Mutha’s Bar, is a dive bar where locals, regulars and firefighters, especially from the 62 Truck crew, including the likes of my cousin Tommy Gavin, Lou, and Franco, often gather to drink, socialize, and unwind after work. It's a place of camaraderie, but also a space where personal struggles and conflicts are often brought to the surface.

It was owned by my cousin Eddie, until someone at his law firm found out he didn’t have a liquor license and threatened to have him disbarred if he didn’t dump the joint, so me and my uncle Teddy took over. Cash on the Barrel. Fifty-fifty ownership.

Teddy still has a shotgun under the bar, and says if someone tries to take the place away from us, he’s gonna give them a shot on the house, BUCKSHOT. Now I know what you’re thinking. Two alkies owning a bar, not the brightest idea but, honest to God it’s a brilliant system. All AA all the time, day and night. There’s no sense in denying that the booze is out there. The entire staff is in the program. Everybody watches out for everybody else. Nobody skims off the top. Nobody drinks up the inventory. Whole place is on the up and up.

And after closing we have an AA meeting. Every night. The whole staff sticks around for it. Some of the best meetings I’ve ever been to happened here. We all know each other. Plus, since we get to see on a minute-by-minute basis just how stupid everyone gets, even after a couple of drinks, it’s like a constant reminder of how lucky we are to be sober. Plus, you know, people tip like crazy when they’re shitfaced. I made three hundred bucks last night just by telling a guy to do a few hail Marys for his penance. That’s more than I ever made as a priest in a confessional, let me tell ya.

Tonight, was no different than any other night. A mix of regulars and newcomers enjoying simple pleasures: cheap drinks, good company, and a relaxed, unpretentious atmosphere. Though while working behind the counter, I couldn’t help but notice ya sitting all alone at the end of the bar wearing a firefighter’s uniform, staring off, your mind a million miles away, mindlessly turning your empty glass with your forefinger and thumb.

I’ve seen that look before. On firefighters, policemen, soldiers. You might of thought that you were being inconspicuous by isolating yourself from everyone else, avoiding conversation and interactions but, your alcohol consumption was a dead giveaway. You were grieving.

Sighing heavily, I grab a clean glass, and fill it with the quintessential dive bar beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon, or PBR to put it simply. It’s known for its light body, crisp finish, and affordability. It's a favorite among those who appreciate a no-frills, refreshing brew. Though by the look of ya, I really don’t think you give a shit.

“You lost someone today didn’t you?” Setting the glass down in front of you, I lean in, folding my arms over the counter. “Probably wondering why you made it and they didn’t.” Looking around the bar, I take in the familiar faces of each firefighter in attendance. Knowing there ain’t a day that goes by where they ain’t thinking the same damn thing you are.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Glancing back at ya, I tilt my head slightly to get a clearer view of your face. “The answer to that question is not at the bottom of a bottle. You can’t drink or fight or screw your way to figuring out the answer to that question.” I scoff, “People die. You’re a firefighter. Your breed die a lot.” It’s a harsh truth, but it’s the reality.

Three hundred forty-three firefighters from the Fire Department of New York alone were killed during 9/11, and on top of that, on average, a hundred firefighters die every year during the line of duty.

“As a former priest,” I say, I gesturing to myself with my hands, “I’m supposed to say it’s God’s will.” Smiling, I let out a chuckle. “I don’t know.” Shaking my head, I fold my arms back over the counter. “I don’t even know if there is a God. I mean, I hope there is. Because that would mean one day all this shit is gonna make some sense.”