The Therapy Bar

It was Halloween 1985, a useless holiday that kids wallowed in, running from house to house like banshees, eating copious amounts of candy until they get sick and go home. 

Henry and Lucia lived on the 14th floor so, they didn’t expect any trick-or-treaters, but were ready if any showed having filled a basket with Cadbury chocolate bars, royally endorsed by the Queen of England, who liked them. He asks Lucia,

do they celebrate Halloween in Cuba? She answers, 

No, it’s banned because it’s subversivo! The party periodico, Granma, runs stories about criminales in the US who come out on Halloween and do bad things. Cubanos love Halloween because they are always looking for an excuse to party, or put a costume on.

The phone rings, it’s his editor Dave Spleen, talking quickly he says, 

Henry baby, your last story, Way, Way Out There was a total bust! We got hate letters from our readers! What did you expect? Writing about a bar party where a deli owner lays down a line of coke that runs the length of the bar? Just awful stuff! Henry says, 

look, Dave, in defense of Way, Way, Out There, OK, it’s out there, but for some, a 3-meter line of cocaine is a dream.

Dave hangs up the phone saying, 

gotta go, gotta deadline to meet!

Did you know Edgar Allen Poe is considered by literati to be the father of the modern short story? Poe a short story writer who was a native thinker and an architect of writing techniques.

He attended the University of Virginia in 1823 and was brilliant academically but had to drop out because his step-father couldn’t pay. 

By 1825 he moved from Boston to his hometown Richmond, Virginia and joined the Army, at the same time publishing for the 1st time, a book of poetry entitled, Tamerlane and Other Poems, which went unnoticed by readers and reviewers. 

As an artist, Poe felt out of place in the army and was discharged in 1829 for dereliction of duty, then moving to Baltimore to live with his aunt. It was during this time that Poems, his 3rd collection of verse was published. Over the next few years, his first short stories were published in the Baltimore Courier, one-story  MS. Found in a Bottle, won a cash prize

Poe wrote habitually and was unemployed,  his financial situation became so bad that he skipped meals, spending most of what little money he had on whiskey. Luckily, in 1834 he was offered the editorship of The Southern Literary Magazine, a job immaculately suited for him, so he packed his bags, bringing his Aunt and 12-year-old cousin, a Lolita he later married when she was 14, to Richmond, Virginia.

While editing The Southern Literary Magazine over the next 10 years, he published his own short stories and poems, as well as writing top-shelf literary criticism, becoming America’s leading man of letters. 

Nevertheless, Poe continues to struggle financially, making ends meet by editing for a number of magazines such as Graham’s Magazine and the Broadway Journal.

Throughout his life Poe abused alcohol, turning to booze to deal with personal struggles, the booze exasperating hard times and causing mental turmoil. Poe had tried to quit boozing often in a time when there was little help for addicts other than locking themselves in a sanitarium or joining the Temperance Movement. 

When reading Poe's short stories, which are written in 1st person narrative form, his narrator often speaks of using opium as a vehicle for voyages into the macabre. 

Poe didn't use opium, but towards the end of his life, he drank absinthe mixed with brandy, a nasty psychedelic brew. Absinthe is distilled with herbs, including Wormwood that contains the chemical Thujune which is a hallucinogen.

In June 1849 Poe set out on a speaking tour to make money which he desperately needed. He boarded a ferry at his home in Richmond, Virginia to travel to New York, but he would never make it. While cruising on the ferry he drank himself into a booze stupor, getting off the rig in Baltimore, out of his head and in rough condition. He goes to a tavern so loaded he collapses on the bar. On the ferry, Poe had exchanged his trademark black wool suit with a fellow reveler for a cheap, ill-fitting, clown-like suit and a goofy straw hat.

An alert patron sends a note to a doctor who comes to the bar, seeing Poe was close to death the doctor had him admitted to a  hospital. Where, over the next few days Poe hallucinated, drifted in and out of consciousness, and raged insanely to anyone who would listen. 

A week later he dies alone in the hospital from complications of alcohol poisoning.

In his life, Poe received acclaim as a fiction writer and some popular success, especially after The Raven was published. Many years after his death world literati wrote countless essays that questioned his sanity, wondering if he was as demented as the madmen and murderers in his work. 

