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The body was carted out on a stretcher. There was blood on the hardwood floor, ceiling, lamp shades, old black and white photos of men, and women dressed up for celebrations, George’s black shoes, and dried on his wrinkled face.

George was taken down to the police station in Manhattan with a blanket wrapped around him. Mumbling, Well, at least it’s not Brooklyn.  

The old queen sat on a hard metal chair with his head in his hands, and the questioning began.

So let me get this straight, the fat detective said. You came home, and this guy was there. Is that correct? George nodded yes. And he attacked you?

Yes, George said. Well, I mean no. He…

Well, which is it, sir?

He stared at me and then came after me.

And that’s when you got the gun?

Yes. Thank God I was by the hutch. I pulled out the gun from the drawer and began firing. Twice.

There’s three bullets in him.

I can’t remember. 

Had you seen him before?

No. Never.

Never saw him?

No.

Had nothing to do with him?

Do I need a lawyer?

You just might. The detective smiled. I think you two had a spat. A lovers quarrel. Things got a little out of hand. And you shot the kid. That’s putting it mildly.

I think I’d like to make a phone call, George dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

Whatever you want, sir. Whatever you want.

Yes. I’d like to call my attorney.

Skinny. White face drawn in. Legs, short with no flavor. She walks up and down hallways in silence.

And no one speaks to her. Others pace as well, looking down at the hard tile floor; cold. Socks can not stop the cold. Black on bottoms.

Meg thinks as she strolls. Images of Ben and Frank. Wondering where they are; under a bridge, in some park, curled up in cardboard. She just wonders and laughs a bit. 

Meds are given out at the nurses’ station. Patients line up to partake like young boys and girls at Mass; the wafer, the wine. The pills, the water. They do not talk. The nurse doesn’t say a word. An assembly line in a factory.

There is screaming coming from a room. Let me out of here, the man yells. Get me out of here. He continues. The door is closed. There is a small plate glass window that does not open.

He’s been placed in solitary for being a bad boy; knocked over a whole rack of food  trays; apple sauce all over the floor. Chocolate pudding smeared on walls. Yelling the whole time how he was an innocent man. Brought in from Rikers. Too mad to be amongst prisoners. Brought back to Manhattan, where his crimes were committed.

And he ain’t talking. Just screaming. Scaring people. There is no peace at Bellevue. Only the brief tranquility of sweet pills.

Meg goes back to her room and lies down on her thin mattress. Her roommate looks at her; the girl missing an arm and a leg. Asks if she’s scared? Meg shakes her head , no. The young lady says, I’m terrified. 

It looks like one giant spaceship, Jamie thought. Lights blinking. Different shapes glowing, going in different directions, but still as one. She just kept looking out the window in silence.

Big isn’t it? The woman next to Jamie looked about in wonder as well. Makes you curious about what’s inside, she said. Jamie nodded her head. People walking around. Noise. Lights. Exciting. Right? Jamie kept staring out the window. Look, the woman pointed. All these tall buildings. I wonder what they’re made of?

Steel. They’re made of steel. Concrete. Iron.

How’d you get so smart?

I don’t know. My ex used to tell me. He’d say I’m surrounded by  buildings of steel and iron. She laughed. Concrete. Said it was a lonely feeling.

I guess he could be right.

I’m sure he was. He was right about some things. Mostly wrong about others. Jamie smiled.

Well. That’s why he’s your ex.

Right.

The bus went underground into the dark, leaving light behind. A tunnel that led them into The Port Authority building where thousands arrive every day. All of them looking for something; a hot dog, slice of pizza, architecture,  celebrities, quaint coffee shops, bars to fall into, and never return, leaving light behind and falling into darkness.

This is New York City, ladies and gentlemen. Watch your step as you exit the bus. And thanks for riding Greyhound.

People die, George said. Old. Young.  Poor. Rich. Eventually, we all just go away. He poured himself a vodka, tossed an ice cube in the glass. Some folks look forward to it; death. And others live their whole lives in fear of it. They run, diet, avoid booze, no drugs, no fun. They just pray and go to church. Marry the right girl. Start a family. Do all the Bible tells them to do.  Why? Cause they’re terrified.  Terrified of death. George looked Frank square in the eye and asked him, are you scared to die? Frank nodded yes. I thought so. You put on a good mask, but I see right through it. You never fooled me. The old queen pulled a pistol from his hutch drawer. He didn’t point it at Frank right away. He just held it by his side. Have I not given you enough? He asked. Money. Clothes. A place to live. All this. Just for the company of a boy. He laughed. And you fuck around behind my back. Men. Women. An everlasting hard-on. That’s what you have, dear heart. I’m going to miss you. Sweat dripped off George’s face. He gripped the gun tighter. Frank stood quiet. He pointed the gun at the hustler.  Goodbye, dear boy. Goodbye.

