I’m standing on the corner of East 125th and Lexington, just as I did all those years ago. It’s still a shithole. There are too many people, streaming ant-like from the Metro, where the 4, 5 and 6 lines rumble in from the Upper East Side of Manhattan. There’s no glamour here, just the press of humanity in its pointless pursuit of gratification. Each lump of flesh dotted on the broken pavements scurrying to unknown nirvanas, what’s left of their minds calculating, planning, seeking – all hidden behind frozen masks of hate. They don’t like what they are. They don’t like what they do, or say, or the music they listen to, or the food they eat, or the beer they drink. It’s all senseless.
There’s a guy with a face like a bunch of bananas shouting at the air. His fat, brown belly sticks out of his shirt. He’s pointing at the devils running down the walls. I can’t see them. I never could. My devils are in other places. His spittle-flecked lips distort, exposing broken teeth and gums. He punches his banana face. Blood seeps from an old wound. A cop strolls up, laughing with his colleagues as they pose with their night-sticks and guns at the side of Jane’s Hotdogs and Donuts. He hooks banana-face’s legs with the stick, pins and cuffs him. Calls it in. A wagon will be here soon. He’ll get ten days in the tank.
My man is late. He’s never early. You always gotta wait.
An old lady pushing a trolley stuffed with plastic boxes, crosses at the intersection. Cars honk. Drivers cuss. She gives them the finger, never looking up. Her coat flaps in the warm breeze, slapping against her thin body. A boy dodges around her, his legs stretching in tight jeans, unbuttoned shirt revealing a muscular inked torso. I can hear shouts. Two fat guys in suits are pursuing him, their faces reddening, eyes wide. They see the cops and slow, turning into a side road. Tight jeans has got away. The cops are interested. They take their poses down the sidewalk, following the fat guys. Jeans guy has gone.
Here he comes. He’s all dressed in black. Only he’s lost the PR shoes and the straw hat.
“My man,” I say, only it’s a cough, not words. I can’t do words today.
He looks at the cop pinning banana face. This isn’t the place he wants to be. He walks. We get to the old brownstone. Inside, it’s still the same. Peeling wallpaper, piss-stained carpet, slamming doors, snarling pit bulls in alcoves.
“You got the money? I got the gear,” he says, holding out his hand. I press bills into it. He hands me a package.
“I gotta split,” I cough out the words.
“Yeah, you always do,” he spits. “Junkies.”
I step outside and stand on the edge of the pavement by the storm drain. The packet slips easily from my fingers. I felt my strength. I’m good.
