New York is known for its drinking establishments, most especially the ubiquitous Irish Pubs. The Irish Punt, like most of these places, offers a wide selection of drinks, a relaxed ambience as well as a friendly and most knowledgeable service staff.
Located at 40 Exchange Place in Downtown Manhattan, steps from The Stock Exchange, The Punt hosts everyone from security workers and teachers to stock brokers and executives, all with the same, simple desire – a drink (or two) in a secluded spot.
The Punt has served New Yorkers and tourists alike since 1995 and now, given the Covid-19 restrictions, needs our support. It’s safe as safe can be – I myself have visited a few times lately – and just like you remember it. So come on out and ask if McPhedran is around. I might even buy you a drink.
I was let down again. Disappointment reigns. It was a writer’s workshop this time, an opportunity that almost seemed ideal, like it really would work. I was sure of that. Well, I wasn’t sure. Not quite that. But confident. And confident they would accept me. Almost. And then. Thud. Damn thud.I mean, I keep expecting something, at some point, to work. There should be. There must be. I mean, I get that it’s a struggle to find an agent and a publisher. I get that. But a workshop?! Come on! Not a workshop. What now? A deserted island. A mountaintop to clear my head. Damn thud. Ugh and damn. When is this thing going to turn? The thing is to push ahead. To fight back. To make it work. And to drink. Yeah, at least do that.
I thought this was a good scene because the character, Tony was clear – his mannerisms and irritating tone – the dialogue moved, and Dee showed who she was…and then I realized that none of it helped the story. Therefore it is dead.“I don’t do camping.” Tony cornered me. “Ever been to Fenwick?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s in the city.” He was lean and cocked his head in sickening confidence. “Big money thing. Fenwick.”
“You’re from New York?”
“It’s jacket and tie. I wasn’t into it, but it’s this big money thing, right?” He picked at his beer can tab, nodding to himself. “Augustine’s not like that.”
“It’s not a big money thing.”“You know Marky? He graduated Augustine last year. He lives in Chelsea.”
He tried to put his arm over my shoulder but I ducked away. “We did a bit of pre-game and then we’re driving through Chelsea. Marky likes to drive fast, right? He makes this turn and then another. He thinks this car is following us. And he wants to lose it. He was crazy like that.”
“Why were you driving? It’s New York.”
“Marky’s got this beautiful Beamer, man. Series Three, right?” He put his hand stupidly on my arm again, like he was hanging onto a subway pole. “Anyway, he runs this stop sign, a fucking stop sign in Manhattan. Chelsea, right? And this car really is following us, right? And I’m telling him to relax.” He was bending down, trying to find an angle to kiss. “It’s the cops. The cops, right? And we have like a case of beer and a 40 of vodka. Marky is freaking out. I tell him I’ll handle it.”