As late as the mid 20th Century, respected scholars such as TS Elliot, Aldous Huxley, and Henry James repudiated Poe’s work as being vulgar and debased. While others, William Carlos Williams and George Bernard Shaw considered him to be one of history’s greatest writers.

Poe was misunderstood in life as well as death.

As Henry raps the bit on Poe the phone rings, it’s his editor Dave Spleen who says, 

We’re having a Halloween party at the office tonight, show up, bring your trophy wife, costumes only, gotta go, gotta a deadline to meet! 

Dave, a well-known speed freak hangs up the phone before, saying the usual, his epitaph,

gotta go, gotta deadline to meet! Henry yelling so Lucia who is in the bathroom can hear him, 

There’s a costume party at work, whataya gonna wear? Lucia says, 

a Gypsy, and you?

Thinking some, deciding to go as Freida Kahlo, she was born on July 6 and he was born on July 3, he felt connected with her at the soul. Lucia could braid his long hair to look like Kahlo, draw a line between and accentuate his eyebrows with a black magic marker. Putting on a dress would be easy.

Some guys look good in drag and others don’t. Henry was drop-dead gorgeous in drag, for one night only the couple would-be 2 sisters clubbing, Lucia asking,

do you get hot in the dress bebe? He says, 

no, I like it, it’s comfortable, crotchless, your stuff can breathe, dresses are great for men.

HEADBANGER Magazine offices were in the Meat Packers district, the subway stops at 13th Street Station and the drag couple gets out, walking to and going into the 1st bar that comes their way, a gay-bar called Therapy Bar. Inside they sit in a deep-set booth with their legs up, resting on sofa cushions, they order drinks, enjoying the gay music, watching hombre a hombre dancing.

Henry and Lucia feel hidden in the deep-set booth they are sitting in and begin to make out, looking like 2 women making out, or a ladyboy making out with a woman. 

There's a large dance floor in Therapy Bar, the couple enthusiastically jumps up to dance, free flow hippy dancing. Pharma drugs are readily available here, Xanax, pharmaceutical opiates and hash oil.

Relaxing in their booth, Henry and Lucia order a pitcher of margaritas and 2 dime size plastic packages, one Xanax and one Tramadol. Sampling the mix, feeling numb.

At midnight, they leave the Therapy bar and catch a taxi back to Queens.

At their apartment they shower and go to bed, lying on their backs as they look up at the ceiling, feeling like they're freefalling backward.

Way, Way Outta Control!

It's a sparkling summer day, July 1985. A baseball day, the Yanks are playing the Chicago White Sox at Yankee Stadium and the Bronx Bombers are up 4 to zip in the 6th inning. 

Henry a Met’s fan was listening to the game on 700 WFTM, Yankee radio, paying no heed to the score or the action, letting the sounds of the game flow through him, the cadence of the play by play broadcast relaxed him.

Lucia walks into his office sexy-like wearing a knitted thong bikini. The bodily display is a visual teaser promoting the soon to be beach trip. She says, 

mi amor, ir a lay playa, he says, 

OK, I need to work, I'll take a portable typewriter, what about the Chis? She answers as the small dogs bark, 

hear the babies saying, I wana go, Daddy! He says, 

OK, let's go to Coney Island, we'll have to leash them. 

The phone rings, it’s Henry’s editor Dave Spleen, a speed-poppin-speed-talker, who spoke but never listened— and if you asked why? He would say, gotta go, gotta deadline to meet, Spleen says, 

Henry, baby, your last story, The Yellow Brick Road to the Chelsea Hotel, our readers loved it! We had to run a 2nd printing within hours of distribution! Ciao baby gotta go, gotta deadline to meet!

Everything about Dave Spleen needed to be ticketed by the mind police for speeding. One day, soon maybe, his old lady, Goldy Spleen would walk into the offices of HEADBANGER Magazine and find Dave slumped over at his desk, his skin green, dried and wrinkled like a raisin.

Henry's relationship with Dave was ambiguous, Dave needed him, not vice-a-versa, Henry was an underground literary legend in New York City, his work was off-color, raw, funny in an odd way and unapologetic— unsuited for rags such as The New Yorker or New York Magazine. 

He couldn't tell you why he wanted to wallop Dave like a piñata, he held the feeling inside. But, one sure thing, speedball Dave was a bizarre package who weirded out more than a few.

