New York Narrative

The usual search sites never turned you up, but then why would they? For as long as I knew you, you never had a phone.

The last time we “talked” was when I moved to Miami. We wrote letters then. Neither one of us had a phone.

No matter how hard her life was, Millie always started her letters wishing me good health. Our sons were the same age. Our birthdays were the same month: December.

She liked to draw, but had nothing to draw with, except her kids’ crayons; nothing to draw on but an empty cardboard box. One day when I went to visit, she drew a picture of a cat on a piece of box and gave it to me. I found a beautiful wooden frame for it, with scalloped edges, that I painted turquoise and gold. That picture is on my wall.

Millie had a gray tiger cat she rescued from the street. It lived in the fifth floor apartment on East 106th Street with her and the kids and Tony, safe from the cold. But who kept Millie safe?

When I was half crazy from sickness and pain, she wouldn’t take my money, wouldn’t let me use it to go back…. Millie and her friend with the car dropped me off near Bloomie’s and told me to go shopping. And I did. Who sez New Yorkers are heartless?

If Millie is all right, Cris wants to know. Millie, mother of Steve and Samantha. Millie from the program. Migdalia Morales, my best friend. I never forgot you.

Remember that movie starring Eddie Murphy–”Coming to America?” He played an African prince who traveled to New York City to get a regular job in a fast food chain. Upon reaching his destination, he joyously yelled out the window, and the city yelled back “F**K You!” Or words to that effect. Sort of a celebration of straight talking New Yorkers. And the ubiquitous four letter words that float through the air like the scent of hotdogs and sauerkraut.

I also remember my fellow New Yorkers on the subway trains, without fail–every time–jumping out of their seats to hold the doors open as I passed through them with my son in his stroller. Or picking up one end of his stroller to help me carry it up the subway station stairs. And the marijuana merchants on my corner at Columbus Avenue & 73rd always helping me and my roommate carry our grocery bags down to the other end of the block.

Now four letter words to me are just part of the vocabulary, but try to explain that to a lifelong Southerner. (Other than Miami, which is part Havana north and part New York South) They don’t get it.

When you’re working in a non air-conditioned seafood factory, and the machine that’s taping the boxes that you have to stack on a pallet keeps malfunctioning, as a native New Yorker my natural reponse was: “Why the &*#! doesn’t somebody fix these m*^tha&*#!in’ machines?”

The natural response of my Southern Baptist raised supervisors was to “counsel” me, (Strangely they say nothing to foul mouthed male co workers) and warn me that “profanity” is not tolerated, bla, bla, bla….

I had to explain to my union rep that this is the way I talk. F**k is an adjective, as in this f**king machine keeps breaking, and that this is the way I–and most New Yorkers I know–talk. With all due diligence to protecting the delicate ears of my elderly auntie and others like her. No big deal. To me, it’s a hell of a lot more important how you treat people than how you talk. I distinguish between calling somebody’s mama a F**kin’?B**ch??(something?I’d never do, because it’s a personal attack) and commenting that the weather is F**kin” hot as hell!(which is Truth).

I’m sure as hell no African prince, but after ten years in exile here in the Southern USA, I look forward to the day when I can hang out a New York City window, and yell: “Good Fucking Morning, New York!”

?

I’m thinking today of Juan. He, with the coffeebean eyes and the Hostess chocolate cupcake, slapping my face. In 1975 on West 14 Street, you saved my life with that chocolate cupcake.

You could’ve panicked. You could’ve done a thousand things. Could have thrown the body out the window; dumped me in the stairwell. Left me to die. Nobody would’ve cared about a junkie who lived in a room in Hell’s Kitchen, and had no phone, no car, no future–already dead anyway, it seemed.

Instead, you, Juan–with the coffeebean eyes, saved me, feeding me that damn chocolate cupcake. You know, the kind we both liked so much. Cupcakes and Twinkies and YooHoos–did? we ever eat any real food?

I awoke from my dusty opiate sleep, and we sat together into the night, watching the black and white T.V.. Each in our own world, but together. You asked for nothing for saving my life. For refusing to let me die. For giving a future to my still unconceived son.

So when they ask me, “Have you been saved,” I smile a secret smile. And I think: Yes. I have been saved, by a Newyorican junkie with a chocolate Hostess cupcake and a solid gold heart.

Blog of the Unknown Writer

This story doesn’t take place in NYC, but it deserves to be noted. On July 12, 2006 there was severe weather in Dutchess and Putnam county. I was in Tarrytown in Westchester and there were tornados moving through the area. A tornado ran right through the center of downtown Tarrytown nocking down very large trees and ripping small trees right out of the ground. It was a site to see. The main roads were shut down and I had to walk about two miles from work in order to get to a train which took me back to the safety of NYC. The day before I narrowly avoided going through the tunnel in Boston which had a 14 ton ceiling tile break free, falling, and killing a lady. I think I will stay at home for a while.

After seeing the new Superman movie tonight at Lincoln Center, I realize why the world needs a superman. I won’t go into too much detail, but if we had a real Superman people would focus on the good in this world. I think people watch a movie like Superman because they like drama and suspense to have a happy and just ending.

The news today is hardly ever filled with good news. Much of it is focused on tragic events. Most of the sad events that are shown in the news could be prevented or dealt with in a better way. Man just doesn’t have all the answers and that is what Superman does best. He answers our pleas for help to the best of his ability. You too can be Superman or Superwoman if you help just one person to the best of your ability.

The great thing about New York is that so many people have the power to help others, and those people are situated near others that need help. Don’t you agree?