Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)Manhattan nights flourished, the life of the city awakened strong on weekend evenings. The true colors of the city reached its peak once sundown hit, each worker, laborer and businessman alike left their practice while a... new sort of practice arose. The nightlife was truly a thing of its own, the cafes and plazas filled with the wealthy upper-classmen and women of New York, holding their own galas while much more rowdy parties formed within the ghettos of the city. Either way, a celebration of some sort was being held left and right once evening commenced - depending on the sort of company that you'd keep, that is. The year was 1922, the turn of a decade and two years into the act that had strongly changed the American social scene. Alcohol of any sort was banned under the amendment, the manufacturing and distribution of liquor was set firmly into place and enforced with even firmer measures. However not all who were subject to the law always obeyed it, and around the law these people danced, and they danced well.
Such an example was an underground club among many others in the less wealthy area of the city, 'a barbershop by light and a roaring speakeasy by night', a phrase the owner of the bar would often refer to it in its 'early days', which eventually lead to the name 'Barber's'. If anyone asked where you were last Friday evening, no one would think twice upon hearing the word, of course, unless you were familiar of such a place. It was well-managed, kept hidden from the police's radar, and when the badges that did happen to come across the joint were bribed a pretty penny to keep hush along with everyone else. Those who visited turned a blind eye, kept their mouths sealed. Such a place treated their workers well and their customers even better, providing higher quality liquor than anywhere that side of the Harlem district. This seemed to draw in the masses well, and was all the more reason Barber's was kept protected. One young man in particular, a transporter of Barber's was devoted to his work, a night-owl and an early riser all in one by the name of Donal.
That night in particular was a flooded one. The nightclub was jammed with familiars who slid inside the back entrance and through the small first story of the shop, filtered by two men at either side of the door while the real activity boomed from within. The evening was still fairly young, and Donal kept things running smoothly by toting each of the wooden crates packed God knew how many bottles from the alley alongside. He hurried in and out, fueled by the jovial whistles of his fellow workers, swapping grins and a wave or two each time he'd passed to supply the place of their new shipment before the possibility of a policeman cruiser could walk by and get a hint of the idea on what was going on. No, Donal was efficient and moved quick, hollering at those in his way with a trail of laughter as he passed. He found the job thrilling, in fact, and he loved every minute past sunset. Each new face proved potential, and he welcomed everyone and anyone.
Such an example was an underground club among many others in the less wealthy area of the city, 'a barbershop by light and a roaring speakeasy by night', a phrase the owner of the bar would often refer to it in its 'early days', which eventually lead to the name 'Barber's'. If anyone asked where you were last Friday evening, no one would think twice upon hearing the word, of course, unless you were familiar of such a place. It was well-managed, kept hidden from the police's radar, and when the badges that did happen to come across the joint were bribed a pretty penny to keep hush along with everyone else. Those who visited turned a blind eye, kept their mouths sealed. Such a place treated their workers well and their customers even better, providing higher quality liquor than anywhere that side of the Harlem district. This seemed to draw in the masses well, and was all the more reason Barber's was kept protected. One young man in particular, a transporter of Barber's was devoted to his work, a night-owl and an early riser all in one by the name of Donal.
That night in particular was a flooded one. The nightclub was jammed with familiars who slid inside the back entrance and through the small first story of the shop, filtered by two men at either side of the door while the real activity boomed from within. The evening was still fairly young, and Donal kept things running smoothly by toting each of the wooden crates packed God knew how many bottles from the alley alongside. He hurried in and out, fueled by the jovial whistles of his fellow workers, swapping grins and a wave or two each time he'd passed to supply the place of their new shipment before the possibility of a policeman cruiser could walk by and get a hint of the idea on what was going on. No, Donal was efficient and moved quick, hollering at those in his way with a trail of laughter as he passed. He found the job thrilling, in fact, and he loved every minute past sunset. Each new face proved potential, and he welcomed everyone and anyone.
