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He’s gone. Done away with like ashes in a bowl blowing in the wind on a cool autumn day. Finished.

There were no more frantic phone calls in the middle of the  night. His hoarse voice, scratchy, painful to listen to, pleading for a fifty, a hundred, anything to get him through, was now put out permanently.

Dig the hole. Burn the body. Be done with it. That’s what Jamie told the cops to do. I’m the closest to kin he’s got. There’s no one else. Mom and dad died a few years back. No aunts or uncles. Cousins. I was it. And he left me. So I guess I was nothing to him.

I see, said the official. All we have is this note. It says, thanks Jamie. I always loved you. And then a phone number, and that’s it.

Right, she poured a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette.

Can you come to New York and identify the body? he asked.

I can’t afford to just take off for New York, she blew out smoke. I’m afraid that’s all I can do is tell you that it’s probably Ben. Now, do what you gotta do. She hung up.

All those crazy calls, she laughed. From Canada, Vermont, Maine, Massachusetts, Philadelphia, D.C., some small town in Virginia, New York, all those fucking calls. Always about money. He always needed money. Hell, I guess we all do.

Jamie looked outside, and it was raining. She heard it hitting the tin roof. Saw it, making puddles in the dirt driveway. She wondered if it was raining in New York.

Basima means smiling in Arabic. Therefore, bringing joy to people’s lives.

She made Salman happy. Or so she thought. Their home was filled with good smells from her cooking, good spirits from their prayers, and good laughter from the children. Basima means smiling. The mother of two was always smiling.

They owned a small store on Hunts Point. Sold falafel, halal meats, pita bread, lottery tickets, and non-perishable items, but no alcohol. Basima did not allow it. She saw what it did to people; stumbling around Hunts Point, lying on the sidewalks, throwing up in alleys. She told her husband she wanted no part of that; the demise of a fellow human being. Reluctantly, he agreed.

The store closed at 10:00 p.m. With little traffic, Salman made it to their house in Queens in a half-hour. And there would be Basma smiling when he walked through the door. A wife waiting for her husband. He’d kiss her and then check on the two children asleep in their beds under Scooby-Doo sheets and Cinderella blankets.

Hunts Point. It either eats you up or you eat it up. Days become routine.  Pushers, pimps, prostitutes, junkies, crackheads, crazies, all of them in and out of your store all day and into the night. Some stole from Salman while he would steal from them; trading food stamps for cash can  be very lucrative indeed. Easy money. It makes one want more. One can want too much. Temptation was always there.

Temptation killed Salman. Somehow, the father of two took to being a john. He became quite fond of the cheap blow jobs from strung out white girls, black chics, Puerto Rican women with slow drunken accents, and dark mascara. 

Salman was falling deeper and deeper into the world of infidels. Godless people who had lost their way. And this would be the death of him. The American streets filled with shit killed the father of two and husband to one loving wife, Basima, who always smiled.

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.

What do you do when there’s nothing left? Make adjustments? Change your life? Give up? How do you know when nothing is left? Your soul aches? Bank account is empty? Bones and muscles ache? You come to the realization to stop? Stop what you’re doing. Ending madness? Perhaps.

She sits on a bench by a liquor store in Hell’s Kitchen. Around 52nd. Cars drive by. Men pass on her. She is skinny. Dirty. Clothes are ripped. A sexual refugee.

A cigarette dangles from her mouth. She was lucky enough to find one barely burned in the crack on the sidewalk. It has red lipstick on it. She places the long piece in her mouth and asks strangers, folks passing by for a light. People keep walking.

He stops at her feet. Bends down and gives her a light with a brass Zippo. The man sits down next to her.

I’ll do anything you want for some crack, she says. A joint. Beer. Anything, her feet rub together like a school girl. I just need something. I got nothing. Absolutely nothing, she tells him. Whatever you want.

