east river

we'd been working for days, getting ready for the opening, when dan calls me up: "ran, you and your friend gotta come to this party tonite. it's over by the east river in long island city. it's crawling with writers and such." bobbie and i, inhaling the fumes of early august manhattan weren't in a hurry to go anywhere, except back to williamsburg and the (relatively) cool air of the second floor window box fan.

the jammed in press of days old funk mixed with fresh scrubbed and body washed skin as we hopped the "L" for the long ride under the river and out to bedford street. a screech of brakes and we were spat onto the platform, the mix giving way to straight up dank, late summer subway odor. out we came into the fresh air, and my phone beeped with new voice mail as the signal came back. dialing in, it was dan again: "hey ran, hire a car and get on over here, you don't wanna miss this party." i hang up by the time we begin the walk up the long flight of stairs to dan's raw warehouse.

a dark figure looms in front of the box fan, devon, forty-year old skater boy queen, broken down addicted to whatever, picking at something on his shirt. he was immersed in conversation with himself, a steady stream of unintelligible sound trailing our way. "what's happening tonite ?", i offer up. "sonic youth and yeah yeah yeahs playin' over at the pool, free barbeque at manhole tomorrow, house party in dumbo later on," trailing off into a free-form mumble.

bobbie chimed in, "hey, you know where i could score some weed?" devon, still fixated on his shirt, finally looked up, his fake shoe polish black eyes shiny and mismatched. he says, "lemme find my cell phone, i gotta contact in there." disappearing into his closet of a room, he emerges with this beat-to-hell phone with only three working keys. "there's a number for my weed man in there," he says, handing the phone over to bobbie. sensing the hopelessness of the proposition, bobbie just looks at the pile of electronic crap in his hand and shrugs.

just then, my phone rings again...it's dan: "hey ran, you GOTTA come to this party, they gotta boat and barbeque. it's at mark disuvero's studio." suddenly it hits me, this was a REAL party. "alright, we're there," click.

bobbie, stretched out and sweating on the futon. "dude get up, this is the big shit deal tonite, i'm callin' a car." minutes later, we're bailing out into the darkness of an expansive scrap-yard looking street. a corrugated steel gate slowly swung open, revealing two huge airplane hangar studios on a hundred yard long stretch of dock. "what took you so long?", dan quipped.

we did the walk through, checking out these immense god-like steel sculptures, finely balanced articulation sent rotating around the hangar with the flick of a wrist. out on the loading dock we stepped, hipster group hanging out at tables, drinking, talking, eating barbeque. i did the meet and greet, trying to hold a conversation, but the river called insistently, just off the concrete dock.

breaking away, i jumped down to a floating platform and began stripping off my clothes. city lights reflect across the blackness of the river as i dove into the cold darkness. invigorated, i opened my eyes and tasted the fresh salt-tinged liquid deep underwater. black depths glowing with a neon pulse as i propelled myself up and into the air. i took a deep breath, realizing i was twenty yards offshore.

the others looked small and insignificant, as a wave of fear and isolation ran over me. taking another breath, i dove back under, gliding through the peaceful chill and blind miasma. this time i came up near the platform and awkwardly clambered back onto dry land. shivering, i began to put my clothes back on.

"is he really naked?", a filipino girl asked bobbie, as though she had never seen a human body before. bobbie nodded and then dan called out into the night: "hey ran, that was real huck fin of you, there." pulling my shirt on, i smiled and glanced back into the night.

mule

nightfall, another hot gulf coast night, found us walkin' down the tracks to a show at crawlspace, a second floor artist-run gallery overlooking this machine shop. chase was runnin' the space then, and had some drawings by a tall gangly vampire fella on the wall. comin' up the rickety wooden steps i bumped into betty, who threw me a sweet if slightly off-kilter smile.

i took a quick jaunt around the show and then settled into the comfy sofa in the boutique area. chase took a quick hit off his wood pipe and then proceeded to show us this cool new video game he had just picked up, "kamachama yo' mama". cardboard critters, woolen doo-dads and other knick-knacks stared down at us from the wall as we focused in on the little 10 inch color screen.

it was 'bout then that betty launched into one of her stories. this one started (like all the others) with a smile that slowly spread from one side of her face to the other, followed by a gleam in the leading eye.

