dmseay

It is 1:07 in the morning in New York. You’re listening to WKCR 89.9 on the FM dial. You just heard Central Park West by John Coltrane on tenor saxophone, McCoy Tyner on piano, Elvin Jones on drums, and Steve Davis on Bass. Next up is Charles Mingus with Goodbye Pork Pie Hat. I hope you enjoy. Time is 1:12 a.m. on WKCR Columbia University.

The music sounded dreamlike. Ben sat on the number 6 train listening as the volume lingered low, just hovering above a whisper. 

Second shift workers going home from their mundane jobs. Teenagers breaking curfew. Club hoppers whooping it up; still buzzed on drink and cocaine. Young women dressed like cheap hookers. Crackheads, potheads, speed freaks, passed out drunks, some going some staying, all of them sinners on a night that was made for sinning. Crazies calling out for redemption. Pickpockets standing dangerously close to men in suits with Midwestern accents. And an old lady with disheveled hair smacking on gum. This is New York. No soul is safe tonight.

The time is 1:26 on WKCR. That was Charles Mingus and his orchestra with Goodbye Pork Pie Hat. If there’s a song you’d like to hear, give me a call at 212-646-4277. I’ll get that on for you. The time is 1:29 here in New York.

Ben wished he had a quarter to call with. He gave his last dollar to Meg so that she could go out into the city. Turn her tricks.

They were to meet at a pizza stand on 8th at the corner of 24th around 5:30 when the sun is coming out to shine down on steel buildings, concrete sidewalks, sober people in yoga classes,  drunks stumbling about lost, never finding their way in this world, cops cruising side streets.

Meg dodged and weaved around 51st Street and 8th. Conducting business in rooms rented by the hour, behind dumpsters, in the front seats of Lincolns, Cougars, Chevrolets, Fords, Jags, and other cars parked by curbs in Hell’s Kitchen. They were all waiting to get a piece of her. Old men, youngsters, tourists, midnight ramblers, dealers, men with foreign tongues, whores vying for turf. Competition is fierce. Business brutal. Committing acts that will never be forgotten. Bringing gifts for their wives and girlfriends; flowers and gonorrhea.

She took sponge baths in McDonald’s bathroom sinks. A bar of soap in her purse. Lukewarm water touching the skin. Lips painted red and cheeks a softer tone.

One of these days, it won’t be like this, she told herself as sweaty men took rides on her. One of these days.

How much did you make tonight? Ben asked.

Here, she handed over two twenties. 

Cool. 

Time is now 6:34 in the a.m. here in New York City. You’re listening to WKCR.

Semis. Box trucks. Cars carrying families across the Bronx on the  Bruckner Expressway. All in a hurry to get out and get away, unaware of the homeless down below. Tents, sleeping bags, coats making makeshift mattresses, trash barrels burning debris into the night air, beer cans and glass pint bottles, crack pipes, and needles, scattered under the roadway running through Hunts Point where rape and murder is just a shot away. 

Vagabonds collected, coming from all over. Some as far as Florida, youngsters from Missouri, the Midwest, South and Southwest, all coming on dreams and notions. Winding up with burnt lips, track marks, and constant states of drunkenness. The congregation here was never high on the Holy Spirit.

Meg sleeps in the arms of Ben. The two are covered with plastic garbage bags and coats they bought at Goodwill. Ben promised he’d always take care of Meg. This is the best he knows how.

He keeps looking at the two. The strung out kid across from them, shaking on the ground, keeps staring. His stomach is sour, vomit reeks, and the smell of shit lingers off of him. His blood-shot eyes keep staring. He wants warmth as well. There is no one for him to cling to. He used to have a mom; a luxury he gave up on a few years back. Now there is no one.

The groans, moans, crying, dead silent stares, all of it as traffic roars overhead. Meg closes her eyes while Ben keeps one eye open.

When can we go back to the house? Meg asks. I miss my mattress. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.

It was on loan, Meg, Ben tells her. Shhh. Try to sleep.  Everything in this life is on loan. We keep nothing. Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Daddy’s gonna buy you a mocking bird. Shhh.

I’ll have two cheeseburgers. Small fry. And two Cokes, Ben told the kid behind the counter.

