dmseay

My dear boy, George said.  Where have you been? Frank looked at the old queen with his bloodshot eyes and dry caked lips. Second thought, don’t answer that. I thought I was raising you better than this, George walked over and brushed the blonde strand from over Frank’s eyes. He kissed the young man on the cheek. When will I ever learn?

Autumn in the city. Everyone gets along. The crime rate in the burroughs goes down significantly when the leaves change, the nights grow cooler, and sunlight creeps through clouds. Suddenly, the man who wanted to kill you in summer’s sticky heat is now wanting to be your best friend. It is a time of forgiveness. 

I just want to sleep, Frank said. To dream. Ah, to dream, the two laughed.  Please. Forgive me. Old habits are hard to break.

Yes, George told him. You are an old habit. Your kind is an old habit. I do love the young men. But, they never stay. They rob me blind and leave in the middle of the night. Like cat burglars. And yes, they all wear masks. That is, at least I can’t see through them. Always tricked. I fall in love too easily. I fall in love, too fast, he sang in a whisper.

George placed his age spotted hand on Frank’s shoulder. Please don’t leave me, he said. Please stay.

A breeze blew in from the open windows. Leaves danced down the street. George played a record; Harlem Butterfly sung by Bobby Short. The two curled up on the king-size bed as George sang along softly, while his young prince slept and dreamed.

Hart Island. A million souls buried in the ground. There are no names on tombstones. No plaques. Just bones on top of bones.

This is where New York buries its poor, unknown, and forgotten. Bodies rotting. Cold days in winter. There is no spring.

Basima had never heard of Hart Island. She did not know of the potter’s field. And she did not know Salman’s whereabouts. Yes, she thought of him as dead, yet there is always hope.

It had been a month. No word from her husband. No letters. Nor phone calls. Just quiet. A hovering silence.

No one identified the body of Ben. A note on him saying, please call Jamie and a number was all there was to go on. Jamie lifted a glass to her former husband and said, Now you are home. She then let go . Jamie did not cry or curse when being told. She felt relieved.

And now the two men lay in rest at Hart Island. Their lives finished. Love left behind.

Basima spent her days driving around Hunts Point, where the Bodega front glass door remained unlocked. Looters had taken everything. Shelves were empty. Cash register opened. Pennies on the floor.

She was scared to open that door. Frightened of what she might find; a husband with a bullet hole in his head. A knife twisted in his stomach. An addict, done with his days. She just drove past, telling herself, I’ll face it tomorrow.

Two bodies on Hart Island. Lying side by side. One broken soul, the other an infidel. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell them apart.

Crazies. People walking around Manhatten talking to themselves. Picking up cigarette butts and getting the last draw on each one. Cursing into the air or at passers-by. Digging into garbage cans. Eating rotted lettuce, scraps of pizza crusts, the brown core of an apple, a quarter of a sandwich.  Trash discarded by pedestrians walking to and from jobs they hate. Who are the crazy ones?

Meg sat on a swing across the street from Bellevue. She dragged her feet on the pavement below, twisting the steel strands. Her body moved side to side.

She kept thinking about what the man had told her, just tell them you’re suicidal and they gotta take you in. Three meals, a bed, and maybe a chance to get out of this life and start a new.

Was he an angel? This kind soul who did not lay a finger on me. Was he the voice of God? Meg pondered. He must’ve been, she whispered. Had to. Maybe everyone in this life gets a second chance. The criminals, the addicts, the insane. Perhaps we all get a second chance. Maybe.

Meg stopped swinging and stood up. She felt tired and hungry. Sad and angry. Meg did feel like ending it. She didn’t have to lie. This was her time. Time to get help; reach for a lifeline. And that’s what she did.

The lighted drawn figure told her to walk. She crossed the street. Cop cars lined up. Ambulances pulling up and taking out people on stretchers. Indian doctors speaking in accents walking past her. Nurses in scrubs.

Doors opened for her. A thousand people walking around. Some carrying flowers and coffee cups. Others, like her, just tried to make sense of it all; a hundred hallways all going in different directions, elevators, and staircases, North Wing, South Wing, different departments, and different needs.

Meg walked up to a desk where a gray-haired lady, very motherly, asked if she could help. Her smile was welcoming. And, although she had seen a thousand people a day for the last twenty years, asking all kinds of questions, she was still kind.

I want to kill myself, Meg told her. I want to end it all.

Darling, you’ve come to the right place.

Glass pipes. Pieces of tin foil.  Broken bottles. Used condoms filled from the night before.

Makeshift homes made of cardboard, newspapers, plastic tarps. A fire burns in a barrel.

He walks amongst the peasants in his new clothes, unable to hide what he really is.

The blacks with tangled hair, talking to themselves, like poets working on a poem. Immigrants who have given up on the American dream, drinking from 40 oz. cans. Singing songs until they pass out under the sounds of cars, diesels, and busses passing overhead. Former white businessmen in torn suits sucking on a rock. They left their wives, girlfriends, and families behind, no longer working for the gold watch, the 401k, a retirement house in Florida. Young girls sleeping off a night of making men’s desires come true behind dumpsters, in front seats of cars, bathroom stalls. All of them, waiting on their redeemer.  The second coming of Christ to take them away from this hell. They wait. They wait.

Frank is on the prowl. Nicely dressed in Western wear, he goes looking for the rock. He has cash. Plenty of it. He’s able to pick and choose his poison.

Let me have some of that, he says to a beat-up white guy. Frank never did business with anyone but the whites. For some reason, he thought they were cleaner, the rock more pure, never admitting that it’s all the same shit. The disheveled man hands him the pipe, and Bic lighter. Frank heats up the base while music in the background is drowned out from the sounds of the Bronx. Dominican girls shouting out profanities, Puerto Ricans on the hustle, whites looking to take advantage in a far away land from Manhattan. Frank sucks on the tube. And, for a moment, he’s in paradise, back where he came from, the place where he landed when he got off the bus a few years ago. He is home.

Meg? Is that you? Get in here, Ellen said. Where you been? Oh. That’s right. You went to New York to become a Rockette. How’d that workout for you? There was no answer.

I’ve been waiting for you. Every night, I say my prayers, sending one up for only you. I swear.

The wind blew outside. Sky grew dark. Rain fell.

You still mad at me? Ellen took a drink of cheap vodka. I always had the best intentions. Tried to help you. But you were too far gone. Out every night. Stealing liquor from my cabinet. Smoking my cigarettes. So I back-handed you a couple of times. Wasn’t like you didn’t deserve it.

The rain fell harder. Lightning. A full-on storm. Ellen turned on the radio. Adjusted the antenna. Dolly Parton was singing. Sang about a coat of many colors.

I used to sing this to you. Remember?

Only the thunder answered.

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.