Confessions of a Bronx Bookie is a concisely written inspirational tale about Irish Immigrant, Connor Kelly. From the Bronx streets to Vietnam and back, each self-contained chapter is a rolling, rollicking ramble seen through a haze of drugs, alcohol and whorehouse—a manic-alcoholic’s self-prescribed fun-ride back to reality.
Lost causes are the ones we pray for the hardest.
Throughout Mom’s Alzheimer’s I prayed every day.
A year after her death, I was done praying.
I didn’t need God. I needed a drink.
When I left a Westchester bar stewed, it was 2 am and pouring rain.
Despite the nasty weather, I lowered my passenger window and hoped the
howling night air would keep me alert. Through my Buick’s slapping
windshield wipers. I squinted at the flatbed truck paused ahead of me at
the stop sign.
Nor completely plastered, I slowed up and pulled behind it. I didn’t
spot the red flag attached to the 12 foot pipes that extended past the
end of the truck’s bed.
The steel explored through my windshield, rocketed an inch from both of
my ears and blew out the rear window, I sat frozen. The silence became
palpable and merciless in its depths The only sound came from my car’s
radio. The Temptations towed me to tears.
“People get ready, there’s a train a coming. You don’t need no
ticket. You just get on board.”
With decapitation two inches from both ears, covered in broken glass and
as frightened as a lost child, my sodden fingers formed the sign of the
cross, but I refused to bless myself. Instead, I sat alone in this
windowless wreck with nowhere to turn, nowhere to go and watched a
drunken gambler’ life flick before me like a deck of cards.
Excerpted from "Confessions of a Bronx Bookie" by Billy O'Connor. Copyright © 2015 by Billy O'Connor. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.