dmseay

They get off the bus every day. Kids. Boys and girls from everywhere. South. Midwest. Small towns. Cities. All of them thinking that New York has something for them. A last bastion of hope. A home for misfit toys.

And they walk out onto 8th Avenue and have no idea of where to go or what to do. They just linger with backpacks over shoulders staring at lights, people, beggars, hookers, clowns, porno-shops, taxi cabs, and food carts with signs that say Knish for $6. They wonder what a knish is. He laughed.

How long have you been on the streets? the reporter asked. I assume you hustle. Right? How long?

Frank smiled. I’ve been out here for seven years. And yes. I’ve been hustling this whole time.

Street hustle?

Yeah. It’s coming to an end. Average age for a male hustler is sixteen to twenty-three. After that, the old queens don’t want you. You’re old bait that needs to be cut.

I’m talking all kinds of men, Frank lit a cigarette. All of them older. Priests, pedophiles, professionals, doctors, lawyers, cops, cunts, grocery clerks, your fathers from Long Island or Connecticut. They come in all shapes and sizes.

You want another cup of coffee?

That sounds good. The reporter motioned for the waitress to come with the coffee pot. Frank lit up another cigarette. He blew the white smoke into the air. I like sitting out here with you. This sidewalk café. No one ever thinks that a guy like me would like this, but I do. Civilized. 

No. I’m getting old for this profession, Frank told him.

Do you ever wonder what will become of you?

No. I don’t like to think about it. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. When does the story come out?

Not sure. I’ve got to interview a few more people.

I could introduce you to a whole new lifestyle, Frank said. Filled with hustlers, hookers, pimps, crackheads, junkies, sick, sick people. Some day, real rain is gonna come and wash all the scum off the streets.

They both laughed.

The refrigerator hums. A beeping noise coming from the coffeemaker. Ashtray filled with Virginia Slims smoked down to the filter. Empty vodka bottles lined up on a shelf. She sits at the kitchen table and drinks a screwdriver from a juice glass.

Low sounds of a television set in the living room. Quincy M.E. is on with Jack Klugman solving another case. Her head is down. She is talking to herself, words slurred, and spit runs from the corner of her mouth.

Where’d you go? Ellen asks no one. New York? That’s right. Trying out for the Rockettes. I told everyone in town that my little girl is gonna be a Radio City Rockette. She laughs. That’s what I told everybody. Said you’d been working on your kicks. Never could go over your head. Ellen puts out another cigarette and pours another drink. This time, just vodka. 

Well. You left me. Left me here all by myself. I know. You had to go off and start your life. I get that. But….I feel so lonely. So lonely since you left me.

Momma. You left me a long time ago.

Stop it. She bangs her hand on the metal table. Just stop. Here you go again. Telling me my mistakes. You got no business in New York City. Probably a big shot now. Huh Meg. Probably married some well-off man about town. That could’ve been me. That should’ve been me, Meg. I gave up everything for you. Everything.  All by myself. Yes, ma’am. 

Pictures of Ellen when she was younger hang on the walls. Before the wrinkles and the red nose, the over-used eyeliner, she was a beautiful woman.

Framed photos of her mom sit on the TV. Black and white pictures of  Ellen and her mom standing behind Meg with their hands on her shoulders. There are no men in any of these pictures. Just women and a little girl.

Ellen stumbles into the living room with her glass of vodka. Quincy is over. Now, a woman and a man appear selling pots and pans. Both are smiling. They seem happy. Laughing and frying eggs in a non-stick pan. Mom never had it that good.

8:47 is the time here in New York. You are listening to Bird Flight on WKCR. I’m Phil Schaap.

When we talk about Charley Parker, we are not only talking about a complex musician but a complex man as well.

Sure, we know about his stay in a mental hospital. His addiction to heroin. And we hope this doesn’t overshadow the genius of which he was.

From his start in big band music to the  beginning of bop, his trio work as well. All of it genius. But today, I want delve into the dynamics of his playing. The sheer  beauty of which it is. The time is 9:08 here in New York.

Ben turned off the radio when he heard bouncing in the other room. A man groaning and Meg telling him to give it to her harder.

Ben turned the radio back up. Parker was playing with Gillespie. Both men taking turns at blowing their horns to new heights.  Heights that no one had heard before.

And this was the beginning of bop, Schaap said. The beginning of a time in music that many consider groundbreaking. And, of course, it was.

