Free Front-Page McGuffin & The Greatest Story Never Told by Peter Crowther Page A

doormen with their emotionless stares, out onto sidewalks littered with people looking in and wondering if— wishing, maybe—they could be a part of that scene.
    There is no scene in The Land at the End of the Working Day. Not as such, anyways.
    And there is no piped music here. Only the soft strains of one of Jack Fedogan’s jazz CDs wafting in and out of hearing the way trains and car-horns Doppler in and out of existence as first they approach you and then they pass you by, going on someplace else.
    Tuesday, a little after 6 pm, and Oliver Nelson’s ‘Stolen Moments’ is lazily washing around Jack Fedogan’s bar, Freddie Hubbard’s lilting trumpet solo making conversation unnecessary even if it were desired. Just a lot of introspective folks nursing Manhattans and Screwdrivers and Harvey Wallbangers and Sours, sitting staring into the mirror behind the bar, occasionally chomping on an olive or pulling on a cigarette, nervously flicking ash into a tray even before it’s formed, sometimes going with the music by tapping a foot on the bar-rail or a hand on the bar itself, thinking of the day that’s done or maybe the day that’s still to come. Another one in an endless parade of days stretching out through the weeks and the months, the seasons and the years.
    They look into that mirror like it’s the font of all knowledge. Like the silvered glass is going to tell them what’s wrong and how to put it right.
    Every few minutes, one or another of the guys shucks the shirt-ends free of his jacket sleeves, picks lint-balls from his pants and pulls them up at the knees to keep the creases fresh, occasionally waving to the ever-watchful Jack to pour another whatever, some of these guys lost—or appearing to be lost—in the headlines of the Times or USA Today , but mostly the headlines on the sports pages.
    The women in the booths along the back wall cross their legs first one way and then the other, sometimes checking in their purses for something though these checks always end without their pulling anything out. And then they just sit, staring into space or maybe glancing across at the bar while they light another cigarette, wafting the match out and tossing it in the tray in a kind of subconscious synchronized motion with the music.
    For those who don’t know it, The Land at the End of the Working Day is a walk-down bar in the greatest city in the world, New York City.
    It’s a Tuesday and Tuesdays here are quiet.
    Most everyone here tonight knows everyone else. Not by name, nor by job nor by relations nor even by what they each like or what they don’t like. They know each other by the lines on their faces and the depth of their sighs. These are the irregular regulars or maybe the regular irregulars, exchanging nods and pinched smiles like they were passing out on the street. They know what they’re here for and it isn’t company.
    They’re here to drink.
    They’re here to forget.
    And a few are here to remember.
    But there’s also a nucleus of regular regulars, folks who do know each other’s name. Usually, these guys—they’re mostly guys—sit together at one or another end of the bar, clustered around the soda and beer taps and always within reaching distance of one of Jack’s bowls of pretzels and nuts. But not in the great misnomer that is Happy Hour.
    There’s nothing particularly happy about Happy Hour.
    Come 7:00, 7:30 at the outside, the place will start filling up. Folks will come in as couples, some married and some not but all of them comfortable with each other’s company. And, generally speaking, all of them comfortable with life itself. They’ll come in before going to a show or before going for a meal. Some of them will even come in to make a night of it, to get lost in conversation. And laughter and talk will fight for position with Jack Fedogan’s CDs and the result will be a curious but entirely right amalgam of energy and sound and excitement.
    But not now.
    Now it’s a little