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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.

What do you want from this world? Ben asked Meg when they first met.

I want to be a star.

Oh. Is that all?

I’ll start off as a Rockette and later star on Broadway.

I see. Reach into that glovebox and hand me that pack of cigarettes. The Lucky Strikes. Should be a special one in there we could share.

You mean a joint?

Precisely, Ben grinned. He kept driving on 80 til they came to 76 around Akron. They headed northeast. Dead deer lay on the road. Construction. Toll booths. Orange cones decorated the way. She handed him the pack. Muchos Gracias, Ben said, rolling his window down on his side of the 67 Dart. He stepped on the gas. Just a little.  It was a climb up that tree covered hill.

Why didn’t you pull that joint out earlier? Back in Illinois?

Didn’t want to scare you.

Mr. I ain’t scared of anything. They laughed.

And she wasn’t scared of anything. She wasn’t scared when her father left. She wasn’t scared of her mom’s drinking. She wasn’t scared of the boys in school who used to taunt her throughout the day. And she wasn’t scared of the rumors girls started about her.  Unfounded rumors. Just talk. Evil talk that high school girls do. She let it all slide off her back. Did it all hurt her? Yes. But she wouldn’t show it.

The radio was turned to an AM station playing golden oldies and news casts at the top of the hour. Stories of how Bush was ahead of Dukakis in the polls. The end of the Reagan Era. The weather for the Poconos. Dylan’s Lay Lady Lay came on. Ben hummed along. Meg looked out the window at the tall pines. She was a thousand miles from home. It felt good.

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.