The older man looks at her. He brushes the long, scraggly hair from her face. How about we talk, he says. I’ll buy you a bottle and we’ll talk. She nods her head.

They walk into the Asian owned business and look around in the coolers. An old, wrinkled woman watches them carefully. Immediately, she judges the two; the whore and the customer.

Pick what you want, he tells her. Go on. Pick. The young lady picks a forty ounce bottle of Colt 45.

I know the niggers drink it, but I like it too, she laughs.

That’s fine, he says. We are all God’s children. Let’s get out of here.

Two-fifty, the old lady demands in broken English. I say two-fifty. He pulls out a five and tells her to keep it.

Thank you, she tells him. Thank you. They sit under a tree growing from the sidewalk. A young tree with possibilities. Its leaves are green. Limbs thin. It begins to sprinkle, and the tree drinks the water in little by little.

Come on. Let’s get in my car. It’s dry, he laughs. She is not hesitant. How many cars has she climbed into? Countless. He opens the door for her.

OK. What do you want? A blow job? Fuck me? What?

Like I said. Let’s just talk.

About what?

You. Me. Seems people don’t talk much to the two of us. And, I’ll bet you have a lot to talk about.

Right.

I’ll start. I’ve been driving around America ever since my divorce. She was tired of my antics. She was tired of there never being enough money. She was mad that I wouldn’t take a second job. She was mad that I cheated on her.

Shame on you.

I know. There were a million different reasons. I can’t keep track. And then one day I woke up and there was a note. Said, I’m done. I want you out by this weekend. 

I see.

So, I took off. Got what money I had and started driving up and down I-95. Philadelphia,  Washington,  Baltimore, New York, all the way up to Maine, where I looked out at the ocean. And I realized I’m nothing. We’re all just nothing. People, waiting to become something. Like you. You’re waiting, aren’t you?

On what?

For life to begin.

She laughed.

Where are you from?

Nowhere. A small town in Iowa.

Yeah.

Wanted to be a Rockette. One of those fancy dancers you see at Christmas time, she told him. But, some things got in the way.

Like?

Look at me. Too short for one thing. Not enough class for the other. Those women are really something special. I’m not special.  I’m not. Just a crack whore. That’s all.

Have you thought of getting some help?

No. I haven’t.

How about Bellevue?

The crazy place?

Yeah. The crazy place, he laughed. They can help you.

Do what?

Start all over again.

She looked at him and finished off the bottle. She put her hand on the door handle. He leaned over and placed his hand on her other.

If you decide to ever go get help. Tell them at the emergency room that you are suicidal.They won’t turn you away.

Meg smiled and opened the door.

A long red leather couch. Paintings on the walls of boys. Black and white pictures on a stone mantle; men dressed in capes and women with diamonds.

Frank examines the photographs and smells coffee brewing. He ties his black robe and walks into the kitchen where he sees George, his client, a much older man, reaching for various jams and jellies in the refrigerator.

Good morning, says George as he pats the young man on his behind. How did you sleep?

Good. I slept good.

I hope you didn’t mind me waking you in the middle of the night, he embraces Frank. But I just can’t keep my hands off you, George laughs, Frank smiles. My dear boy. You are irresistible.

Frank kisses his forehead and pours a cup of coffee.

Cream? Sugar?

Please.

The old man spoons sugar into Frank’s cup and pours  cream. It’s nice to have a house guest, George tells him. Someone to chat with in the morning. Isn’t it? Frank nods and smiles. I have to get ready for the day, the queen states. Help yourself to whatever you want, he starts to walk away and then turns midway down the hall. The keys are on the shelf here. And take this for all your needs today. I trust I’ll see you tonight? Frank nods yes.

On the shelf, a hundred dollar bill lay there. Frank takes it and smells the crisp bill. He clicks his heels three times and laughs.

The city stinks of trash and death. Feces down alleyways. Piss stained dumpsters. Salman’s body deteriorates in the summer heat. 

