, revealing a hairline that defies his assumed age. He looks familiar and anonymous simultaneously. 

He looks at me and offers his left hand, producing a neatly folded blue paisley handkerchief, once navy, now a sun-faded steel blue.

“Here,” he says, his voice gravelly and soothing. His old blue eyes insist that I take it.

“Thanks,” I said, holding the piece of cloth in my good hand, examining it. It looked like a typical bandana you could get at any shop. Simple and uniform. But this one was different; I had seen it somewhere before. But where? It nagged me. I felt like a snake being entranced by a charmer and his little flute. When I looked up, he was gone, those heavy wooden doors shutting behind. Then it hit me. 

Hugh Palmer.

Silence Among Thieves—the classic western film that garnered worldwide acclaim. Palmer’s portrayal of Beau “Slim” Oughton earned him awards for Best Actor from multiple outlets. He went on to have an extremely long and successful acting career, retiring a few years ago and disappearing from the media.

It’s coming to me all at once. I remember seeing it for the first time, in the den with my father, sitting on that multicolored couch, that ugly thing, and we sat cross-legged next to each other eating kettle corn, eyes wide, and we laughed and cried and gasped and cheered, and when the credits came to an end, I remember begging to watch it again, and so we did. 

Slim wasn’t your typical cowboy—more of an opportunistic outlaw whose intentions were good but who would do anything for his desired outcome. A true anti-hero through and through. His outfit was iconic and simple: an old Stetson with a silver buckle and pheasant feather, a checkered flannel in muted earth tones, stained with blood and sweat, and dusty jeans atop well-oiled leather boots. And the bandana. That specific detail, though small, stuck with me this whole time.

The epiphany fades, and I’m back in the barstool. My hand is wrapped in the bandana—I must’ve instinctively mended myself. The flow has stopped, but the bar top looks like a gutting table. Jesus, how are you alive? Maybe I’m overreacting; it’s not that much blood. Or is it? What do I know? I’m pretty fucking drunk. All I know is that had to have been Hugh Palmer, and that’s what’s going to save my career.

I stand and sway on my feet. Whoa. Either I’m hammered or I lost an entire liter of blood. Never mind that, Jimmy. Go save your career. I throw some crumpled bills behind the bar.

“Much obliged, Miss Barkeep,” I slur and swiftly exit.

I spot Hugh entering a vestibule at the other end of the block and beeline through the gray slush. Upon entering, I’m met with a wave of hot air and a problem: the bouncer. An ape of a man, he’s easily three times my size, and then I see the second problem. To his right is a sign bordered in gold flake reading

SHAGGY DAN’S PRIVATE CLUB MEMBERS ONLY.

Thinking on my feet is second nature. The bouncer is flirting with several girls in skimpy dresses at the doorway. One of them towers over me in heels and dances with a shorter one, captivating the bouncer. Moving decisively, I screen myself using the Amazonian as cover. And just like that, we’re in. 

Shaggy Dan’s.

This bar is more lively than most. Scratch that, this is definitely a club. It pulses with life, a thumping bass reverberating through the floor as strobe lights slice through the darkness in sharp bursts of light. The air is thick with the mingling scents of fruity cocktails and sweat. On the dance floor, bodies writhe to the beat, a blur of neon, skin, and shimmering sequins—young women in tight dresses, men in cool suits, everyone moving in sync to the hypnotic rhythm. The DJ booth sits above, the DJ an enigmatic figure bathed in blue light, controlling the flow like a maestro. The bar is a frenzy of clinking glass, the bartenders’ hands a blur as drinks are created in rapid succession. Conversations hum in the air, some flirtatious, others just a desperate need to be heard above the chaos. A group of modelesque women walk by, one eyeing me up and down like I was a piece of meat at a carnivore convention. Note to self: Get a membership here at some point in the future.

Just then I spot Hugh leaving the main bar and walk up a set of steps to another room. There’s your future, Jimmy. Go get him. I push my way to him, weaving between bodies, some softer and wetter than others. As I get to the stairs, a wave of dizziness hits me. It staggers me. Could be the drink. Or maybe the blood. I look at my palm, a now burgundy-colored rag covering my wound. The price you pay for success. I pluck a beverage from an unsupervised high-top, gulp it down, and ascend the steps. 

At the top, a quiet lounge room with subdued lights opens up, emitting a calmer vibe. A fire crackles in the stone fireplace, its flickering light casting a gentle, golden glow across the room. Deep brown leather couches are arranged in a horseshoe around the flames. Velvety throw pillows add a touch of luxury, while a sleek, wooden coffee table sits center stage, adorned with a vase of fresh flowers. The walls are tastefully decorated with abstract paintings in earth tones, their soft hues adding to the calm. And there Hugh sits, the shadows bouncing off him in a form of fluidity.

“Care if I join you, Mr. Palmer?” I say, sitting across from him.

“You’re that fella from the Sip,” he says curiously. “How’s the hand?”

“Doctors say I’ll make it,” I say dryly. “Thanks again for the bandana. I’ll pay you back for it.”

“Like hell you will!”

“Seriously, how much do replicas like this go for?” I pat myself down for my wallet.

“Replica?” he says, puzzled. “That thing there’s the real deal, kid.”

I stop what I’m doing and look down at my butchered hand. My eyes meet his, and I do a double take. He’s either a great bullshitter or dead serious.

“You just carry around all of your movie props? What, do you have the gun too?” I ask suspiciously.

He laughs, a deep one from his gut. “You let the cat outta the bag, old Hugo,” he jokes. “The studios wouldn’t let us keep anything but the clothes they issued. I wish I had that old six-shooter…that was back before all of those special effects. Back when movies were real.”

He's talking to me like we're two old boys. Now’s your chance.

“Alright, kid,” he begins, shifting his elbows to his knees. “I can only assume that you’re some journalist from the city. That’s why you followed me. As for finding me, that may have been by chance. Regardless, I don’t do interviews anymore. Or autographs. So if you’d kindly leave me be…” He motions his arm back to where we entered. 

Damn, was it that obvious? Rejection never sat well with me, it bubbled from the inside. I felt a surge of anger rise in my gut; it made me uneasy.

“Listen, man, I’m not some journalist…at least not anymore,” I stand and yell. “I just lost my job today and gashed my hand wide open. I don’t have anything left in this town. I’ll probably have to move back to Austin with my parents. I have nothing to show for myself, and I’m an absolute failure. Oh! And by the way, this kid has a name, its—

My mouth suddenly erupts with vomit, and I paint the white marble floor. It’s a quick burst of retching, and I’m done; sour bile stings my throat. Relief and shame flood me afterwards.

“--Jimmy,” I say, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. I’m too embarrassed to move, so I just stand above my pool of sick. Way to go out with a bang.

Hugh is clearly stunned, his old eyes wide, looking from the floor to me and back a few times.

“Well damn, Jimmy, that may have been the wildest introduction I’ve seen in my seventy-three years on this Earth. And let me tell you, I’ve seen some shit in my day.”

“Yeah, well, don’t slip on the way out,” I say, pointing to my regurgitation. It smells faintly sweet.

“Whoa there, partner,” he says, impersonating Slim. 

I look over my shoulder, expecting him to add an insult to injury.

“Go grab a rag or something for your mess,” he says sarcastically. “And ask the bartender for some paper. You got somethin’ to write with?”