And then he shot him.

The group sat in a circle. Men and women sitting in hospital gowns, some with legs crossed, others with legs wide open, those drooling, and patients staring out the windows, wishing they had a home to go to or a place to lay their heads.

A social worker, psych tech, and nurse were placed among the unfortunate. Those who thought of killing themselves, others living in imaginary worlds where they are gods and goddesses, super heroes, rock stars in their minds. All were silent.

OK, the psych tech said. I’ll start this meeting. Any questions or complaints? The room again was quiet. Alright. Let’s….

When can I leave? One patient asked. When can I get out of here? She drew circles on her leg with her finger.

Have you spoken with the doctor about this? The social worker asked.

Everyday.

And what does Dr. Eamons say?

He don’t say nothing. He just tells me to take my meds. I want to go home.

Where is home? The psych tech asked.

On top of a mountain. Looking down. She said. Meg started to laugh.

Meg. We don’t laugh at others in here. Do you understand? Meg nodded her head.

Where’s your home, Meg?

I don’t have one. I sleep in parks and under bridges. In john’s cars. Old houses that have been condemned. I sleep all over.

I see, the social worker said. So. What’s your plan when you get out of here?

I don’t know. I never know.

We’ll discuss it. You have options. Meg nodded. You know you have options? Right?

I suppose.

How long have you been on the streets?

Too long. A while.

Are you from New York?

No. I’m from  nowhere. I can’t remember anymore. I just know I’m not from here. Nobody is really, she said. We all come here in search of something, and then things get in the way. They always have. 

What did you come here for?

I forgot.

Rats. I’ve heard the whole city is infested with rats, she said. Big fat furry rodents with sharp teeth; able to chew up anything, she told Jamie as they crossed Pennsylvania, sitting side by side.

That so?

They hide in dumpsters, down alleys, in the walls of tennant buildings, everywhere, everywhere. She turned and looked out the window at passing green hills and old farm houses.

Who told you this? Jamie asked, looking forward at the seat in front of her, which had a small tear in it. She placed her finger in the whole and felt the foam inside.

What’re you going there for? The young lady asked.

Just want to see it. Just to have a look.

You got friends there?

I used to.

Oh. They moved?

He died.

I’m sorry. 

It’s OK.

Was he a close friend?

My ex-husband. I spoke to him on the phone, and then the coroner’s office called me. I should have come then.

Why didn’t you?

Scared. Scared, I guess. Didn’t want to see what happened to him.

That’s a hard story.

Yeah.

Ladies and gentlemen, the next stop is Philadelphia. Philadelphia,  PA. If you’re getting off there, I hope you had a pleasant trip, and thank you for riding Greyhound.

Hello.

Hello. May I ask who is calling? Basima asked. There was no response. Hello. Hello. Who is calling? Please.

My name is Tonya. I’m calling about the man on the posters put up all over town.

Yes. Yes. You have some information?

I knew him.

Oh?

He owned the bodega on Hunts Point. The one that got broken into.

Yes. Yes, we did. Basima’s hands were shaking. Do you know where he is?

He’s gone, Mrs. He’s gone.

Gone where? Where has he gone to? Tell me.

He’s dead.

When?

Happened some time ago.

How do you know?

Well. I have a friend who tricks up here, and he died on top of her while they were doing it. I mean…

I know what you mean, Basima put the phone down. The receiver sat on the wooden table, and the cord stretched across the kitchen.

Hello. Hello. You still there? You hear me? Your man is dead, ma’am. Smoking that crack pipe. It’ll get you every time. Hello.

Yes, she picked up the phone. I heard you. I heard you. What happened to his body?

Cops picked him up in the alley. That’s what she said. Left him there behind a dumpster.

I see. I see.

Do I get any reward money? There was silence. Hello. Hello.

Basima hung up the phone softly and  cried. What she suspected was confirmed by a stranger. A hooker on Hunts Point. She went back to her bed and lay there, curled up like a baby. The phone would not stop ringing.

