Song of the Silent Snow (16 page)

He left the avenue and walked down 69th Street, stopping in front of the firehouse and joining the onlookers watching the firemen clean the trucks and test the equipment. Hoses were stretched up and down the street, men were shining and polishing brass, a spotlight was turned on and spun in an arc, the huge ladder raised and directed against the side of the building, men climbing up ...

The boy watched, without excitement, and started to take the ball from his pocket... then shoved it back and walked away, not turning as he heard the grinding of gears and the whish of water, continuing down the street, looking at the familiar houses and stores, feeling more and more the uneasy urgency in his body and strange weighted feeling in his chest.

He looked around and nothing was different and that puzzled him. Something within him demanded that the street, the buildings, the people be different, yet they were all the same but now he lacked identity with them. The footprints he had left on these streets all the thousands of times he had walked them were gone, they no longer felt like his streets, yet he continued to wander through them seemingly seeking something without the slightest idea what it might be, not knowing for sure if he was looking for something or really trying to get away. He felt the need for companionship yet was driven to aloneness, unable to ask why, nor sure that there was a question to ask, wandering through the suffocating point in time where the old is left behind before the new is even known to exist; that point where even memories cannot be evoked, only vaguely felt without comfort.

He stopped and watched a cat rummaging through a garbage can, its scars and matted fur symbols of its valiant fight against all who would try to kill it, and of its devotion to its kittens (feeling that the cat did not want simply to satisfy its hunger, but was looking for food to feed its young hidden from harm in a dark cellar) and he wanted to pick it up and pet it, take it home, wash it, feed it, listen to it purr as it lapped milk ... take it to bed with him and feel its soft fur as it snuggled close to him ...

he could even put a little bell around its neck and watch it chase a ball or rubber mouse and listen to the tinkle ...

and no one would hurt Lucky. He wouldnt be chased by kids throwing rocks. They wouldnt spin him by the tail and toss him high in the air. Lucky wouldnt have to claw his way free from rough hands and run panicky down the street dodging between legs and parked cars ... being crushed by the wheels of a truck. He had to help her! He walked toward the cat but it instinctively jerked its head up, looked for a second, then sprang from the can and ran. He didnt try to chase it but watched it run down the street, sad that the cat had not understood.

The cat disappeared and the boy stood staring for a moment, then slowly continued down the street, watching his shadow dim the cracks in the pavement, the bottle caps, scraps of paper, popsicle sticks and old pieces of chewing gum that had been ground into the cement. He turned the corner and walked along Colonial Road to Bliss Park. He met another kid at the entrance who walked beside him. See Rusty taday?

The boy shook his head.

Ya think hes here?

Dont know, Joey.

I got a couple a broken light bulbs in here - rattling a paper bag and grinning - I hope hes aroun.

The boy nodded and they continued walking down the path, across the grass and stopped under a large berry tree and ate some berries, the boy feeling the warm, sweet juice trickle down his throat and enjoying the flavor which somehow made him feel even sadder. The other boy grabbed handfuls and chomped them happily, aint they great? Man, I could eat a million ofem.

They continued walking across the grass, the boy enjoying the feel of it under his feet; looking at the sky and trees; hearing the voices of kids, their mothers; of skaters on the paths; the sudden yells of ball players; the sound of his steps on the grass; the rustle of branches and leaves; the sight and the sound of the birds ...

His loneliness didnt decrease, but he felt more content within his feeling of isolation, as if such a feeling belonged here with the grass and trees.

Hey, look, there he is. Joey was pointing to a group of a few men and a couple of boys sitting on the side of the hill. When they reached the group they sat with the other kids who were laughing and yelling at Rusty to feed the squirrels. Rusty waved his hand at them and took a drink of wine from a bottle, still in the brown paper bag, then passed it to the guy next to him. There were three of them and they continued to pass the bottle.

