I sleep it off on a hardwood bench bolted to the floor of the basement cage inside the Albany Police Department, Central Avenue Precinct. I never got any dinner to soak up the alcohol, and my head is banging louder than the Bells of St. Mary’s. Not that I ever could sit through that movie.
An old drunk is seated in the corner, his head stuffed between his legs. Judging by the pleasant looking puddle on the floor under his knees, he’s pissed himself.
Hmmmmm . . . Please God say it ain’t so . . .
Slowly, hesitantly, I peer down at my own lap. I touch my trousers. Bone dry. There is a God after all.
A door opens.
“Jobz. Steve . . . Jobz!” shouts the cop.
The old drunk raises his head. His eyes go wide and his mouth opens under a scraggly beard-like mask.
“Steve Jobz, is that real