Maybe, HEADBANGER Magazine readers found Henry's biographies on modern literary lions—  biographies written within narrative stories, dreary. He researched the biographies at Queen’s Public Library, striving to write in a bonafide way which wasn't dulled-down by over the top detail. Knowing as well, if the research material was flavorless, he would fall asleep from the neck up as he typed and his work would go flat.

Jack Kerouac’s writing was on the other side of the moon, he didn't go to libraries for direction. He did research in surly bars, Time’s Square and on the road, not at libraries. And, if you asked him about writing he would say,

It ain’t what you write, it’s the way atcha write it.

Kerouac’s alliterated, rhythmic sentence on writing and Hunter S. Thompson’s Gonzo style were lasered in Henry's brain.

Thompson like Kerouac believed a writer needed to go directly to the source to research a story, saying, 

No honest writer, for instance, would validate—with his byline—a third-hand account of a Scottish gamekeeper who claims to be a werewolf. You’d have to confront the man, assuming he’s alive, and get a fix on his head by discussing other things.

It's close to noon, Lucia walks into Henry’s office, the Chihuahuas, Che, and Mia are following her on leashes. She's wearing a  oxford shirts over a bikini and a pair of rubber flip-flops. He quickly changes into a boxer style swimsuit, a Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops and a floppy straw hat with a red, Veteran’s Day poppy in the band. 

They leave their Queen’s apartment, riding down the elevator to reach the street— he carried a portable typewriter and she has a large bag on her shoulder, the Chis following on leashes. 

They wave down a taxi, the driver who is a Sheikh asks in an Indian accent,

please, where are going? Lucia says, 

Coney Island, the driver says, 

that will be 40 dollars, madame, I will turn the meter off, and I hope the puppies are house trained, Lucia laughs and says as she hands him a 50 dollar bill, 

keep the change señor, my babies won’t pipi in your taxi.

The sheikh is a steady driver, Henry, Lucia, and the Chis eyeball the action outside as the cab weaves through the hot city streets— kids in swimsuits, spraying water with hoses at one another, playing with squirt-guns running through open fire hydrants that are gushing water. Fruit, hot dog, pretzel, and ice cream stands. Whores, pimps and dope dealers, folks big and small, some needing to cool down, others wanting to sell something. 

In 30 minutes the taxi stops near the boardwalk at Coney Island, Lucia thanks the driver, as they walk the wooden steps down to the beach they see a sign that reads,

                          SHARK ATTACK

                            

                            NO SWIMMING 

                    UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE  

Regardless, there are scattered sunbathers, people playing volleyball. The lifeguards are there to keep people out of the water. 

Henry rents 2 large umbrellas and 2 foldable chairs for 20 bucks, then going to a boardwalk liquor store to buy 2 six-packs of Miller beer, which the sellers put in a styrofoam cooler filled with ice.

They sit, protected from the sun by the umbrellas, drink beer, and smoke a joint. Lucia lets the Chis off the lease and runs on the sand with them, her luxuriously rounded body undulating as she moves. Henry typing a story and intermittently sipping a canned beer.

After awhile Lucia tires, Che and Mia to the umbrella poles, not wanting to get ticketed by the shore patrol. Henry still working as she falls asleep in the folding chair. The afternoon fades into evening and it feels like time stops. As night falls they both are asleep in folding chairs, then startled out of their slumber by yelping Chis and a lifeguard who says, 

 beach closed !  

They catch a taxi back to Queens, having to pay another 50 bucks, taking the subway to Queens was hairy because there were so many changes. In life, the easy way out always seemed to cost you. 

Back at the apartment, Lucia cooks the dogs fresh chicken liver, rice, and carrots. Then showering and quickly dressing to go out to eat.

Leaving the apartment they walk a few blocks to eat at a deli where Henry had been a regular in the past. He loved deli food and wanted Lucia to try it. He felt uneasy because his X girlfriend, Ruby was a waitress there. Lucia eclipsed Ruby in body and soul, but Ruby was a good woman, sexy some, who in the past cleaned Henry’s apartment and was there for him when he was addicted to junk.

As they walk to the deli he explains, simply saying, 

my X Ruby is a waitress at Chaim’s Deli, if she waits on us, be cool, no hissy fits darling, Lucia laughs saying, 

I love you too much to shame you in front of friends bebe, I’ll bust your culo when we get home!

They laugh and walk into Chaim’s Deli. It’s in a single-story brick building on the corner of a downtown street that was built in the early 60s. The entire front of the building was windowed, the couple sits in a booth next to the window. 

