Leo played The reggae lilt filled the empty spaces of the bar. It was a song about roots and belonging, about a place that lives in your blood even if you’ve never been there. Leo was half-Puerto Rican, half-Irish. He had spent his whole life feeling like a hyphen. Jeffreys, too, sang from that crack in the sidewalk. Don't know who I am. Maria put her hand on his wrist. "I know that one," she whispered. "My father used to sing it."
It wasn’t a hit. It was a confession. A slow, swampy blues about a man who never quite arrived—not white enough, not Black enough, not rich enough, not poor enough. A man who stood in doorways watching other people’s parties. Leo felt the song pull the floor out from under him. That was his life now. A widower. A retired teacher. A man without a tribe. Jeffreys sang, I’m the king of the in-between , and for the first time that night, Leo didn’t feel alone. He felt seen. garland jeffreys best songs
She laughed. "You got another dollar?"
As the song faded, the bar door opened. A woman in a rain-soaked trench coat sat two stools down. She ordered a whiskey neat. Leo recognized the tired grace of a fellow night-walker. Leo played The reggae lilt filled the empty
In his pocket was a worn cassette tape. On it, scrawled in his late wife’s handwriting: Garland Jeffreys – The Wild in the Wild. He had spent his whole life feeling like a hyphen
He found it. The song unfurled like a black-and-white photograph. Jeffreys’ voice was tender, bruised. You’re my New York skyline. Leo’s throat tightened. He and Elena had danced to this in their tiny Hell’s Kitchen apartment the night they decided to get married. The skyline was theirs then—the towers, the bridges, the crooked promise of it all. Now, the skyline had holes in it. He took a long sip of his drink.