A corpse leaning against a brick wall. Eyes wide open. Looking up at God. Maybe the soul has not left his body yet; a state between life and death. A spirit yelling to be released. Prayers for forgiveness.

His two children wonder why dad has not been home in a week.  Usually, his benders last a couple of days. Never this long. They have been taught not to question. They do not.

There is no identification on him. No credit cards. No cash. Pockets picked by peasants. Filthy hands. Dogs walk by and smell the body of the Arab. Rotten fruit.

Jesus, the garbage man says. What the hell? Flys swarm around the family man’s head and body. You’re not going to believe this, the laborer says to the driver. Gotta dead one.

I’ve seen this before, the driver says. Dead bodies in alleys. Junkies and crackheads. Had a little too much of a good time.

Yeah. You gonna call it in?

Yeah. We’ll wait for the cops.

She knows. The wife always knows. Her husband is dead. And she knows how he died. No one has called to tell her. No official has knocked on the door. Just silence as she falls to the floor. He is gone, she cries. Gone. May Allah forgive you. She gets on her knees and prays for hours. She knows what she must do.

Watching kids play on jungle gyms. Old men fishing. Sitting on the banks. Casting a line. Pulling a soda from a cooler. It is peaceful. It is pleasant.

Ben sits on a bench listening to his radio. He eats cold McDonald’s fries. Drinks a warm strawberry shake. Pigeons gather round.

He has not had anything for twenty-four hours. No booze. No crack. Out of cigarettes. He sweats a little while praying for peace. Yes, even addicts pray.

Time is 8:12 here in New York. You’re listening to Bird Flight with your host, Phil Schaap. Here, we listen to the music of Charlie Parker. Also known as Bird. Everything from his beginning stages with big bands to his years as a founder of Bop along with Dizzy Gillespie. The time is 8:22 a.m.

Ben smiles. The morning sun beats down on his tanned face. Ruddy cheeks. Chapped lips. He listens to Parker playing his plastic horn. Ben is in awe.

How could someone be that good at something? He said out loud. How? He turns the dial to play louder.

What happened to me? I should’ve stuck with teaching. I was good at that, he whispered. I was never meant to be a success. I don’t know many people who are.

Here’s to you, Bird. He raised his paper cup. You were blessed.

We try. Right? We try. But it’s not always going to happen no matter how much we try.  Addicts, junkies, whores, hustlers, hangovers, he laughed. Some learn. Others do not. We just keep on playing the same hand.

One of these days, my luck is going to run out. Then what? Maybe we don’t all go to heaven. Maybe I’ll wind up in hell. Who knows?

He watched the children play. Watched the old men fishing. He smiles. Just smiles.

Lemonade and vodka on a front porch during the evening time. Crickets. Branches waving back and forth in an easy breeze. The swing goes back and forth.

Ellen sits watching the sun go down. It’s getting darker by the minute. She sips her drink and chews on ice cubes. The glass is wet and melting in her hand.

Momma didn’t know her daddy, she says out loud. I didn’t know mine, she took another drink. And Meg, she never knew the bastard either. She knew of him. But never knew him, the mother said.

It’s a funny thing. You go through this life lonely for the most part. I hope Meg’s not lonely. I hope she’s not.

Her drink comforts her. And, she is not alone

Meg walks along Hunts Point for the night. She talks to herself as well. Just like Mom.

She wears tight stained jeans and a tube top. Her hair is disheveled, and red lipstick is drawn thick.

Cars pull up, and she negotiates through an open passenger window. She names her price, and they go around the corner to Barretto Street. Under a streetlight, she turns her trick. For a moment or two, she is not alone.

Frank has cleaned up. He’s found a sugar daddy. Life is easier when you’re the flavor of the week.

The older man has decked his boy out in new cowboy boots, tight tee-shirts, and  button fly jeans that make his package bulge.