The customer’s groaning got louder. Meg quickly became quiet. Her voice was silenced. He was grunting and moaning with his hands around her throat.

These fucking pigs, Ben said. Can’t even fuck like normal people. Always something weird. Beyond weird.

The pimp made his way back to Meg’s room and saw her swinging wildly at the man. Hitting him on the back. Digging her nails into his rib cage.

Bitch, the john said. Fucking teach you a lesson.

Get off her, Ben said in a low voice. Now.

I’m going to get my money’s worth.

I’d say you already have. Get dressed. Ben pointed at him.

Or what?

A kick to the stomach was given along with a strike on the jaw. A hard strike. The pig bled and pulled a tooth out. Blood ran from his nose.

Get dressed and get out of here. Leave. You OK? he asked Meg. She nodded her head yes. I knew you’d come back. You always do, Ben stood over her naked body. You. Fuck boy. Get out of here.

Meg ran her fingers through her purse and handed Ben a twenty. He smiled. 

Welcome back.

Thank God for the heat bouncing off these skyscrapers, Frank pondered as he walked down Broadway. Thank God for the piss smell coming from alleys. Shit smeared sidewalks. Thank God for  bums and businessmen. For we are all his children. Thank God for  meals at churches and in basements of synagogues. Thank God for a bed to sleep on. Thank you, God, Frank said out loud. Thank you.

A fresh twenty dollar bill in his pocket. Rolled cigarette in his mouth. Some cheap earring in his right ear; fake but shiny. Wifebeater tee exposing homemade hearts and daggers on his arms. Yellow Baggy pants with black stains on them. At one time, they were clean. At one time, he was clean.

Greyhounds come and go. They bring those who can’t afford an airplane ticket. Bringing poor people mostly to a city that does not want them; there are too many charity cases here already. 

But Frank came. At sixteen, he quit school, and with money saved from washing cars, he left Fort Wayne, Indiana, one night with a fifty on him. The kid knew it wouldn’t get him very far, but he had to leave. Voices inside his head told him to go. The constant chatter within never ceased. Always telling him to seek out new land, a new city. He listened to those voices. He did not adhere to doctors’ advice nor the words of a therapist in a tweed jacket and plaid tie. The youngster did not say goodbye to his mom and dad in person. He called collect when he got to New York at midnight.

I’m gone, he said. I’ve left. Sorry. But, I had to go. I just had to.

Where are you? His father asked.

Far away pop. Far away.

Can you give me a clue.

I’m where I should be, Frank breathed into the payphone. I’m where I should be.

Your mom and I love you.

Yeah. I love you too.

Where are you calling from? she asked. Tell me. Are you OK? Where are you?

Somewhere. Everywhere, Ben laughed. I don’t even know anymore. One day, I’m in Iowa, the next Illinois. That was a week ago. Just been driving.

Yeah. You like to drive, Jamie said. You running low?

Not sure. 

On cash.

I could always use cash, he responded. 

When you coming home?

Don’t know. I kind of like this vagabond life. Running around like this. Nothing in concrete. No commitments.

You do have a commitment. We made a commitment at the church on our wedding day. Remember?

No. I don’t remember anything these days. I don’t know why I called. Maybe just wanted to talk to somebody.

Somebody?

Yeah. Somebody.

Tell me where you’re at.

Why? What difference does it make? I’m here today and gone tomorrow. I just keep going back and forth on 80. Sleeping in my car. Eating out of vending machines.

And you like this?

I do. I guess.

Yeah. I guess so.

They hung up without saying goodbye. Ben got back in his car and turned on the radio as he pulled out of the rest area. National Public Radio was coming in from Chicago just a few miles away. Louie Armstrong was singing Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans.

Never been there, Ben thought out loud. Never. Nelson Algren wrote about it. A Walk On The Wildside. A hell of a book, he smiled. Wrote about Chi-town as well. Came from Detroit. Few have read him. Few. 

The radio station was coming in clearer. Charley Parker was blowing his plastic saxophone. Ben hummed along. The sign for Chicago said 24 miles.

Muffled sounds. Silent loudness. Cop cars go by. Busses make stops. People walk against red lights; talking on phones, making deals, honey, I’ll be  home late.

Homeless men and women in cardboard boxes. Feces smeared on sidewalks. The smells of dirty dogs dipped in water. A greasy slice of pizza for a buck. Kids scrounging in pockets.

