Last Call - 2023

 

Last Call

By Erik Bilicki

"One more round," Jim announced, drumming a tattoo on the counter with the kind of certainty that comes from years of balancing ledgers in a fast-paced Wall Street firm. The echo of his declaration rippled through the cozy confines of the Commuter Café, our citadel housing evening rituals. The Coca-Cola clock blinked, its red digits carving out a date that would soon etch itself indelibly in history: 09-10-01. Yet for now, it held no more significance for us than any other.

It was Monday, and our routines, as unyielding as the gridiron layout of Manhattan, held us captive within this charming den of granite and timeworn charm. Our spirited conversation reverberated off the café’s sandy walls, intermingling with the steady thrum of the PATH train below—our steadfast soundtrack.

David, however, was off-key in our nightly harmony. The mystery of his life, normally a source of light-hearted banter, now hung in the air like a curtain of fog. Despite the humor in our theories about mafia connections, David's unusually frosty demeanor gave us pause.

"Going for the last one already?" Reedy quipped, his accent imbuing the room with a hint of the sun-kissed Australian outback. Under the dim lights, his thinning locks seemed to lose their battle with time even more rapidly. "Can't handle the Yanks losing to the Sox tonight, mate?"

"And aren't you worried about your precious tech stocks?" He asked, an impish grin transforming his face. "The way they've been jumping, you'd think they've got a kangaroo in charge."

Unfazed by Reedy's good-natured jibes, Jim shrugged and signaled Hector, the unsung hero of our weeknight escapes, his hands deftly navigating the ocean of beer cans behind the counter.

"Got a few Wall Street whales swimming in tomorrow. Need all my neurons firing, you know." The anticipation in his voice was as tangible as the frosty beer can now in his hand.

I nudged David, aiming to draw him out with the promise of shared banter. "Are the Mets finally recognizing your secret pitching talent?" I quipped, hoping to catch a glimpse of the familiar David in his reaction.

His response, however, was far from the laughter I'd hoped for. "Actually, guys, I... I won’t be here tomorrow." He paused, as if struggling to find the right words. "Got some stuff on the home front. Family business, you catch my drift?"

"We understand, mate. Family stuff," Reedy nodded, his words bearing the weight of empathy. We were all strangers in a strange land, bound together by shared isolation amidst the city's relentless pace.

Shaking off the weighty silence, Reedy hoisted his can high. His eyes seemed to carry a distant longing, a piece of sun-soaked Brisbane that he’d carried over the seas. "To our cobber, David. Let's make tonight a ripper one. And I dare you blokes to have a bash at the New York Magpies this weekend! My folks are flying in tomorrow, first time they've been overseas. Fair dinkum nervous, you know?" His voice wavered slightly, betraying a hint of homesickness beneath his typically jovial exterior.

Laughter rang out as we clinked our cans in agreement. The banter flowed once more, and the hours slipped by. Jim, ever the storyteller, regaled us with tales of his youthful days when he’d been a die-hard Mets fan, each story as colorful and lively as the streets of our city. We rolled from topic to topic, from predicting the next round of the Giants-Jets rivalry to discussing the latest musical hits crowning the NYC scene.

"Speaking of tryouts," Reedy said, turning to me with a sly grin. "I heard you've been hitting the 69th floor more often these days. Playing for a different team, are you? One with a beautiful Brooklyn belle named Madeline Cortez?" At this, I found myself lost in thought, replaying the myriad of exchanges between Madeline and me. The fleeting eye contact, her guarded smiles, and the elusive 'maybe' that always followed my invitations for anything more than a coffee. Her aloofness was as puzzling as it was alluring. "Yeah, Reedy," I finally responded, "she's a tough one to read."

Our laughter reached a crescendo as I found myself at the center of their light-hearted jests. "Hey, neither of you have swapped more than a hello with her!" I retorted, "At least I’ve asked her out for coffee.”

Their laughter grew softer as the night wore on, and the piercing digits of the Coca-Cola clock reminded us of the impending dawn. It was time to retreat to our corners in the labyrinth of Manhattan and across the Hudson.

As we stepped into the silent night, the bright lights of the city our only company, we saw the flickering numbers on the Coca-Cola clock change to 09-11-01. A shiver ran down our spines as the grim date cast a shadow on our otherwise unforgettable night.

The hum of the city, usually a soothing lullaby, turned somber as we each navigated our way back home. We parted with promises of a new day, new victories, and a breakfast at Windows. With one last look at the clock, I couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension. The city was asleep, oblivious to the profound change the dawn promised.

Morning arrived, breaking the darkness, carrying the promises of a new day, an inviting breakfast, and a hopeful encounter with Madeline. Yet, unknown to us, the date, 09-11-01, was about to etch itself into our lives in a way we could never have imagined.