God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen Splitting from Jack Delaney’s, Sheridan Square,that winter night, stewed, seasoned in Bourbon, my body kindled by the whistling air snowing the Village that Christ was reborn, I lurched like any lush by his own glow across towards Sixth, and froze before the tracks of footprints bleeding on the virgin snow. I tracked them where they led across the street to the bright side, entering the wax-sealed smell of neon, human heat, some all-night diner with its wise-guy cook his stub thumb in my bowl of stew and one man´s popped and beaten face, it´s look acknowledging all that, white-dark outside, was possible: some beast prowling the block, something fur-clotted, running wild beyond the boundary of will. Outside, more snow had fallen. My heart charred. I longed for darkness, evil that was warm. Walking, I’d stop and turn. What had I heard, wheezing behind my heel with whitening breath? Nothing. Sixth Avenue yawned wet and wide. The night was white. There was nowhere to hide.