Lights flash as the sun goes down. Neon glows. College students drinking $8 bottles of  Budweiser or whatever is cheap and chic; PBR. The sweet smell of Indian food stinks up Lexington Avenue. A small concrete park where pigeons peck on breadcrumbs left behind. A loaf of bread is found. A loaf of bread devoured. Stale, hard, gums sink into the crust. She’s found dinner.

Meg watches from a swingset in Kips Bay. She goes up into the air like an airplane taking off, pretending that she’ll land someplace else. Heaven, perhaps. God take me away, she prays. Just take me.

She’s seen God before. On the end of a pipe. Laced joints. Huffed cans of paint. Tabs of acid. A shot of H between her toes. He was beautiful for a moment, then faded away like white smoke, only to leave her crying to see him again. But she never will.

The constant pursuit of God. Junkies, Evangelicals, Jews, Catholics, Muslims, drunks, sinners, gays, straight men in uniforms, the list goes on and on. Looking for God. One way or another.

Meg’s search began at a young age. Mom was so proud when she answered the call to be baptized; going under the water a sinner and brought back up a child of God.

Ten years old. Answering the call when she was just ten. Knowing that Jesus was born in Bethlehem and died at Calvary. Crucified. Nailed to a cross. She smiled when the preacher asked, Are you ready to be saved? Nodding and giggling, she said, yes. Yes, sir, I am.

The swing takes her nowhere, only to land back in reality. Dirty face. Ripped skirt. A tube top of red and yellow colors she stole from a thrift store. And in her purse, a tiny copy of The New Testament.

Where’s she heading to? asks Frank. Flew out of here like a rattled alley cat.

Stay out of her way. She’s upset.

She’s always upset.

Mad at us, says Ben.

What now? She wanted rock, and I brought her rock.

You gave it to me to give to her. Bad mistake.

I had business to attend to.

Who are you? Some Wall Street guy? Some hedge fund operator? Ben laughs. 

You smoked her shit.

Most of it.

Damn you, Ben.

Your fault. You trusted me. Don’t ever trust a crackhead. Don’t ever trust a pimp. I gave her some. She owed it to me anyway. Ben lit a cigarette.  She’ll be back tonight. All strung out. Looking like a ghost.

She’s a kid, Ben.

Used to be a kid. She ain’t no kid no more. She’s a crack whore.

No shit. But she’s still a kid.

She knows two things. Open her legs or open her mouth. That’s all a crack whore knows. Right?

We don’t need to talk about that.

Ben laughs. He sits down on the milk  crate. His bony knees come up to his chest. Frank digs through the coffee can for butts.

I’ll give you a cigarette, Ben says. But, it’ll cost you.

Everything always does.

Go keep an eye on Meg.

No telling where she’s at.

She don’t go far from the Point. Never does.  All her whoring takes place around here. Go on. Keep an eye out.  Make sure she comes back.

Men stare at her. They used to stare at her good looks. Now they just look at her like a dead fish washed up on the shore. Too much makeup, sometimes none at all. Filthy clothes. A dress she had bought years ago no longer fits right. Her curvy figure has turned to bones.

She sits on the train and hopes to go far, far away. Anywhere but the Bronx. Manhattan,  Brooklyn,  Queens. She could go to Staten Island and hook there. But girls have already staked their territory; piss marks on sidewalks. 

Meg gets off at 32nd Street and walks among the crowd. She makes her way to The Port Authority. Fresh meat getting off busses, young girls hoping dreams come true, boys running away from home, all of them have a story to tell. Meg forgot hers a long time ago.

I-80 runs from San Francisco to Teaneck, New Jersey.  It crosses the Midwest.  States like Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio. Thousands of cars and trucks take this piece of road every day, passing exits, billboards, toll road booths, and rest areas where people park and sleep or use the bathrooms, maybe get something to eat. It’s a true piece of Americana. All types, going east or west. Over the road drivers making deliveries and popping pills to stay awake, families going on vacation with kids screaming in the backseat, outlaws on the run, the lost, adventurers, those who can’t take it anymore, all of them singing along to the soundtrack that is the United States of America.

Ben and Meg drove this road of white lines and concrete heading east. He picked her up just outside of a small town in Illinois, where she lived with her mom. Dad left when she was six. Never liked being a husband or a father. No one knows where he went to, but Meg swore one day she’d find him and set him straight.

The radio was tuned to a classic rock and roll station. Bad Finger was playing Baby Blue. Ben sang along.