Ruby makes a b-line to them with menus and says, 

Henry, how ya doin? Dave Spleen was here a few weeks ago, he told me you married a Cuban gal, Lucia breaks in saying, 

that'd be me, I’m Lucia nice to meet you! Henry asks, 

she's never had deli food, can you give us an assortment doll? Ruby says, 

Chaim will put something together for you guys.

She walks to the bar and brings a pitcher of Michelob beer mixed with Clamato. Halfway into the pitcher, Ruby brings a tray with small plates of assorted kosher standards— gefilte fish, chopped chicken liver, pastrami, pickles, coleslaw, and corn beef, along with a basket of sliced rye bread.

Lucia loved the deli food, it was close to closing time, 10 PM. Ruby says,

we're having an after-work get together at a nearby bar and want you guys to come! It's close, we can go together.

Ruby walks with Henry and Lucia to a small neighborhood bar called Neirs. They go inside, the place is empty, they sit at the bar, ordering shots and beer. 20 minutes later Chaim shows with 10 others— waitresses, cooks, the dishwasher, a few Black, a few Hispanic, Chaim and Ruby the only Jews in the lot. The group stands at the bar and talks loudly as they drink, laughing about the odd behavior and eccentric habits of their regular customers.

Then Chaim, who is a fun-loving dope addict pulls an ounce of cocaine out of his pocket saying, 

Ruby, did you bring the Polaroid? OK, we are going to break the Guinness World Record for the longest line of cocaine! Everybody finish your drinks, hand the empty glasse to the bartender and stand back a few steps

The maniac Chaim drys the bar with a towel, then carefully pouring a 3-meter line of cocaine which he shapes to perfection using a Visa card. Saying, 

get your straws and dollar bills ready and have at it! 

The deli staff, Henry, Lucia, Chaim, and the bartender, snort what is front of them quickly, everyone greedy, then Chaim pulls another ounce of coke out of his vest pocket and says, 

let’s do it again, 

proceeding to wipe the bar down and laying out and shaping another 3-meter line of coke. Ruby snaps a picture of the monumental line with a Polaroid camera. The cocaine slobs go at, this time licking the bar to get every bit of crystal that wasn't snorted. 

Henry looking around, taken aback, noticing the partiers who looked normal earlier, were pale with bloodshot eyes, mumbling grandly and saying nothing. He wondered if the 4000 plus dollars, 2 days profit from Chaim’s Deli was well spent? Turning normal folks into cocaine slobs!

By 2 AM the gang at Neir’s Bar were still snorting coke and drinking, the place was closed so it was a private party. 

The scene is getting weirder, Henry and Lucia say good-by. As they are walking home they breathe the still night air and it centers them, Lucia says,  

darling, that was way, way outta control! The deli guy Chaim es muy loco! Do you have any Xanex?

In Cuba Dogs Run Free!

It was a fall day in 1983 and the gods were hot under the collar, taking it out on the city, seeding the overhead clouds with a beastly drizzle, blighting the earthlings below with inimical feelings.  

Henry working on a story, feeling itchy inside, thinking he inhaled something bad, maybe an eensy-weensy soul-eating creature resembling a Maine lobster that is having its way as it moves about in his internal physiology. Only the gods knew for sure and physicians couldn't help. 

Lucia his Cuban wife, returns from the salon, exuberantly walking into Henry’s office clutching her large Gucci handbag, her expression is animated as she says,

I’m so happy, I was walking home from Valencia’s Salon, and I got the feeling somebody was following me, I turned rapida, and I see a tiny perro, a Chihuahua! Darling the gods sent the bebe to me!

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a tiny tea-colored Chihuahua small enough to fit in a beer mug, cradling the tiny creature saying, 

I love her so much, su nombre es Mia!

A Chihuahua, the ultimate feminine fashion accessory for Lucia— like Elizabeth Taylor who lovingly brought her Malta everywhere saying, 

I’ve never loved a dog like this in my life. It’s amazing. Sometimes I think there’s a person in there … There’s something to say for this kind of love— it’s unconditional. 

Henry sensed there wasn't anything in the world that would separate Lucia and Mia and he says,   

I’m all for it babe, I love dogs, but someone is surely looking for Mia and what kind of doggy-parents are we? You might lose Mia when you're loaded! Leering she says, 

eso es horrible Henry, I don’t care what you say, Mia is mine, mine mine! I love her!