"yeah, my boyfriend and i, we were down in mexico, and he had this great plan to buy up boatloads of liquor at great prices and then smuggle it back into the states so we could have it for some big parties, like. he had seen it done in the movies before, so we knew it could work."

"so he bought up all this booze and then stuffed it into a backpack, and loaded it on me to carry over." (long pause) "he knew they wouldn't suspect me, so he went on ahead and crossed over, then i followed a few minutes later, hee-hee."

suddenly she was distracted..."hey that's an awesome video piece you designed, chase." (he had been playing "kamachama yo' mama" this whole time) "how'd you do that anyway, i mean how'd you make that video? you oughta market that thing to burger king, they'd go for that big time, you know what i mean?"

"that sounds great, betty", chase said absentmindedly and continued to rack up the points on his game. we looked on as the night heat closed in on another round of drinks and more stories from betty.

midsummer night dreams

he walked along the desert road with his father. a dirt pathway diverted up the ravine, looking like a gully washed out by the last rain. they followed it up and over the earthen spine, coming upon an adobe church, empty and open to the elements.

inside they walked, past flickering candles, and out again, this time into the courtyard. a monumental sculpture loomed ahead, an oversize wooden chair with basket-weave seat all cast in bronze, double life size.

"el diablo" his father exclaimed as they rounded it to the front. seated on this monstrosity was a sculpted devil, a typical one with horns and spiked tail, seeming vaguely cartoonish. though of human scale, he was dwarfed by the giant bronze seat and looked rather infantile perched on this impromptu throne.

they continued on past the seated devil through scrub into the desert wilderness, moving into the late afternoon sun.

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he drove the old land rover over the dirt road, pushing the accelerator as it threatened to die on him. his teenage son fidgeted in the passenger seat and leaned out the open window. the wind was picking up now and heavy black clouds were moving in fast.

for a moment he considered going back and trying to retreat from the storm, but then he gunned it, going full blast into the approaching melee. whirling black clouds dipped down, and dissipated smokelike as they whipped around the plodding vehicle.

the road grew muddy as they moved into the deluge, with vegetation and debris slowing them little by little. finally they came on a roadblock formed of two huge fallen logs. he looked over to his son and then jammed on the pedal, hitting the logs with the full force of the steel hulk.

coming out the other side, they slowed to a stop in the parking lot as the storm cleared and moved away behind them. his son hopped out and ran around to the front of the truck. "fuckin' a..!" the hood was crumpled up, but otherwise intact.

he got out, checked the oil, and got in the passenger side. his son now on the drivers side turned the key, slapped the transmission into drive and they lurched away.

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he cradled the rolled up posters under his arm as he went into the school, walking down the hall and scanning the classes as they passed. the rooms buzzed with activity, kids in parochial uniforms collectively reciting math formulas and language phrases. she came with him, and together they went into the monk's workshop. "i don't know if you can use these, but i'd like the school to have them", he said.

the young monk towered over them, looking vaguely buddha-like with newly grown black stubble coming in on his recently shaved head. "i like this one" he said, pointing to a poster of two people lying on a bed having sex. "we can use it to both teach and provoke."

at a loss for words, he looked her way and nodded his head toward the door. she smiled and they scooted out into the hallway, down the freshly mopped glistening terrazo floor and out the double doors into the bright sunlight of the playground.

"The Real Thing"

So there they were sitting out on the front porch late that evening, when the holy ghost came over him. Kneeling down on the front walk, he gathered the loose sage, lit a match and made a protective circle around it with both hands. Pressing his face into the circle he blew, like some crazed fool smoking a buried pipe.

The beautiful young things on the porch looked on, wide-eyed with amazement, as if a strange public t.v. documentary was unfolding before their very eyes. Handsome bud talking to them stopped his come on routine when he noticed their attention diverting.