You know this song? Ben asked.

No. Sounds funny. Sounds old. Are you old?

Ben laughed and lit up a joint. The nighttime air came through the windows and vents. It felt cool. Like something new was coming their way.

I suspect you’re pretty young. She  nodded her head as he handed her the experience. That’s what he called getting high; the experience. 

I’m old enough to get you in trouble, she told him. Why don’t you guess.

Alright. I’d say sixteen.

How’d you know?

Used to guess people’s ages and weights for a carnival.

Oh. That’s interesting.

Yeah. I’ve lived a really interesting life.

They pulled over at a rest area in Pennsylvania. Tall trees covered the Dodge. They both leaned back in their pleather seats, shut their eyes, and dreamed.

A coffee can filled with cigarette butts sitting in the corner. An alarm clock radio tuned to WKCR is turned down low. The time 3:15 keeps flashing in red. Charles Mingus playing Ah Hum as Ben nods his head to the music.

He takes out a small piece of tin foil and forms a makeshift pipe with it; placing small white rocks into one end as an orange flame heats up his friend, his  nemisis.

Ben inhales the thin smoke deeply into his mouth, swallows, and coughs a little. He goes into a trance.

Give me some, Meg demands. Come on, share now. He hands her the shiny pipe and lighter. His face is blank, gray. The smell of burnt long hair stinks up the room; feeling like he was hit by an aluminum baseball bat, he motions to the girl.

Good shit, Ben says.

Yeah. Uh huh. What’s with the music?

This is Mingus. Charles Mingus. Don’t fuck up my experience.

Meg laughs and inhales the sweet cooked rocks. Charles Mingus? Never heard of him. She starts turning the dial on the radio, whizzing past classic rock stations, smooth jazz, and heavy metal.

What are you doing?

Just seeing what else is on.

You’re fucking up my experience that’s what you’re doing.

Your experience? Why don’t you just call it your buzz or your high like every other crackhead does? He stares at her. Don’t look at me that way, she tells him. Stop it. Gives me the creeps. Where’s Frank?

Came and left.

He was supposed to bring me some.

He did. We’re smoking it.

Sonofabitch. She swings wildly, and he grabs her by the long hair she has. That’s my shit.

Did you earn it?

What do you mean?

Did you blow him? Give him a hand job?

This ain’t right. This is not right. You said from day one you’d look after me.

And?

This ain’t looking after me.

You gotta place to sleep. A place to rest. He motions for her to hand the crack pipe back. Come on now.

Get away from me.

We gotta good thing going here, kid. Don’t fuck it up.

Am I free to go?

Yeah. As soon as you hand me back that pipe. She throws the silver and blackish piece of foil at Ben. You’ll never see me again, she says. Never. She runs out of the house through the space that once was a door.

Come back here. Come on now, he yells. Don’t leave me. Just don’t leave me. Please.

Frank walks in.

This world is filthy, he said. Kids like you don’t know the half of it. Sacrifices made for what? Very little in return, the old man said. And so, at times, we take time for a little pleasure. A brief recess from the pressures of life, he told him through the cut-out hole in the booth. Bills pile up. Your wife wants to leave you. Kids no longer call. Our indulgences become more than we can bare, he coughed and ran his greasy hands through his grey hair. It’s not my fault that you’re in this position. Down on your knees. Now is it?

The porno movie on the small screen showing a man and a transexual fucking each other had stopped. A red light came on outside the booth. 

Here, the old man took a token out of his pocket and handed it to the boy through the hole. His wrinkled fat fingers held the coin tightly. The boy grabbed it from him and placed the gold piece in the slot. The film continued as  Eastern Indian music played in the background. The old geezer undid his fly and waved his speckled cock at the kid through the hole. The boy grabbed it and began stroking it while the man in the suit continued talking.

Listen to me, the man said as he fished through his wallet for a ten spot. Here. Take this. Now blow me good. The teen placed the small penis up to his lips. Go on. The whole thing, he said. Is it too big for you? Take it. Now, he ordered. The boy did as he was told.

Life’s too much. Like I said. The pressure is overwhelming, the customer moaned. We do the best we can now, don’t we? But, there’s only so much we can do. Right baby? I said, right baby?

Right, Frank responded. Right.

This is a filthy world. It’s a filthy world.

Young Frank stood up and opened the door on the booth. He never saw the old man’s face.