Is that for here or to go?

Bag em.

Work looks hard, Meg said. Standing on your feet for eight hours. Getting burned by hot grease. All this pressure, she said. I couldn’t do it.

And you wanna be a Rockette? Ben asked. Talk about pressure. How’s that dream coming along?

Shut up, Ben. They both laughed.

You can be whatever you want to be little girl, Ben said. Just like that night when I first met you. I told you that.

Yeah. You said come with me. I’ll show you the world. Look at me, Ben. Look at me.

Two cheeseburgers, small fry, and two Cokes, the kid said.

Thanks. Ben walked over to the condiments and got catsup packages and a load of sugar. He stuffed them in his pocket. Go into the bathroom and clean up, Ben told Meg. You got shit all over your face and lips.

Do I look like a crack whore?

You look beautiful.

Ben placed the items on a table. Put straws in the drinks. Said a prayer and crossed himself. He waited until Meg joined him to start eating.

Frank sat down across from him. He slid into the booth like a runner stealing second base. He grabbed a fry from Ben.

Hey.

Hey.

How’s tricks? Ben asked. Frank smiled.

Met this reporter from some magazine. Talked to me about hustling and being homeless.

Pay you?

No. Took some pics. I’m going to be famous.

Great. A famous homeless hustler.

Right. I got his card.

Let me see.

Frank pulled out a stained white card and handed it to Ben.

John Cortz. Reporter for Gotham. Well, well, well.

He said to call him if I needed anything.

I would call him.

Oh yeah.

Yeah. You’re definitely in need.

Meg came out of the bathroom with a fresh paint job. Lipstick, eyeliner, hair brushed. Ben whistled as she approached the booth.

You look good enough to eat, they laughed. Jimmy Dean says that to Liz Taylor in Giant. He says, You look good enough to eat. And then Rock Hudson bitch slaps him. They don’t make em like that anymore. Meg and Frank looked at each other and smiled.

Where you been staying?

Manhattan. Riding the trains at night. Sucking dick during the day on 8th.

Those old queers love you. Don’t they? Frank nodded.

They blow me, I blow them. Either or. You know the deal.

No. No, I don’t know the deal, Ben said. Not sure I want to. 

It’s a living.

Got any money? 

Yeah. Tons of it. Frank laughed. I just look this way for the hell of it.

Right.

Ben and Meg sucked on what was left in their cups. Meg chewed on the ice.

Let’s ride the trains tonight. Like old times, Frank said. We’ll sleep like Kings.

Go ahead. We gotta a place marked below the bridge. Hid our shit down there.

Got your radio?

Yeah. Still got it.

Nice.

So, business is good? Ben asked.

Yeah.

Throw me a twenty.

Sure. Frank handed Ben a crumpled twenty dollar bill. Took his cup from him and took the last slurp. There is charity among thieves.

Beggars. Vagabonds. Cardboard homes around Union Square. Men and women sleeping on park benches, day and night, twenty-four hours a day. People who gave up on hope. Dreams vanished.

Frank had good intentions. He wanted to do good. A few things got in the way. Dollars and cents are hard to find. Everywhere in New York, Frank saw the rich and the poor co-existing. Walking side by side on Lexington, 8th Avenue, Greenwich Village, Washington Square Park, Columbus Circle, everywhere walking suits with perfectly combed hair, women dressed to the nines, and guys like himself, in need of a shower, clean clothes, a decent meal. The sights and sounds turn good men into bad. Turns purity and innocence into madness. Souls lost.

He was seventeen when he got his first taste up on Hunts Point in the Bronx. He retreated there at night time after taking the number 6 train back and forth all day. All those junkies, crackheads, whores, people in need of salvation made him feel at home. It’s where he met Meg and Ben.

It was like having a father. A dad with a crack pipe always burning. Half filled bottles of vodka, beer, and cheap gin within reach whenever he wanted.

Ben gave him his first hit. He sucked in the white smoke like a pro.

You like this? Ben asked.

Yeah.

You want more?

Not sure. It’s too good. Gotta be a catch.

There is. Soon, you’ll be working for it instead of it working for you.  He laughed. It gets you where you need to go, Ben told him. You forget about loneliness, despair,  being hungry, you just think about crack. Now. You want some more?