They sit in Julius’ bar and listen to old songs. Songs from another time.  Billy Strayhorn, Cole Porter, show tunes, disco from a decade ago. The old queen sips his Grand Marnier with pinky pointing out from the  snifter. He pats Frank on the ass and tells him to fetch another round. Frank pockets the change. Saving for a rainy day.

And for a while, he is not alone.

Who eats that? Meg asked. It’s disgusting. It looks disgusting.  Only old men eat that shit, she said. Ben laughed and wiped his mouth. Old Jewish men, she told him.

This is a beautiful thing, Ben said as he munched on a sour pickle.

Egg salad? Sour pickles? She asked, making a face. This is a beautiful thing, she mocked him. You’re starting to sound like an old Jew. Ben continued eating his sandwich. And on rye? Who he eats that?

Old jews, he laughed. And old crackheads.

I see them walk around town. With their funny hats and weird hair. They stare at me.

Everyone stares at you.

Right. But this is different. It’s like they look right through me. Seeing me as a sinner.

No one else looks at you that way?

Old women, they laughed. But no. Mostly, the Jews, she shrugged. Young boys look at me in fear.

Ha.

Yeah. Like they’re scared. 

Right. And then you take their lunch money.

Yeah. Something  like that. This one kid from Gramercy Park I blow gives me his allowance. 

What are you doing in Gramercy Park?

I work all over.

Bet you stick out like a sore thumb.

Something like that.

Yeah. Bet you do.

Think this will ever stop?

Yeah.

When?

When we’re dead.

Great. That’s a long time to suck cock.

I suppose.

The two sat there in Union Square, looking at all of humanity; bums, bitches, and business suits. Old women pushing carts home. Salty men walking their dogs. Track stars nodding out. Beautiful people coming home from the night. Leaving  lovers before they awake.

Finished, Ben slapped his hands together and wiped them on his jeans. Come on, he said. The day is beginning. Time for bed.

There he was. On the cover. Looking like a movie star. Sandy blonde hair greased back. Gaunt face. Thin lips. Blue eyes. Heroin chic.

Frank kept staring at the cover of Gotham, which read, Life on the Streets. He just stood there staring at himself as if he’d finally accomplished something in his life.

Hey kid, the man said. You gonna buy one or just lookin’? The old man pulled a cigar from his mouth with drool falling off of it. Wait a minute. That’s you, ain’t it? Yeah. That’s you. Congratulations. You made the cover of Gotham. That’ll be five, please. Frank dug in his pockets and pulled out a ten. He handed it to the man.

Come to think of it, Frank said, I’ll take two. He handed the fat man another five. Wait till mom and dad get a load of this.

Yes. They’ll be very proud.

Inside, there were more pictures of him. All black and white. Looking like Andy Warhol’s Interview magazine. He didn’t even read the article; he just kept looking at the pics. 

Look at me, he said to himself. Ain’t that something. I really pulled it off this time; reason to celebrate.

The young man pulled out a wad of dough from his front pocket. A mixture of bills all adding up to thirty bucks. He hadn’t eaten for a couple of days. Hadn’t gotten high either. A choice. 

He decided to go into a diner by Washington Square Park and sit at the counter. Frank placed the magazine down next to his silverware and ordered a cup of coffee.

Cream? She asked.

Yes, please. He pushed the mag closer to her at the tip of the counter. She poured his coffee.

Eating?

Yeah. I’ll have a ham and cheese omelet, he said. With white toast. Buttered. He smiled.

Coming right up.

The kid opened up Gotham so that the photos of him smoking a cigarette and running his hands through his greasy hair could easily be seen by those seated close by. The curvy waitress poured more coffee. She looked down at the pictures. Read the headline. Looked at Frank.

That’s you, she said.

Yeah, the proud one responded.

Nice pics. Real cool. You look like James Dean. Your order should be right up.

The boy from Fort Wayne was grinning. Pleased with her response. He was the flavor of the week.