Grief Street

don’t got to be hearing Bible stories from.”
    “God knows I've tried to forget them myself. Which reminds me, how goes it at dear Mother’s sodality?”
    “Never mind about the church lady stuff. Pour me out another one.”
    “That would be four by my count.”
    “So I had a rotten day, all right?”
    “All right by me.”
    “You want to hear the freaking joke or not?”
    “Why not?”
    “Couple of lah-di-dah tycoons, they’re all dressed up and having some belts at this exclusive joint in the Chrysler Building. They’re sitting at a table in the Cloud Club on the seventy-first floor, right next to this huge window with a breathtaking view of Manhattan. Man Number One, he’s bearing black horn-rims. He says to the other guy, ‘This here building, the aerodynamics are unique in the World
    “The tycoon said this here?”
    “Shut up. So Man Number Two, he asks how come about the unique aerodynamics. Guy in the specs says, ‘It’s the wind patterns, the updrafts to be specific.’ Then he puts his hand on the window and says, ‘See, if I was to jump out, I’d fall thirty, forty, maybe fifty feet. Then, amazingly enough, the updraft, it’d blow me right back inside this here window.’ The second guy laughs and says, ‘Pal, you had one too many...’ ”
    “What were they drinking?”
    “Martinis. The first guy says, ‘Sure, I had a few, but it don’t mean I ain’t telling the truth. I know what I’m talking about, I jumped many times myself.’ The second guy says he don’t believe it. So, the first guy whips off his specs and his necktie and his suitcoat and he opens up the window and takes a dive...”
    “And the second guy?”
    “He’s watching, he’s horrified. His pal starts falling-thirty feet, forty feet, fifty feet, sixty feet, seventy feet. And then—a miracle! He floats straight back up and inside the window. Incredible. He puts the glasses back on and his suit and tie, and says to the other guy, ‘Go on, try it, it’s a freaking blast...’ ”
    “Naturally, the second guy jumps.”
    “Yeah. And he falls—thirty feet, forty feet, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety...”
    “No updraft?”
    “Splat! Guy hits the sidewalk. Turns into the world’s biggest pizza pie...”
    “Big surprise.”
    “Meanwhile, back up in the Cloud Club, this waiter comes over to the table and tells the guy in the specs, ‘Hey, Clark Kent—you know what? You’re a real asshole when you get drunk.’ ”
    “That’s actually...” The bartender paused and laughed, much to his surprise. “It’s not bad.”
    “Like I say, you got to love it.”
    “I just might.”
    “Well,” said the fat man, smiling, “it’s a start for me and you then, ain’t it?”

Eleven

    “ Y ou’re not going to like what’s in there.”
    “The hell I won’t, you should pardon the expression.”
    “I’m coming in with you.”
    “Suit yourself, Father. But I’m not treating.”
    Which is how it came to pass that on Good Friday I was bellied up to the bar with the swirly orange neon window instead of kneeling at the altar across the way, consuming the flesh and blood of Jesus with the transubstantiating assistance of Father Declan Byrne, my link to bittersweet remembrance of an immigrant Irish Hell’s Kitchen. As for himself, perched upon the barstool next to my own instead °f relaxing between his masses:
    Moments ago, Father Declan had stepped out from the sanctuary of Holy Cross for some air, some springtime sun, and a few quick coughs on a cigarette. What should he see but myself, staggering through the honking traffic of Forty-second Street, headed straightaway for trouble in a bottle. Being largely responsible for having me hauled away for various drying-out sessions in my past, and my elder in over-familiarity with Mr. Johnnie Walker, Father Declan was naturally inspired to hot pursuit. And so he dropped a halfsmoked Pall Mall and came galloping after me, arms akimbo, black hair flying, cassock flapping, rosary beads clacking.
    “So—didn’t I tell you?” said my sidekick, smug as could be. He rolled billowy priest sleeves up past dimpled elbows so as not to shmutz his holiday purple cassock on the moist mahogany of a bar. Meanwhile, I took in the alien scene of the place: lousy with potted palms and mirrors and salmon pink walls with cool recessed lighting, and more of those short guys with the big cigars. One of them yapped on a cell phone; the subject was money, not the kind that