Frank looked at the older man. What’s your story? Frank asked. How did you wind up here?

The same way everyone else does. It was my destiny, he smiled. I’ll teach you the ropes kid. Where to get food stamps. What hospital to go to when you need a break. How to work the system.

The system?

Welfare. Money. Hustling. How to survive.

Yeah?

Yeah.  

What are you? Some kind of teacher?

You could say that.

Rumors. Tall tales told by friends, acquaintances, and enemies. Some were flat-out lies. But, in every lie, there’s an ounce of truth.  

Jamie drove to work early that morning after she had sent the money to  Ben. She went by places they used to go to on dates. Foley’s Bar, Klem’s Diner, St. Peter’s on Christmas Eve and Easter. She smiled as the old Ford sputtered down the streets to the insurance agency. Got in line with the rest of society at Dunkin Donuts drive-through. Lit a cigarette and waited to have her say.

I want a dozen. Just mix them all up. And a large coffee with cream and sugar, please. A foreign voice told her to please drive up to the window. Thank you, she said. 

The radio was on the local AM station where reports were coming in about possible tornadoes  hitting the area later that day. It was spring. Jamie took it all in stride, didn’t panic, she was used to it. Her mind was on Ben.

He taught English at the local high school. His morning routine consisted of tying a tie and grabbing two beers from the fridge to drink as he drove to work. Ben wanted to be primed for classes as soon as he arrived; chew on a mint, check his hair in the rear view mirror, and tell himself, only two more months till summer.

Some students thought he was the greatest teacher they’d ever had. He made Moby Dick interesting to the kids. Taught Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, making them feel like they were in the jungle and he was Kurtz. Delved into Faulkner, which at times confused students; Faulkner confuses everybody. But his specialty was Hemingway.  Ernest was his true love. The Sun Also Rises. Indeed, it does, he used to say. Indeed, it does.

This tall, well-built man had a lot of the girls trip over themselves when talking to him. Shy high school students who turned red when discussing their feelings about literature. They tried hard to disguise their crush on Mr. Worski. They were thrilled when he let them call him Ben. And that’s where the rumors started. Some started by mischievous young ladies and some said by jealous young men. Ben was aware of these tales. They made him feel young. Attractive. Interesting. All the things Jamie used to feel about him before two beers in the morning turned into a six-pack.

I should’ve helped him, Jamie said to herself. Maybe I could’ve saved him. But, I’m no Christ, she whispered.  I’m no Christ.

You want some of this? Ben asked.

Yeah.

Just a hit. I gotta save some.

Save crack? Right, Meg told him. You don’t save crack. You do it all and go out and get more. That’s crack.

That’s what I got you for, Ben handed her the pipe. Tonight, you should hit 8th Avenue. All those porn shops. You’ll find a lot of horny old geezers to get off.

Way ahead of you.

Don’t come back till you have a hundred on you.

You gonna be here?

Yeah. I’ll be waiting for you.

Men looking for something. Something to ease their sickness. The illness that keeps them up at night. Things wives won’t do. A filthy world; block after block after block. Tranny whores out for the night. Young boys ready to take flight. Girls licking their lips as men stroll by. Eye contact is made; you want a date? Pay by the hour hotel rooms. Pakistanis behind glass. Taking in the money and handing out the keys. Cockroaches march on soiled sheets. This is business.

Meg stands on the corner of 43rd and 8th. She lights a cigarette and waits for men to approach her. She carries a blade in her purse.

Wanna party? a stocky young man asks. I got fifty on me. What can I get for that? He’s nervous. Sweating in the cold. He doesn’t want to do this, but he feels compelled to.

Fifty gets you everything. Are we gonna party? Meg asks.

I said we would, he stutters.

Well, alright then. Let’s go.

Ben sits in a bar next to The Port Authority. He nurses a beer and downs a shot of cheap house vodka. He tells himself it was good to talk to Jamie and counts his money. The Knicks are on TV playing the Bulls. And for a brief moment, he misses home.

 

That Arab is gone, Frank said. Disappeared like a ghost. I walked by there today; nothing.

