22.
This kid was a fuck up, and pushing low thirties. This kid was coming back from a stretch. A four year how down in minimum.
This kid was Steve Mangano, Tony Scram’s son.
Steve’s Greyhound bee lined down the Deegan, fresh from Fishkill. The capsule climbed a ramp. It bucked and belched to a stop in the Port Authority bus terminal. Steve left his seat, and in minutes would be passing the bronze monument to Ralph Kramden.
Steve hit the corner of 40th and 8th, low life scene in floored regalia. Crack heads and winos. Pimps pushing ten spot skull.
Pickpockets, and every other shit head rat. Steve crossed the street, breaking free.
The cross roads grew darker, and quiet. Behind the terminal, on 9th Avenue, a pack of shelters. Abused women, soup kitchens, and detox lines. Steve didn’t stop. He was sure if he did, he’d spot faces from the old dark days. The coked up, flaming youth ones.
Steve shuffled up to a building. An entrance. Two women stood in the doorway. Neon tubes: MASSAGE in the window.
Steve entered. Steve continued the odyssey, handling a brown paper bag in the shape of a six-pack. He came upon a seedy, cheap hotel.
Steve settled in, and ripped a beer. He went to the sill, and scoped the city streets. Steve stared, and dazed at the traffic. The Crown Vic invasion, yellow crates whizzing the streets. He wondered if his father worked one of the cabs. Steve snapped out of it, and went to a pay phone.
Tony asleep in the recliner. Steve at the station. Tony awakened from the noise, reaching for the phone.