Young World War II veteran George Edwards needs a drink-all the time. Although it is a new year-1952-in New York City, George's life remains the same. As he centers his daily routine around a whiskey bottle, George begins to drive both himself and his devoted wife, Margie, straight into the depths of destitution. George is bitter. Once he was a star ballplayer with lofty goals, but his dreams have been shattered by the injuries he suffered while serving in North Africa. Now George entertains himself by insulting others, including Margie, a devoted Catholic who is torn between the demands of her faith and the need to escape the verbal abuse she endures daily. Desperate for love and attention, she somehow finds herself in bed with Doc Hayden. But even though George is a drunk, he is no fool. Now it appears that the only way George and Margie will ever survive is to go their separate ways. Really Wanna Go Home is the compelling tale of a young couple's struggle to escape poverty and the effects of a debilitating disease destined to transport both on distinct journeys that soon meet in a catastrophic collision with destiny.
I Really Wanna Go Home
By Raymond J. RadneriUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Raymond J. Radner
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-4556-3Chapter One
George Edwards had just completed one loop of four blocks in the city's morning stillness. He had walked uptown to the border of Little Italy, back down Mott Street through Chinatown, and then wandered over to St. James Place. He wasn't about to try another round in the biting cold. He had started his trek when it was very dark; he'd guessed that Dave would not be opening the bar until about the time the sun began to show itself. Maybe Dave still hadn't even gotten dressed and had his breakfast. He always liked two fried eggs, sunny-side up, and bacon before opening up for business.
George didn't want to disturb Dave's routine, but he needed a drink.
Whenever he thought seriously about it, he couldn't make up his mind if he was a trapped alcoholic or he was perpetually depressed about being cornered in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It didn't matter at the moment. It was too damned cold to think about anything but a drink.
He grumbled at the crisp dawning air while tugging at his coat collar, too short to cover his ears. He slipped on the gutter ice and grabbed for the metal post of the St. James Place street sign. His right palm nearly stuck to the pole, causing a burning freeze sensation on his skin. He cursed the signpost, pulled his jacket sleeve down over his palm, and glanced up the street searching for an indication of life. It was a long way uptown to where St. James split into Third and Fourth Ave.
From the corner where he stood, he could see only gray sun-shaded buildings and empty sidewalks under a uniform glaze of ice. The rows of flat-faced buildings, staring at each other through the streetlights, made irregular lines of two-and-three-story-high rooftops against the dim sky. The lines converged to a point in the distance. Somewhere just beyond that was the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, but no sign of life. Too early, he thought, the only person not still in bed would be Dave.
George puffed bursts of vapor. Above him a torn white banner hung tangled atop the street sign pole. The ragged letters spelled out Happy 1952. Shaking his head, he blurted into the air a frosty, "goddamned unbelievable. Another one. Where the hell did the last one go?"
He wanted to give Dave a little more time to get himself ready. It was a very late-night party. In fact, it couldn't have been more than three or four hours ago that it ended. He figured it must be somewhere around six a.m. now.
George wished it were springtime, when he could wander the few blocks to the east to the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges in a T-shirt and watch the barges and ferries sloshing along in the current toward the confluence of the Hudson and East Rivers. He'd often fantasized that was his reason to live here—Manhattan, Brooklyn, the great bridges securely framing the East River. Who else had such an interesting place to spend the days and years? This place was short on trees and grass, but you can't have everything. It gnawed at him that the bridges and river were much less an important part of his existence than his lack of motivation and inability to be too far away from a bottle of whiskey.
He kicked the curb, stinging his frozen toes. The concrete and brick of Manhattan seemed more rigid when the air was so cold. It was a wonder that the streets and buildings didn't crack and break apart under the stress of the city traffic during the day.
George refocused on his journey and skated almost gracefully across the sidewalk to the brick step in front of Dave's Bar and Grill. Still have the reflexes, he thought.
He banged his shoulder against the old wooden door, turning the knob with his sleeve-covered left hand, and kicked the base to crack the ice sealing the threshold. He was careful not to touch the knob with his bare hand, fearing another flash-freeze on his palm. He yanked at the door, able to pull it open only a bit more than a slit.
"Hey, is that you in there, Dave?" he yelled through the slim door opening. "The bar open yet?"
"Yeah, c'mon in, George. Happy New Year. Didn't you get enough of this stuff last night, you goddamned souse?"
The air inside was still and reeked of soured beer and stale cigarette smoke. It formed a familiar, musty vapor that tranquilized George and beckoned him into the dimness. It was warm inside, welcome protection from the icy cold. The sunlight breaking into the room as he opened the door guided him briefly, but disappeared abruptly when he shut it. He stood still for a moment, shivering and squinting to find his way through the scattered tables and chairs. Suddenly the flash of ceiling lights startled him, and a red neon Knickerbocker Beer sign over the chrome register flickered brightly before dimming into a steady glow. George slid his hands away from his eyes when he heard Dave apologize for turning on all the bar lights at once.
"Jesus, that was a party last night, wasn't it, Dave? What are you doing, cleaning the bar? The place looks like a cyclone hit it or something. You should get my old lady in here. She's always cleaning. Give her something to do. Keep her off my ass."
Dave was a cherry-cheeked Irishman. He was shaped like a pear. Slivers of what once was a thick head of red hair stretched sideways across his freckled bald head. He had on his usual white, full-length apron, wrapping him snuggly from his chest to his shoes. It was meticulously cleaned each day along with his starched white shirt. A black leather bow tie peeked out under his chubby chin. Straight rows of bright teeth glistened through a constant smile. George always referred to him as a sparkly snowball.
Dave often told George that if he'd just pay some attention to a daily shave, straighten his shoulders, and get a new shirt—the look he had just a few years ago when he was decked out in his army uniform—he'd be a really handsome guy. They had been friends for a long time, but George couldn't bring himself to emulate Dave's neatness. He wouldn't part with his wrinkled red and black plaid shirt and dungarees.
George searched the bar area until he identified his favorite chrome-legged stool. It had a stuffed seat with a worn, red plastic cover. He dragged it along the wood-planked floor from a far corner of the bar and wiggled it into its rightful position, mumbling obscenities about someone else having used it. He was angered that the thing was left at the open end of the large U-shaped bar near the drink condiments—lemons, limes, and cherries—where it might be splashed with beer and whiskey. It was supposed to stay at the closed end. He probed at the center of the seat cushion to assure himself there was no damage other than the familiar crack in the vinyl near the black piping.
George had his own bar-sitting system. He liked to tilt backward on his stool and lean against the wall so that he could comfortably survey the activities of all the customers while maintaining an unobstructed view of the nineteen-inch black-and-white TV that sat on a shelf above the cash register. He was vested in this bar. Dave owned it; he was its king. George was the prince, since he was always there and he was an old friend of Dave's.
Dave growled, "Talkin' about gettin' Margie in here to help me clean up, she's got too much to do already, cleanin' after you. For a young guy, you ain't exactly no spiffy sport yourself, you know. If I was her, I'd a left you a long time ago. You know I...