They must’ve picked him up, Ben said as he lit up the tin foil. Funny. How’d they know where to look? There’s no traffic back there. Just garbage men.

They had to see him. Laying there. Next to the dumpster. Probably called it in, Frank took the pipe from Ben.

Of course they did. We’re not thinking. Everything has been unclear since that night. We should’ve thought this out better, Ben looked at Frank and Meg. Never. Never have I ever thought I’d be part of something like this. Not right. Jesus Meg. Why did you have to kill him?

I told you I didn’t. He just died. High as a kite while he was fucking me. His dick didn’t even work. Had to work like hell to get him hard.

Crack dick, Frank said. Happens.

You didn’t choke him? Ben asked. Meg shook her head. Kick him?

I just laid there while he did what he did. Smoked a little and fucked.

Right. Well. The cops will come here soon. We gotta find a place to go. How much money you two got? They emptied their pockets. Fifty bucks between them both.  OK, Ben said. Looks like we gotta separate for a while. Frank, you’re on your own. I’ll take care of Meg. Both nodded.  We’ll meet at McDonald’s next Saturday night. Late. Around two in the morning.  Pack your bags. We’re out of here.

At a payphone, around 24th and 8th, as people walk by at midnight, Ben and Meg share a slice of cheese pizza. Ben takes the bigger portion.

Get lost for a while. Come back here in a half hour.

Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do?

You’re a crack whore. Figure it out. Meg walks down the street quietly.  She’s fidgety and wants to score. Ben picks up the phone and places his bet.

Hello.

Hey.

Sorry. Did I wake you? Ben asked.

No. The operator did. Asking if I’d accept the charges.

Sorry about that.

What do you want, Ben? Jamie asked.

I’m in a jam.

You’re always in a jam. What is it this time? Where are you?

I’m in New York. Still.

I see.

I hate to ask you this.

Then don’t.

Have to. Got no choice.

Meg ran water into a coffee maker. Lit a cigarette. Dished Folgers into a filter. You want money. Right?

I’m sorry. 

You leave me, and then you ask for money. What the fuck Ben?

I just need to tie me over till next week. I’ll pay you back. I’m good for it.

You never pay me back.

It’s been rough. I don’t know what to say.

How much?

Fifty?

What will that get you?

Food.

I see.

Sorry.

I’m a fool, Ben. A fucking fool.

No, you’re not. You gotta good heart.

Right. I’ll wire it to you.

I can’t thank you enough.

Am I ever going to see you again?

You wouldn’t want to.

Star light, star bright. First star, I see tonight, Frank said, sharing a cigarette with Meg in the McDonald’s parking lot.

What do you wish for? Meg asked.

Not sure.

Gotta wish for something. Money. A joint. A hit. Maybe a bump. Or maybe just to be clean? You ever think of that?

For a brief second I did last night when I saw that body laying there.  Oozing blood. Silent. Eyes wide open. Staring at the ceiling. 

How do you think I felt?

Yeah. Did he die on top of you?

I think so. Off to the side. He was inside me. Let out a moan. Died.

Wow. Never had that happen.

They laughed. Frank pulled out a small bottle of poppers and dipped a clove cigarette into the liquid and lit it. The flame shot into the night air. He sucked on it and passed it to Meg. Their heads were soon spinning, staring at each other. Colors ran from the McDonald’s sign. Voices from the drive-through sounded foreign, slow tongued, the buzz lasted a while.

It’ll do, Frank said. This shit will do.

Yeah. It will.

They walked back to the house hand in hand. Knowing that Ben would be up. Waiting to get rid of the body. An old Palestinian man whose license said New Jersey on it. Frank began singing The Cure song Killing An Arab. They both smiled.

As they approached the house, the two looked at it as they never had before. This old abandoned, condemned house was their home. Silence. They looked on in silence before entering. Unlocked hands. And walked inside where Ben was waiting.

It’s 3:53 in the morning here in New York. You’re listening to WKCR. 89.9 on your FM dial. Now we’re going to play some Lonnie Smith. Lonnie Smith on the Hammond B3. Time is 3:56.

OK, Frank. We’ll move him out the back door. You want feet or shoulders?

Doesn’t matter.

