Hoboken Blues
It was yet another dark, snowy evening in Hoboken, but I couldn't feel the cold. I couldn't feel much of anything, now that I think about it. Still, that was the way I liked it, so that was how it was going to stay.
I was drinking myself to death at Walton's Bar, just around the corner from my apartment, and had been doing so for almost four hours. Or four years, depending on how you looked at it. Boozing and popping pills had an undescribed side-effect of making you lose track of time, and right now I was so loaded I could barely remember what year it was. In fact, it was a miracle I could even lift my arm to call for another round of drink.
Scotch and pills. What could possibly go wrong, right?
I felt like I was about to fall off my barstool when the door to the bar opened, letting in an icy draught of cold air, as well as something decidedly more uncomfortable. The kid who'd just walked in was called Tony, or something. He was the son of some new, upstart mafia boss in Jersey, and had a habit of making my life hell whenever he was around. As if my habits weren't doing a good job already.
He and his cronies were making a ruckus the moment they stepped inside, yelling and howling; calling for a load of booze and whores. I did my best not to turn around and shoot the pricks dead there and then. Luckily for them, I held my restraint. Miraculously, they had decided to ignore me for the time being, instead heading further inside to meet some friends, or something. Fate proved, however, that my newfound peace from the youngest member of the DeMarco family wouldn't last very long.
"Hey, look who it is," he called out, just loud enough to catch the attention of his gorillas. "Mister fucked up ex-cop, digging himself into an early grave!"
I rolled my eyes, and chuckled slightly. It was the same thing, almost every night. "Hey, pal," I said, my voice laden with sarcasm and spite. "How are you doing?"
He laughed again, and the chorus line of thugs behind him echoed soon after. "Me? I'm great, top of the fuckin' world." God, I wanted to slap that dumb, smug little grin right off his spray-tanned face. "But you don't look so good, Maxey boy. What, you still upset you got your wife and kid killed?"
I could feel the anger and rage bubbling inside me. Every fibre of my being wanted me to whip out my gun and give this little shit a nine millimetre headache, but I didn't feel like being gunned down in a hail of bullets today. Instead, I went back to staring at the bottom of my glass, contemplating all the bad decisions I had made in my empty life.
Thankfully, the DeMarco asshole decided that he wasn't going to get much fun out of me, and went to play pool with his cronies. Me, I had all the fun I needed in a small bottle tucked inside my left coat pocket. I pulled it out and swallowed a pill, sighing in relief at the old, familiar feeling of being completely out of it. I could feel the bartender's eyes on me, wondering if he should say or do something about my problem, but I didn't give a shit. For just a brief moment, I was content.
It was getting late, though, and, as much as I'd like to, I wasn't going to be able to stay the night sitting at the bar. I managed to stand up, and lazily wave goodbye to Marty, the bartender, before drunkenly stumbling out of the door into the winter hellhole outside.
The freezing cold wind hit me like an icy slap to the face. Still, I'd survived worse, so I pressed on. The effort of hiking through the deep snow sapped my every step, yet I kept at it. I knew I didn't have to travel far anyway, and I had the consolation prize of more booze and pills waiting for me when I arrived home to keep me going.
I could hardly see anything through the snow storm, but one thing jumped out at me. It was a small cardboard box, sitting by the side of the road. At first I didn't think anything of it. It was probably just some box that had blown from an alley into the street, but I got curious when, over the howling wind, I could make out the sound of something moving in there.
I turned around lazily and staggered towards it, wondering what might be inside. If I was sober, I might have chalked the noise down to my imagination, or someone nearby, but there I was, drunk off my head, so I wasn't exactly thinking straight. Even so, what I saw inside was probably the last thing I expected to find.
It was an infant sky blue coloured horse, with wings. A rainbow mane, too. I didn't quite know what to make of it. It looked like something out of a girl's TV show that Rose might have been into, had she not been six feet underground. It looked up at me with it's huge, round eyes; it's face plastered with innocence that had not yet been corrupted by the rest of the world. For a second, I just kneeled there, staring at it as it stared back. I didn't really know what to do, so I said hello.
Surprisingly enough, it didn't say hello back. Who'd have guessed? Still, the temperature must have been below freezing by now, and I knew I couldn't just leave this thing, whatever it was, by the side of the street to die. With no other option I could see, I scooped up the tiny filly and sheltered it on the inside of my jacket. It squirmed for a second, but relaxed when it felt the warmth that my body naturally gave. Trust me, it didn't feel that way.
With no other choice given, I went to turn around and continue on home, but I slipped on a patch of ice. I fell onto my back, but it didn't hurt. The pills made sure of that. I went to pick up the pony, as it must have fallen out of my jacket, but I couldn't see it anywhere. I checked to see if I had crushed it when I fell, but it wasn't there either. The box was gone too. There was no evidence to prove that there has been anything but me there at that moment. God, did I feel like a fool.
Turns out, mixing scotch and pills isn't the best idea after all.