Joey shook his bag in front of the other kids then said to Rusty, I brought ya somethin ta eat. They all laughed and he shook the bag again before giving it to Rusty. Rusty opened it and looked at the pieces of broken light bulbs, took another drink, passed the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Jesus Christ, could ya spare it? He ripped open the bag and laid it on the ground. Ya know, when I was with the circus they used ta serve it on a tray. He burst out laughing and the kids laughed and the boy could feel his face starting to smile but something within him fought against it. Rusty stopped laughing and picked up a large piece of glass and put it in his mouth and started chewing. The kids stared, their eyes getting wider and wider. He swallowed and licked his lips, Musta been a GE. Can always tell a GE. They got a Michigan taste. He burst into another laugh, stopping when the bottle was passed back to him. He ate all the glass in the bag, the kids watching him, amazed no matter how many times they had seen him do the same thing. The boy watched too, transfixed, aware of what he was watching yet that little something that turned the viewing into amazement was missing and he didnt even wonder what happened to all that glass in Rustys stomach.

When Rusty had finished the glass he folded the bag and gently wiped his lips with it and said, My compliments to the chef. The kids giggled and laughed.

One of the kids handed him a few peanuts, Feed the squirrels, Rusty. Rusty took the peanuts and giggled, then crawled a few feet away and held out a peanut to a squirrel who had just descended a tree. The squirrel looked for a moment, then took a few steps toward Rusty who threw the nut to him. The squirrel picked it up, examined it carefully, then scooted off and buried it. Rusty crawled after him and when the squirrel left Rusty dug up the nut and held it up in the air - the kids screeching and laughing - then put it in his mouth and crawled back to the group, everyone laughing loudly, the boy smiling, the other kids yelling and slapping each other. Rusty sat up, the nut in his mouth, his arms extended, hands dangling, and cheeped, then turned and crawled away looking for another squirrel. The boy watched feeling his face fighting to giggle, to laugh, his hands wanted to clap and slap one of the other kids on the back, but the oppressive weight on his chest made it all impossible, and the unfamiliar feeling within let him know that there is no joy, no reason to laugh and so he felt even more cut off from his friends and his familiar world.

He left the group and walked slowly up the hill, hearing the screaching of bluejays mingling with the voices and laughter, to the open summer house on top, standing for a moment in its shade watching a squirrel running spirally up a tree, then walking to the stone wall around the seaside perimeter of the hill. He sat on the wall and looked at the harbor... watching the tugs towing barges of mud, coal, railroad cars, white smoke coming from the tall stacks and small black rings pumping from the short stubby ones ... the ferries entering and leaving their slips ... the cars moving along the parkway ... the people walking along Shore Road ... the kids running, their kites slowly staggering up as they yanked the string ...

then dropped from the wall and walked down the hill to the shore.

He walked along the shore looking across the bay at the Staten Island shoreline. He watched and listened to the waves slapping lightly against the seawall and whirling between the rocks, leaving bits of wood and debris amongst them when it ebbed, the next swell picking them up again and bobbing them on its peak before breaking on the rocks and slapping the seawall, then folding back on itself and whirling between the rocks as it returned to its source, once again leaving behind the unwanted debris.

He stopped, leaned on the railing running along the edge of the seawall and stared at the water... hearing the clang of the ferry mooring winch, the bell buoys, the horns and whistles of the ships in the bay... thinking of the sadness, loneliness, (but none of the adventure) that has always been associated with the sea... feeling a connection between himself and that loneliness ...

He looked down at the rocks and the small crabs crawling over and between them, remembering the previous summer when he and his friends sat here for hours catching them, throwing most of them back, saving a few to scare the girls with .... But it all seemed unreal now... not as if it had never happened, but as if it had happened in some remote age or different life, there seeming to be no connection between then and now. Nor did he find any joy in the vague memory, feeling only more saddened and depressed.

He lifted his head and looked at the Narrows ... then gazed toward the sea. The horizon seemed strangely significant, but trying to define it only confused his thoughts more ....