Then it was he reached under and scooped up the burning sage, and brought it up before the two lovers seated before his tiny altar, gently blowing the smoke into their faces. They breathed in deeply and the girl began to chant in foreign tongues. drunk on the spirit, she rose to her feet and started to sing "amazing grace, how sweet the sound", pulling her lover up and holding him close.

The girls on the porch clicked their heels nervously and went inside, in search of cold beverages and relief from the spectacle, handsome bud following closely on their heels. This was when he went to the hollowed-out tree and lit the candles, the glow coursing out like a beacon in the night.

The two lovers blessed him and moved into the darkness, a portent of things to come. It was then his vision appeared, peripherally she stood in the half-light, faded red t-shirt encompassing her profile. "The Real Thing" it read, and before the next heartbeat he knew the course his life would take.

Later that night 4:15 am, he was lying in bed in the dark, and one of the beautiful girls peered into the room saying "hey, me and John gotta head back to Houston, can you do us a favor?" Five minutes later, he was standing at an ATM, dazed and confused, taking out $500 and handing it over for an artwork. Somewhere in his stupor the thought occurred to him that this was not a rational decision, but it was good to be done with it, the senselessness of beauty and the valuing of worldly goods. He knew that part of his life was through.

The beautiful people took the cash, and faded into the night. He knew that somewhere she was awake and watching over him, la Morenita, the t-shirt now swinging from a hanger. He walked back to the front porch, to where the smoke from last night's rites had left a smudge on the walk and sat. Watching the first light of morning break over the horizon, the hint of a smile upon his face. A thirst had come over him.

bloom (in the ghetto)

on a hot and sweaty any morning
another little baby child is born
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

cause if there's one thing that she don't need
its another little hungry child to bleed
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

and a hungry little girl with a ring through her nose
plays it on the streets as the cold wind blows
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

so she starts to walk the streets at night
and she learns how it hurts and she knows it ain't right
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

then one night she takes a blade and cuts off all her hair
and to herself she makes a vow
she wants to leave but she don't know how
and her mother cries

(based on mac davis' "in the ghetto" 1969)

russians

the pinata ascended haltingly up the backyard cable, a blue donkey rotating slowly in the air. blindfolded, vlad knelt below it like a knight before battle, his head bowed. the russian had already burnt his hand on the grill, and held the wooden pole with some difficulty.

as he sprang to action, i saw her coming toward me, carrying a bottle of chilled vodka. "we chase it with a pickled tomato", she said. "you hold it to your mouth and squeeze."

vlad had been flailing at the air for some time now, and the little donkey seemed to be smiling at him. its orbit becoming more and more eccentric as the pole sliced through the air, coming dangerously close to the laughter around him.

"be my designated driver", he said as she led him inside and up the stairs. the darkened room began to turn slowly as he lay beside her on the futon. pouring a shot over her, he licked the vodka off her stomach and squeezed the tomato chaser into his mouth. "you are what you eat," she said.

the party had moved indoors now, their voices rising from downstairs and breaking free of gravity. he was behind her now, their rhythm merging into the blackness. time sped up, and they fell spent onto the covers.

in the morning the russians were gone, the broken pinata stuffed in the trash can. he staggered into the kitchen and pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge. tilting back his head to take a swig, he saw a mark on the ceiling, a sneaker print. closing his eyes, he saw vlad cartwheel into the night.

escape

sitting on the fire escape he looked down, eight floors to the ground below. concrete, stone and steel, the city, tough and relentless. a lighted neon cross blared "jesus saves" from the street front mission, car horns shouting as traffic rushed up to the stoplight, people hurrying along the walk.

slowly he took a drag from the cigarillo, warmth and fire pulled into his lungs. he closed his eyes and felt the smoke inside balancing out the cool blasts of wind which buffeted him high up the city's side. he felt himself slipping into a dream, of soft grasses and flowing water under a canopy of trees.

she climbed through the window and sat beside him, her legs resting on the steel bars. "this is kind of nice" she said, and he opened his eyes, looking up at the softness of the sky and beyond. she poured sangria over ice in the plastic cups and handed him one. "to nice" he said, and tipped his cup into hers.