The gentlemen at the bar are regulars. They are eager to bond over talk of local sports teams. We have been discussing the Jets and the Giants when I mention I am from Canada. The one man says “well, my real passion is the Rangers.” Thinking we are still talking football I say “the Raiders?” He looks at me like I’ve just insulted his mother.
It appears at first to be a map of an unidentifiable place. But if you turn it the right way so that light shines through the hole you can see a human skull and other remnants of an excavated grave.
There is a buzz throughout the bar when a man with great presence walks in. My companions inform me that he is Paul Hurley, the owner of the bar. He treats everyone in the place to a drink on the house.
The “Ghetto Wizard” punches one of his waiters in retaliation for stealing a baked potato for his lunch on New Year’s Day. Denying the assault he asserts “If I had punched him he wouldn’t be in any shape to stand here in court today.”