That was it, he knew he was powerless — a mother's love for her baby rescinds all logic. 

As he works on his 2nd pitcher of mojitos, Lucia leaves the apartment to go to Wagging Tales Pet shop and Groomer in Queens buying Mia—dresses, beds, bowls, bones, making sure the new baby is, bathed, perfumed and manicured. On the way to Wagging Tales, she had looked around for missing pet posters on the trees or light posts, seeing a few but none with Mia’s petite canine mug on them. 

The phone rings, it’s Dave Spleen and before Henry can say hello, Dave is blabbering quick time, it was no secret that he was a speed freak.

Henry baby, our readers loved your bit on heroin, you touched folks, junk sales are up in the city! Just kidding, anyway my man, how bout a bit on homelessness in the Big Apple? Take your toothsome Latina wife to the village tonight and have dinner on me!

What bullshit, Dave Spleen was so tight that he breathed through his nose to keep his teeth from wearing out, the big shot often said— go have a meal on me, but for motormouth Spleen talk was cheap. 

Lucia back at the apartment with the new baby Mia, who has had her nails done and is sporting a lovely dress, Henry teasing says,

darling, Dave Spleen called and he mentioned the circus is in town and a company of dancing dogs escaped, should I call the circus, maybe there’s a reward for your baby! And she says, 

Don’t you dare, My little Mia can’t dance, she has 2 left feet.

The roots of New York City’s homeless problem can be traced back to economic hardships triggered by the Great Depression. By the 60s lack of affordable housing and policies of the mental health community affected the plight of the homeless. 

During this period city institutions released 60% of the 90,000 incarcerated patients at the behest of the NYC Department of Mental Health to cut cost by treating the released patients on an outpatient basis with new miracle drugs such as Prozac, Moban, and Polexin. The bold move was a washout that condemned hoards of Big Apple mental patients to the hazards of living on the streets.

By the 70’s the sight of homeless folks sleeping on the street was commonplace, many communing in the Bowery and other skid row areas. At this time the city set up emergency shelters in the Bowery, but this was like adding salt to a septic wound, the conditions inside the shelters where foul and many nightly residents caught tuberculosis, crabs or lice.       

At present, the conditions in the shelters have improved and shelter is available for those who want it, but many don’t want it, preferring to live free from the rules of the shelters such as curfews and sobriety. 

One Saturday morning the streets of Kips Bay, Manhattan resembled the Night of the Living Dead— A man whose face looked like it was covered with cow patties was passed out at the entrance of a playground with one leg resting on his walker. Another guy was snoring blissfully on a bed made of dirty seat cushions with a football as a pillow in the doorway of an empty store. And, others were laying on the sidewalks so that passer-byes had to step around them— of course, this kind or scene is nothing new for New Yorkers. 

The homeless or bums as they were once called are responsible for a lot of problems in the city such as—verbal and physical assaults, defecating on sidewalks or in doorways, whoring and petty crimes.

In the end, it will be easier to find a cure for HIV or cancer than to end homelessness in the city. Many of the surviving homeless lot gave up caring a long time ago, using cheap booze and dope to endure the wretchedness of street living. 

Homeless folks are polar-opposites of the wealthy homeowners in the city who detest them because they’re an eyesore and a new shelter in the neighborhood means property values will depreciate. Big Apple rich can be a heartless lot, boguu money desensitizes some.  

One solution might be to put the cities homeless in a rocket ship fired to the moon, then setting up a colony of module units and tents, and providing monthly lunar drops of food and other necessities.  

As Henry wraps up the bit on the city's homeless, he wonders if his fan base will take heed of the flat and jejune statistical story— a story that's a far cry from the enchantment of magic realism or the camp absurdities of his daily life with Lucia. 

As the sun is setting in Queens, Lucia dances into Henry’s office with little Mia following walking Chihuahua style, alternately lifting her front legs high, prancing like a Lipizzan, Lucia asks, 

darling, where will we take Mia tonight? Henry quizzically saying, 

Does this mean our social life is going to revolve around Mia? Pouting Lucia answers,

Mia is my comfort pet, we help each other!

They clean up and dress for their night out, Henry considering pet-friendly venues, for Lucia though, pet-friendly was of little concern, because she couldn't imagine anyone not loving her little Mia.    