Fine. I’ll grab the feet. Meg. Go see if anyone’s out there. We’ll lay him as far as we can drag him. OK. Ready? Let’s go.

Dead weight. The body sunk in the middle. His ass drug on the floor and then the pavement in the alley where rats roamed and opossum played. Smells of rotted food and feces. Spoiled lettuce.

They dropped the body down the way and never looked back. Leaving a man behind with a wife, children, a mortgage, a job, and a loss of faith. 

From the doorway, he looked at her. Watching as she lay on the mattress stained with grime and grit, sweat from grunting old men.

Still. Perfectly still. He wanted to hold her. Whisper that everything would be alright. But he knew that wasn’t the case. Now she was bruised fruit. No longer fresh like when they first came to town.

We have to find Radio City, Meg said. We have to. They both marveled at the tall buildings and lights. Everywhere lights. That’s where my dreams will come true, she told Ben. I’ll be the shortest Rockette in the history of Rockettes, but I’ll make it.

Gotta keep practicing those kicks, Ben said as he parked the Dart on 5th Avenue. Let’s walk a bit. Get out and stretch. He grabbed his pack of smokes, offered Meg one, and opened the door for her.

This is as good as it gets, he said. Look. There’s the statue on the cover of Atlas Shrugged.

What?

A book. By Ayn Rand. She wrote about self-determination. Doing it on your own in this world.

Oh. I see. And here’s a church.  Let’s go in.

For what?

To pray.

To whom? Nobody’s listening.

The two walked up to Central Park, marveling at people as they walked by, horse-drawn carriages, and old women selling flowers. He bought her a dozen daffodils. She kissed him on the cheek the way a daughter would kiss a dad. She had found her father. 

He watched her lying there. Lit a cigarette and thought, nothing is forever. Nothing. Atlas shrugged.

Soon, she would wake up. Back up to Hunts Point to catch her prey. Old men, young kids, teens looking for anything to get them off, businessmen driving by in cars with Connecticut plates. Ben looked at her and quoted the Virginia Slims slogan; You’ve come a long way, baby.

Ben turned on the radio. Ornette Coleman’s The Shape of Jazz to Come was playing on WKCR.

It’s 1:30 here in New York. Now, back to more great music, the girl said.

Ben closed his eyes and slept among the swept piles of broken glass, beer cans, empty bottles of TJ Swann. He had no dreams, just slept for what seemed like for minutes, but was hours. Hours of a day wasted.

It’s noon here in New York, the young man’s voice said on the radio. Now, back to chamber music here on WKCR.

Meg. Meg. Ben called out. Meg. He walked back to her room. She was gone.

Get up. I said, get up. The body lay there on the torn up hardwood floor. Ben reached down to place his hand over the man’s face. He felt nothing. Just saw dark red blood running from the victim’s mouth. Dead, Ben said. He’s gone.

What do you mean, gone? Meg said.

Well. Either you killed him or the pipe did.

I didn’t kill him.

Sure about that? Ben said as he rummaged through his pockets and found his wallet.

Why would I kill him? I just blew him. That’s all.

Well. Must’ve been one hell of a blow job. What’s with the blood?

Don’t know.

Did you kick him? Punch him? Cut him?

No, no, no.

God damn it. We gotta good thing going here, Meg. A place to sleep.  Get high. Whatever. And now there’s a dead body. Where am I supposed to put this?

You’re the pimp. You tell me, boss man. 

Don’t get smart with me. Ben pulled out a ten from the john’s billfold. A ten? That’s it. Fuck. How much you got on you? Meg pulled a twenty from her pants pocket. Alright. We can work with this, he said.

Hello. Hello, Frank called out as he entered the room. What the fuck?

My guess is a heart attack,  Ben said.

I see.

You gotta help me, Frank.

Sure.

Any ideas?

Toss him in the basement, Frank told them.

Right.

Or we wait till night time and carry him down to the highway.

Oh yeah. That won’t look too conspicuous, will it?

Toss him in the alley. What’s one more dead crackhead for the cops to find.

Right. We’ll wait till early morning while it’s still dark.

Got any rock on you?

I’m out. Here’s a twenty. Go get some.