Time. It goes by so quickly. Days, hours, minutes, slip through hands, leaving nothing but stains from past sins, Ben thought, staring up at the sky in Central Park one morning. And we think we’ve washed our hands of these faults; we haven’t. They stay there for all to see. You could cover them with gloves, but eventually, the gloves come off; and you’re exposed.

The time is 7:38 here in New York. I’m Phil Schaap, and this is Bird Flight. On this broadcast, I try to cover everything Charley Parker did throughout his career. From big band to bop. But today, I want to focus on his work in the great songbook of Cole Porter. These are songs he did throughout his life. From early on in big band to his later albums. Time is 7:52 here at Columbia University in New York. And you are listening to Bird Flight.

Ben reached over and turned the radio down. Cole Porter made him cry. Charley Parker made him sob.

From his pocket, he pulled out a tin foil pipe and a small white rock. He had been out all night roaming the city looking for Meg. Spent most of his time on the number 6 and number 4 trains. He walked from the beginning of the trains to the last car, hoping to spot her, hoping for a little dough.

Bums were asleep around him. Homeless, addicted, crazy. Guys, down on their luck. All with bottles in their pockets or slipping through their hands. Waiting to be victims.

Ben’s greasy hands slipped through the pockets of the peasants, producing only twenty dollars in wadded up bills. Just enough to support his habit. Just enough to get by.

He set fire to the foil and inhaled deeply, taking it all in. Feeling like he’d just been hit with an aluminum baseball bat, then turning into madness, he lay there amongst the trees and green grass feeling euphoric, if only for an hour. Black marks on his fingers. Never to be cleansed.

This is a good day to die, he said. Alone. In this beautiful setting. In the sunlight. God, please take me. Go on. Pick me up and carry me. My life here is done.

The time is 8:32 in the morning here in New York. You’re listening to Bird Flight on WKCR 89.9 on the fm dial.

Ben rolled over on his stomach like a dog who had too many scraps. He whimpered and whined. Cried and yelled. But no one noticed it. Not morning joggers from the Upper West Side, women pushing strollers, junkies who lay next to him. Not a single soul. People just passed by.

No more magic rocks. Done. He pulled out a blade from his pocket and yelled out, God, why have you abandoned me?

And like Jesus, the blood flowed red.

You’re listening to Bird Flight on WKCR. Time is 8:54 a.m.