 

She was a little thing, Ellen said. Tiny. You could blow on her, and she’d disappear like a dandelion in the wind. They grow up quickly,  mom poured another shot of vodka into her coffee cup. And then they’re gone. Taking off somewhere. Leaving all they knew behind, she tapped her fingers on the metal kitchen table and laughed. They leave us behind. That’s what children do. She left me behind.

Her phone rang several times. It would stop and start ringing again. And again. Ellen made it a point to never answer the phone at supper time. She poured another drink and opened the freezer door. The old woman clawed her way through frozen mixed vegetables, out of date pizzas, and freezer burned pieces of fried chicken in a Banquet box. She shook her head. They just leave you.

Meg hung up the phone for the last time. The need to tell her mother she was OK had vanished. She stared down the long hallway and realized where she was.

Am I crazy? She asked a nurse, walking by. Have I lost it? She laughed. 

You’re here to get some help. That’s all. Just to get you back on track. Is there something you want to talk about?

No. Not really. I just needed reassurance.

The nurse placed her hand on Meg’s shoulder. You’ll be alright. You’ll see. Group is getting ready to start.

Coloring more pictures from memories, Meg said. I’d rather forget.

Slow down. Take your time, she said. You don’t have to be in such a rush. Bring me my drink. Frank walked over the red Oriental rug with a gin and tonic. Set it there, she pointed at the end table. When was the last time you were with a woman? I mean, a real woman. Not some kid. Frank smiled. I’m sure you swing both ways.

What do you mean? Frank asked.

Don’t be coy. You’ll fuck anything for money. I know your type. Hand me my purse.

He handed the  broad a Chanel black bag. One hand wiped the gray hair from her face while the other rummaged through brushes, tiny mirrors, lipsticks, Rouge, powder, and folded hundred dollar bills her husband had given her.

Here, she said. Will this do? She waved a hundred in the air while Frank looked at pictures of her in younger days; a blonde on a boat wearing a bikini; an older man’s arms wrapped around her.

Yes. That will do. Who’s the guy?

My husband. Back when he could get it up. Now he just throws money at me. Apologizes and tells me to have a good time. Want some blow? Frank nodded yes. She cut it up on the glass coffee table with her American Express card. Took out a fifty and formed it into a tube.

Lady’s first.

The old woman took her hit like a pro. Wiped her nose and handed the bill to Frank. The white lines were gone rather quickly. And so were their (if any) inhibitions.

Do you have to leave? She asked, lying naked on the bed after their coke induced rumble in the sheets.

Yeah. My old man is waiting for me.

Walking the halls. Pacing a cage.  Dragging feet past doorways to rooms where some are crying, laughing, talking to themselves, and yelling, let me out of here.

The walls are white. Some pictures of sunrises, daffodils, and smiling faces are taped instead of nailed or hanging from a hook. Nobody notices.

Patients are silent. Their heads down, looking at the grayish floor below. Occasionally, they look up and smile or cry. Bottoms of socks grip the tile.

Music plays throughout the 12th floor. Soft soothing songs help ease tensions in the air. Meg hangs out at the desk where doctors and nurses congregate; going over charts, talking about patients before morning rounds. A psych tech offers her a cigarette and walks Meg down to the community room where breakfast trays are being placed on a metal rack; tables wiped down with Comet and paper towels.

Meg sits in the corner and looks out over Manhattan. She feels unsafe here at Bellevue. No johns slapping her, no crack pipes burning her lips, no sleeping under bridges and parks. She misses the high. And she does miss Ben and Frank. But it’s three meals and a bed. Something new to her.

The time is 9:08 here in New York. This is Bird Flight, and I’m your host, Phil Schaap. I’m taking you through Bird’s later years this morning. Just before he passed away. It was the beginning of a whole new jazz; Bop. Or as some say, Beebop. 

I know this radio show, Meg tells a dietary aide. A friend used to listen to it all the time. I love his voice.

Who’s voice?

Phil Schaap. His voice. Pretty soon, he’ll be telling us the time again and saying, this is WKCR 89.9 in New York. It makes me think of him.

Who?

Ben. My pimp. My friend. I hope he’s OK.

Who’s that?

Nevermind.

It’s 9:27 in the morning, and you’re listening to WKCR here at Columbia University in New York. I’m Phil Schaap. And this is Bird Flight.

Meg turned back and looked again at the city below. She was a long way from Iowa. It had been a long time since she’d met Ben at that truck stop. She longed for a cup of coffee and a Western omelet. She wanted white toast with butter dripping off it. She wanted to talk to Ben.