The blizzard of 2016 brought more than snow

The forecasters called it “Snowzilla;” meteorologists predicted that the storm of January 2016 could be catastrophic and advised people to stay home. I was a bartender, so like all other essential professionals—doctors, nurses, cops, firefighters—I had to report for duty. I trudged across town that Saturday morning, the snow blinding me and making my face hurt. (And before you start with the old joke—I know, my face is killing you, too—just save it.) I was feeling like a mug, and also very sorry for myself; I figured no one was coming out in this mess. I was also dreading an empty bar because the waitress on duty was my arch nemesis. Well, maybe that’s a little strong, but we didn’t get on, and without the buffer of busyness, the awkward silences would be excruciating. She was no Mary Crosbie, and certainly not homespun. (Surly Jones has since moved on to greener pastures, by the way.)

As it turned out, my fears that day were unfounded. At first, just a few people trickled in, then a stream, then a flood of customers. An especially striking couple came in, and despite their ridiculous good looks, I liked them anyway and we struck up a conversation. I discovered that Marilyn was French, and Mikael was Swedish. They were visiting New York City, it was the last weekend of their trip, and Mikael asked if he could film me talking about the bar, which is one of the oldest in NYC. I agreed, answered a few questions, and Mikael started packing up his camera equipment.

He then said he sensed there was something special about me, and that his intuition was never wrong. He wasn't hitting on me (and I don’t think he was angling for a free drink) but his tone changed, and he was suddenly very intense. He asked me who I was, and what I cared about. We talked about writing, and I admitted that I’d been writing in fits and starts, but hadn't found my focus yet. He was insistent that I write, that I find the thing that needs to be said.

I was flattered, but it also occurred to me that he might be a lunatic. McManus seems to be a magnet for oddballs. (And as an oddball myself, I say this with love.)

Mikael said he felt it was no coincidence that they had happened to come into this bar, and that we were destined to meet for some reason. They left me a good tip before leaving themselves, the night bartender came in, and my nemesis and I curtly nodded our goodbyes.

The following Monday morning got off to a rough start with me trying to hustle my geriatric dog down the stairs and out the door for her morning pee. We didn't make it; she relieved herself on the hall carpet outside my neighbor's apartment instead. (Sparky couldn’t walk very well, it wasn’t her fault.) It was happening more and more; I knew our days were numbered.

After frantically cleaning up Sparky’s mess (before the neighbor caught wind), I made myself a cup of coffee and opened my email:

"HI AMAZING

This is one of your ANGELS speaking. On the way up in the SKY IN A FEW MINUTES. IT IS TIME FOR TAKE OFF for you and me.

It is A reminder of your MAGIC morning PURE ENERGY WRITING. Do not THINK let the Pen DANCE...

All the best, Mikael"

OK, so maybe he WAS a lunatic… but sweet.

(And it made me cry, but in a good way.)

I’ve been kind of marinating in misery a bit since then; it’s taken me a while to shake off the depression/laziness and write consistently. I haven’t yet found the thing that needs to be said, but I’m getting closer. And it’s definitely not a GREAT dance with the pen—more like The Hustle, actually— but writing Life Behind Bars on SubStack is definitely helping.