I take my place behind the bar and mentally prepare for a busy work shift. Thursday nights can be tough. Leathermen stand on line for an hour, sometimes more…so warm for this late in September, on the shadowy cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District, flirting with each and furtively smoking weed, clandestinely selecting s*x partners, crashing and retreating, and edging their way ever closer inside the big, oak door.
The first thing I do is reach for the pack of Reds that I keep to the right of the cash register. I light a smoke with a branded The Meat Market book of matches that reads A Butcher Bar, and I search for answers inside the enormous gilt mirror behind the shelves of booze. Inside the glass, deep circles of sleeplessness overtake my eyes, reflections of the last few days