Henry reckoned the only way to avoid bringing Mia everywhere was to buy another Chihuahua to keep her company at home when the couple went out.  

Lucia pulls a black A-line skirt over her head to her waist and zips it, then putting on a black t-shirt with pink lettering that reads,   

                                 O.C.D.

                              Obsessive

                             Chihuahua 

                               Disorder 

Henry wearing a black pin-striped Oxford shirt, and faded blue jeans. Little Mia is wearing her new pink tutu and her nails are painted pink to match. 

The threesome walk to Flushing Street Station, catching the A-train to the Village, Mia is safely tucked into Lucia’s large bag, occasionally poking her little head out for air and a look-see. They de-train at Astor Place Station in the Village and walk to a Rico’s, an Italian Restaurant with an outdoor cafe, getting seated straight away as a youngish hipster, white shirt, black pants brings menus, Henry orders, 

let’s see? A pitcher of Peroni Beer, a Caprese salad, Risotto Romano, and some Penne Milanese! 

As they sit and drink beer, Dave Spleen happens to be walking by on 11th Street with his wife Goldy, they sit down with Henry and Lucia for a drink, and Henry pulling Dave's chain says,

Dave, are you going to make good on the dinner invite? Reaching into his pocket looking flushed Dave says, 

Jesus, I forgot my wallet, can you believe it? Goldy and I are on our way to dinner at the in-laws, next time for sure.    

Then Goldy, who's allergic to canine saliva sneezes, spooking Mia who barks and then jumps out of Lucia’s bag to the ground, going at Dave, nipping him on his calf, Lucia promptly picks up Mia and says to Dave, 

you know what they say, if your dog doesn’t like someone, you probably shouldn’t either, Dave then says, 

Has the little mutt had a rabies shot? And Lucia answers, 

we just got her, she hasn’t been to the vet yet, to be on the safe side, get the shots Dave, all 30, it won’t hurt much! He abruptly jumps up and says,

Come on Goldy, let’s get outta here!

Lucia saw through Dave and she didn’t like phonies. Henry tolerated him because he was keen on writing for the freewheeling NYC rag, HEADBANGER Magazine—the cities last surviving free press magazine from the 60s. Dave had shortcomings, but he hadn't missed press time in 25 years. 

As Dave and Goldy leave Rico’s dinner is served, the couple enjoys the food, Mia is back in the large Gucci bag, enjoying the small bits of food Lucia feeds her, particularly the prosciutto cheese and bits of buttered Italian bread. 

After dinner they catch a taxi to Central Park, running into traffic on 6th Avenue, and finally reaching the park, getting out of the cab and walking the rolling walkways, little Mia following Lucia. After 20 minutes they tire and sit on a bench, Henry lights a joint and looks up into the sky, musing as he says,  

I wonder what's out there, beyond the stars? It could be anything, nobody knows really, some think they know, but they're just guessing, and most don't care at all because they're busy too thinking who the Giants are going to play on the weekend or what's for dinner. Lucia laughs saying, 

or have you ever thought that the cell structure of a tiny speck of fuzz caught between the lips of my labia could be a universe?  Henry laughing riotously says,

Yes, no doubt about it, your pussy is MY universe!

As they're laughing, a park ranger approaches and says, 

good evening my name is Officer Dick, earlier I saw you walking your dog, and your dog was unleashed, I will inform you that this is a violation of Central Park Ordinance 6352949, which reads as follows,

Officer Dick hands them a printed card that reads, 

Dogs are allowed off-leash when the Park is open 9:00 am to 1:00 am when the Park closes. Dogs must be on-leash at all times from 9:00 am until midnight, depending on the day of the month. 

Henry reads the card and says, 

wait a second officer, firstly, little Mia is a comfort pet, secondly, would you be kind enough to interpret this antithetical, Catch-22, can but can’t, horse shit ordinance? Officer Dick says, 

watch your language sir, we have an ordinance against foul language in the park you know! As for Ordinance 

6352949, odd days are leash-free and even days aren't. Today is an even day so unless your dog is a city certified comfort pet, I’m going to write you up. Henry wondering, 

I didn’t know you censored language in Central Park? Is there a language patrol unit? 

Officer Dick writes them up and hands Henry the ticket saying, 

the park closes at midnight, next time leash your pet!

As they walk out of Central Park to catch a taxi back to Queens, Lucia says, 

in Cuban dogs run free!