Seizing the Day

Chapter Five: Home

SPOT CONLON

His knuckles were still stinging, the rain was biting cold, and for the third time in the past two months, he had no idea where he was going to sleep, or what his next move was going to be.

Trudging down the dirty streets that were overflowing with rainwater and trash, he kept his head down, and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. It was colder than usual for mid-October; in some ways, he was shocked it wasn't snowing. The clouds above mulled darkly as if they hadn't entirely made up their minds about that not being an option. It wouldn't be the first time they'd had snow well before Halloween, and, should the Heavens open up, it for sure wouldn't be the last, either.

Cars flashed by, more than one would expect so late at night, spraying water all over the sidewalk, and probably him- not that he'd feel it. Not that he'd care. Not that he could possibly be more livid than he already was.

Beyond that, what did it matter? He was already soaked through and through.

'This time it's final,' He thought, bitterly, ignoring the growing ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth, and the fact that his frigid, raw hands had shaken all the way from when he'd first slammed the door on his way out on Plymouth Street. 'This time, I'm done.'

He'd said that last time, though, and the time before, and yet...

Twice he'd gone back, the first time willingly. The second time, he'd dragged his heels for a couple more days before he was begged to come home. But no, this time he was finished, and while he had no conceived idea of how he was going to make things work, all he was certain of was that he couldn't go back. Not again. Not to that.

Donnie's face flashed briefly through his mind for a few flickering seconds; a brilliant, proud smile, gleaming eyes, his hair the same midnight black as their father's, curled and so very, very different from his own-

His brother. Or, at least, how his brother had been before he'd wasted his life away in cheap bottles of whiskey, and the kind of drugs that only a fifty dollar bill and a rough street could get you. Inexpensive. Probably laced with all types of fillers that were more dangerous than any of the narcotics he was putting through his system.

'Asshole.'

It would be cliche to say he walked until he saw the lights, but, in some ways, that's what he did; caught the (ridiculously sketchy) bus three blocks away from the infamous 'Hattan bridge, and then walked the rest of the way.

Over the bridge.

Out of Brooklyn.

Away from home.

He hadn't really been planning on where he'd be going, other than out. By the time he'd made it to Manhattan, two o'clock A.M. on a Thursday made his options for finding a place to hunker down seem pretty limited. And yet, fate always had a way of looking out for those who tempted her most, and it didn't take long for his feet to naturally start following the dimly-lit sidewalks out of nothing short of habit.

The neon sign of Jacobi's Diner was a sight for sore eyes and a disguised blessing. What was even more miraculous was that the 'OPEN' sign was still lit up in the doorway.

Stepping through the doors with a silent sigh of relief, Spot Conlon, famed leader of Brooklyn and current vagabond rolled his shoulders, letting the soft sound of classic rock music hit his ears, and the warmth from the old place settle into his bones. The sharp, hard point of anger that he'd carried in his chest eased a little as he finally shrugged off the cold that had trailed him all the way there. Frustration gave way to familiarity as he took in the feel of the old restaurant that had never been home but carried many good memories of when he had one.