GOT PULP?: New York, New York

My day began with a six-dollar shoeshine. Which became an eight-dollar shoeshine when the man who’d suckered me into it failed to provide correct change for a twenty. But I imagine that was all part of his plan. And that was just fine with me. Because he seemed pretty down on his luck. Besides, ~~I’d always wanted a shoeshine, and I finally got to sit in one of those big leather chairs~~ I had plenty of time to kill.

While he shined, I thought about all the shoes that had been shined there before mine. Hundreds of thousands of shoes. Coming and going. Walking countless miles.

The man below me tapped on my foot with his polished-up finger and rubbed in the goop then wiped it in with a rag. The rag was old. It had been white at one time but now it was shades of gray (Not a reference to that horrible book. It was shades of gray).

After my shine, I waited for my flight: St. Louis to LaGuardia. And with plenty of time to kill, I did what any writer sitting at an airport would have done. I started drinking.

Sure, it was early, so I know what you’re thinking. And you’re probably right. On one hand, a quarter of ten was too early for a drink. But on the other hand I was ready.

I had a lot on my mind; after all, I was finally going to New York City. The Big Apple. A place I’d dreamed of seeing from some of my earliest memories. The sights and the sounds and the smells. The buildings and the gargantuan slices of pizza and the transvestites.

My God, I could hardly wait.

I had a few beers and returned to my gate and handed the man my ticket. My experience thus far was flawless—but I encountered my first problem just as soon as I boarded the plane. Because it was a small plane. With small seats. And my fellow travelers were crammed in rows, shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-asshole. Straps of suitcases and handbags spilled from overhead compartments like the guts from a wounded beast.

Where do I sit? I asked the stewardess, though I already knew.

18E, the row to my right. The empty seat between two full seats—both currently occupied by people who hoped I was not going to sit between them.

She smiled, the stewardess. Like she’d just read my mind—read all our minds—and said, “Don’t worry. It’ll just be a little tight.”

A little tight?

“Either that, or you’ll have to walk to the back'n sit by the engine.”

Of course I’d rather sit by the engine. So I just kept walking.

I found my seat and reclined it and put on my headphones and closed my eyes.

I woke up as we made our approach. Looked out the window. It looked cold. Bodies of water below us, thick with ice, connected by tiny bridges.

Outside the airport, Dr. Glenn Gray picked me up. Movie star handsome, that guy. And cool, too: sunroof open, hair—perfectly coifed—blowing in the afternoon breeze.

“Let’s go see Big Daddy,” he said. That would be, Todd Robinson; publisher of THUGLIT; a husband and a father and a bartender, and now a published author. So after a few more drinks at an Irish pub and a plate of kick-ass sushi, we headed to the book release party of Todd’s debut novel, The Hard Bounce. And his signing was amazing. Big Daddy was a real charmer. In a fancy suit with an amazing beard—the kind of beard that gives other men with great beards envy. That’s Big Daddy for you. Always saying funny shit with a Boston slash New York accent.

Big Daddy Thug

I also got to hang with Ben LeRoy, from Tyrus Books—one of the greatest people on Planet Earth. The kind of guy who would, not only give you the shirt off his back, but he’d also buy you a brand new shirt of your own. And then he would fly you to a destination of your choice so you could wear it. He would. Because Ben does shit like that for people.

Myself & BLR

The man leads by example. And I’m not just saying this because a part of me wants my agent to send him my new book and thinks portraying him publicly in such high regard will cause him to show my manuscript favor.

I’m saying it because it’s true. Ask anyone.

Then I was directed to a table where I found a stack of my own books, right in front of the door. Something I'd dreamed of seeing my whole life. I spent the next few minutes signing copies while my agent took pictures. It was a perfect moment. We had more drinks.

Frank Sinatra in a Blender

After we left The Mysterious Bookshop, we made our way to the bar. To the after party at Shade, Big Daddy’s second home. There, I continued to drink with LitReactor's own Rob Hart, author of The Last Safe Place; my agent, and Joan Jett’s guitar player. Not to mention, my big brother Glenn Gray – BTW, Dr. Gray will have an astonishing new short story collection being published later this year. That’s right. A twisted, bizarre collection of stories, each with its own unique medical angle.

After a marathon day of drinking, we dropped off my agent, then got pulled over, then dropped off Big Daddy, then drove out to Long Island where I managed to make it to bed just as the sun came up.

The next day I went to a bookstore and bought books and ate pizza. Then it was back to the good Doctor’s house. I watched Archer and played chess and drank a bottle of Crown Royal with Mr. and Mrs. Gray.

Side note* never, under any circumstances, play chess with Glenn Gray.

N@B NY: On Sunday, we stopped by 5 Guys Burgers on our way to the city and ate. Then we sat in traffic on the LIE. Long Island Expressway. And let me tell you, the LIE was a real bastard. One long parking lot filled with sheet metal and glass. Then we drove through a long tunnel that went under a river and then we were there. In the heart of the city. Traffic was mad and unpredictable. But we finally found a place to park. Two blocks from Shade. Close.

We left the car and walked to Shade and found our seats and started drinking.
Rob Hart, Josh Bazell, & Glenn Gray

And then people started showing up. Like, Josh Bazell, who told me he was coming, but still. That was huge. Because I love that guy. He wrote Beat the Reaper for fucks sake. Plus, he blurbed my book. So it was great to finally meet him. To see him nod at me from across the bar. And he was ever-oh-so-cool. Charming, funny. Everything I expected.

Before long, the others started coming. Filling every available space in a bar that’s half the size of a coat closet. My lovely agent arrived, so did Rob Hart, and Tom Pluck, and then, the man himself, Reed Farrel Coleman. A writer I’d met before but never hung out with. Kathleen Ryan arrived, what a sweetheart. I’d known her for years but just finally met her. Hilary Davidson walked in, and she smiled and she hugged me. One of the kindest people I know. Always lovely.

I drank with Justin Porter and Al Tucher and Terrence McCauley. There were others, too. Many of them met in varying states of sobriety, and whose names now escape me. But they were good people, all of them. Nice people. The kind of writers who made me proud to be a writer.

The rest is pretty much a blur. Lots of beer and whiskey and shots of Patron. A handful of writers read. Hell, I read. And then I sold every book I took. And then I drank some more. Went outside to throw up. Made two phone calls and sent a tweet and came back inside and continued drinking. I didn’t miss a beat that night.

We ended our evening with pizza. The good Dr. and I—along with a dude who I met, and enjoyed, but whose name now escapes me as well—plus, the legendary author of over 16 novels, the incomparable Reed Farrel Coleman.

That was the perfect end to an outstanding weekend. And all of this compliments of Glenn Gray. To everyone I met and drank with and ate with and signed books for, thank you, for an amazing weekend in New York.

I only wish I could remember more of it.