Two Brothers - New York City Book Festival - Part II

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Saturday Morning - June 22, 2103 - 9:23 a.m.

You're a long ways from North Collins.

My publisher had once said that to me as I signed books in New York with Henry Winkler on my right and Gene Hackman on my left.

"No I'm not," I had said. "I never will be."

She'd thought I was crazy.

I thought of that as I battled the mass of people in the terminal at JFK. I thought of yelling out Fluffy's question again:

Don't you people have homes to go to?

Instead I just kept walking towards ground transportation. I texted Kathy my usual 'plane landed' type of text:

No insurance money. We're on the ground.

Once more I thought of it all. The bigger picture. We'd all go one day. Every single person in this terminal.

Terminal

Don't be whiny.

Get busy living.

I headed towards the front door and a man came rushing towards me.

"Where you going?" he asked in broken English.

He wasn't wearing a uniform.

Was I about to be scammed?

I showed him the address to the event.

"Fifty bucks. Nice car," he said.

I could almost hear my wife's voice in my ear telling me how stupid I am, but the guy sounded a lot like Mariano Rivera. He even looked like Mariano a little around the eyes.

I answered him to accept the ride and I wondered why I spoke like a foreigner whenever I spoke to someone who had English as a second language.

The car was comfortable. The ride was crazy. Mariano darted in and out of traffic. The horns were blaring. Sirens blasted. Mariano made small talk about the Yankees and the weather and he kept picking up his phone to answer what I assumed were texts.

I just looked out the window. The money to pay for the ride that might kill me already in my hand.

We came to a dead stop for a moment near 53rd street and Mariano muttered under his breath.

Why we stop? He yelled out.

The culprit was up ahead on the left hand side of the road.

I almost fell to the floor of the car when I saw it.

It was a broken down Heineken Light truck.

Our favorite beer.

I scrambled for the camera but suddenly we were free and past it.

Okay.

Maybe there would be signs.

Mariano dropped me right at the door of the hotel where the event would be taking place.

"Book Festival," he said. "You buy books?"

"I write 'em," I said.

Mariano was impressed.

"You famous?" he asked.

I paid him and gave him a nice tip. He was a good hard-working man.

"To some people," I said. "We all are. Don't text and drive."

He laughed.

I looked up at the sign for the event.

I thought of my brothers and sisters. I thought of my beautiful wife and children and Jeff's children. I thought of my friend Kim, and my buddies far across the world.

"You going in?" the doorman asked.

"We all are," I said, but then I turned and walked away.

He didn't give me a second glance.

I'm sure he was used to crazy people.

I walked a half a block away when I saw the man in the 23 shirt.

The plane left at 8:23. It landed at 9:23. I sat in row 23. The beer truck slowed me up, and now this guy.

I snapped the photo.

I added it to Facebook with the note:

This is getting creepy.

A moment later there was a response from one of Jeff's great friends, Andrea.

2 Bros.?

Check the restaurant in the background.

2 Bros. Pizza

I staggered to a chair in Greeley Square.

I felt tears burn my eyes.

I looked up.

Are you kidding me?

I glanced at my phone.

It was 10:23.

I nearly fell to the pavement.

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