Once (it couldnt have been too long ago) he and his friends came here on a gray day when the water was dark and whipped with whitecaps, the waves crashing against the rocks and seawall, the spray leaping above the railing and cascading down on them as they held fast to the railing, moving instinctively with the swaying of the ship, the boy yelling orders to his crew as the ship lurched dangerously close to the rocks in the violent and uncharted sea. He refused to turn his back to the biting spray but remained steadfast at his post, ignoring the water as it lashed his face, barking the crucial orders that would bring the ship safely through the storm ...

Many times he thought happily of that day and whenever the wind blew and the water in the bay kicked up and the spray lashed the wall, he would try to get his friends to go with him to the shore, but something always prevented it and so he never relived it except in his mind, remembering each wave and tasting once again the salt as he felt the spray sting his face.

He tried reliving it now, and though each time in the past the old joy and excitement not only returned but increased, he now remembered only that it had happened and nothing more. That day was dead.

He turned from the bay feeling deserted (for if he could find no joy here or even raise its memory, where could it be found?) and walked back to Third Avenue. The plaintiveness and tragedy of before were completely inside him now and he felt the sadness of the world within him, feeling every tear that had ever rolled down a cheek flooding his being, and though a part of him tried to fight this sadness the effort was weak. It seemed right for the worlds misery to flow through him because he was, in some unknown way, responsible for its pain.

He stood on the corner for a moment wondering what there was he could do ...

where he could go ...

feeling completely isolated from the people walking by yet sensing a new relationship between himself and them.

He turned and instinctively walked toward home, feeling strangely conspicuous among the people, as if he were wearing a mask that advertised his feelings. He looked at the people, expecting them to stop talking and smiling and laughing and stand there, just stand there and stare at him.

He lowered his eyes and walked a little faster (vaguely wondering why they were laughing - could he laugh?). Surely Mom can help. He could always run to her and put his arms around her, tell her what was wrong, what was troubling him. She would comfort him, reassure him. Maybe that was all that was needed, just to cry and have Mom kiss him, hug him, and everything would be alright, nothing changed, nothing to fear????

The boy stopped and looked across the avenue at the entrance of the apartment house, his eyes tearing .... He did not hear the noises of the cars, the trucks, the trolleys, the people, but an etherized drone ...

the newsstand next to the doorway whirled and the traffic on the avenue blurred into a meaningless mass ...

Why couldnt he run across the street and up the stairs to Mom? Why couldnt he move????

Tears fell from his eyes, his lungs and chest felt like they were collapsing.

Was he sitting?

Standing? lying anesthetized, strapped to a table and slowly losing consciousness with a mask clamped tightly on his face listening to a repetitious drone of final words

loud then soft

loud then soft, dragging, spinning, dragging ...

The drone whirled to a highspeed whine

poles reversing

orbits tilting flashing suns and planets spinning away

colliding, bursting

showering spermlike sparks ....

A groan of overwhelming agony screamed through him and rattled in his throat. His head jerked up and he turned and staggered to the corner ...

then fled in panic down the street past the people standing and talking, past the walkers and the women with their baby carriages, past the trees and the parked cars, and past the yells of ball players in the schoolyard ...

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The Coat

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Harry loved his coat. He had gotten it toward the end of winter and it saved his life. The winters on the Bowery were tough under any conditions, but without a coat the winters were deadly, bodies picked up each morning, some frozen to the ground and having to be chipped loose. But Harrys coat became more than comfort, more than protection against the cold, even more than a life saver... it was his friend, his buddy... his only companion. He dearly loved his coat.

It was long, reaching almost to his ankles,and heavy, and he could wrap it around himself almost twice and when he raised the collar he felt completely protected from the world. It was an Army surplus coat that he had gotten from the Salvation Army, one of the last ones they had. He loved it right away. But keeping a coat on skid row during the winter was not easy. He had to be alert. There was always some person, or group, ready to take it from you and they were willing to kill you for it.