The Memoir of Saint James Street James

At McSorley’s Old Ale House, a man ordered a Michelob Ultra. Light or dark.

That’s it. The guy froze like a startled deer. I laughed into

my pint. They call me Saint James Street James. Full name,

no abbreviations for cowards. I’m 186 years old, look 35,

and I’ve turned the last century into an afterparty. On the scarred table sits Hemingway’s

typewriter, a pyramid of cocaine, and a loaded pistol.

When it’s done, I tell the empty bar, I’m checking out the hard way.

A drunk in the corner slurs, Why write it at all? Because if men