Beside the bed there was a small make-shift coffee
table with a half full water glass atop, of which
Donald in a desperate attempt to relieve him self from
the dry heat that seemed to be sucking the life out of
him knocked over on to the floor.  His eyes were
nearly glued shut, the spit in between elongated with
a jolt. Across from the bed by about three paces stood
a card board cut out of President Clinton with the
words 'AFFIRMATIVE ACTION', scrawled across the head.
Sara had brought it home the night before as a
joke.
  'AFFIRMATIVE ACTION...  Hmm.'  The hard lines at the
corners of Donalds' mouth cracked and unleashed a
vengeful smile at the mere thought of it.   He
released with his right hand a tad bit of tension into
a tennis ball that he carried around, a bulge in his
trousers, when the cruel world got the best of him.  A
world where he knew not the answers but for three
things, how to get them, get what it took to get them,
and when to make a move toward the goal....  FOOD -
CLOTHING - AND - SHELTER.  'Anything else is just
extra', Donald said to him self, as he rolled over on
the rickety bed.  'Umm....', his aching feet met the
unfinished wood floor and sharp pain shot up through
his spine, settling at the root of his neck.  But he
was awake, alive.  That's what mattered most, tennis
ball still in hand...
  Outside cars were racing up and down East Houston
Street leaving imprints pressed deep in the tar that
was at a sauce pan boil, the drivers dependant upon
one another for venting purposes, a few of the
disinfested, do to a process of gentrification in full
effect, huddled at the entrance of the last standing
neighborhood bodega, commenting on the neon signs
which read: 'GRAND OPENING- VIDEO RENTALS', etc, etc,
etc...; where behind the four and five thousand dollar
full sized windows stood Midwestern undergrad students
in tight fitted colorful seventies outfits for ten
fifty an  hour, with hopes of becoming famous artists,
sculptors, musicians, world changing feminists,
philosophers, metaphysical champions, scientists,
lawyers, judges with the power to pass down
unconscionable and unheard of bills to GOD fearing
mayors that would present them to the general public
and bring about a remodeling of the human mind, where
racism, oppression, sexism, health risks, the death
penalty, animal abuse, and so forth, would become
extinct and every living being with the ability to
exercise any sort of judgement would smoke an
abundance of marijuana at will.
  Donald got to his feet, hit the shower, then eyed
the nine pairs of snake skinned shoes piled up on the
floor across from the bed.  "Yall gone have to do", he
said aloud, handling a pair of bright yellow and
purple pointed toe shoes.  He climbed into a purple
hand stitched Italian made suit that he'd gotten two
years ago for twelve hundred dollars at Barney's, 'for
revenge on the simple idea that there was a strong
possibility that - who he was and where he had come
from - left a whole lot of room for him to self
destruct and blame the 'WHITE MAN' for sitting around
and being broke', like so many of his breed.  But
Donald was far beyond blaming anyone for his own
mistakes, which he barely made.  His long death like
fingers were wrapped around the front door knob when
the telephone rang.  'DAMN!', Donald turned at the
fourth ring, one for the road.
  "Yeah", Donald answered, annoyed.  He smoothed his
hand over his shiney bald head.
  "What it is man?", Country was at the other end of
the line breathing hard.  He sounded serious.
  "What's up Country?  Talk fast I got somewhere to
be!", said Donald, impatiently.
  "Aint nothing man I just wanted to holler at you...
You know...  See what it is on that side of town...
My cousin's having a birthday party and you're
invited.  It's at......"
  "Hold on for a second.  Let me get a pen", Donald
said, reaching for the gold plated pen he carried in
his breast pocket.  "Alright, shoot Country!"
  "Right...  It's at ten thirty at Hansen's.  On the
Bowery.  Sixty four Bowery.  See you there."
  "Right.", Donald said.
  "Right.", Country said.
   No sooner than he placed the receiver down on it's
rocker it rang, again.  'No dice baby!', Donald made
his way across the threshold, down the three flights
of steps in the ancient Lower East Side building and
out onto the scalding hot pavement, where the sun with
a ninety nine degree ray through a peephole in the
clouds made his head as tight as the leather straps
used for sharpening razor blades in the barber shop,
left of the building.
  Sara had come up with the plan, Donald just went
along with it.  No sense in arguing when majority the
time she was right.  Uptown, 148th Street had become
something other than what they expected.  Sara had
grown tired of reporting to the station house to vouch
for Donald on trumped up misidentification charges,
wretched old men loitering in front of the building
harassing her for small change, jealous looks from
neighbor hood infidels that were not weaned properly
and lacked the valuable  information, encouragement,
belief that it was possible for them to live a
respectful and productive life, to top it off - a rat
infested building and a godforsaken landlord that
listened to nothing but rent checks, cash and money
orders.
  "Trust me....  Down Town will be a lot better.",
Sara said.  "Watch!  You won't have to give thought
to those jealous sonsofbitches that aint trying to
work for the 'WHITE MAN', but ask you for something
every goddamn time they lay eyes on you.  And if you
get fired or something the temptation to hustle will
be gone.  Cause who the hell you gone sell some
raggedy assed shit to around there anyway?".
  And so it went.  The couple subleased a one bedroom
apartment on Norfolk Street, between East Houston and
Stanton Streets, from a starving and heroine addicted
artist named Rick Duckford, who somehow out lived the
rest of his kind and accommodated his thirty three
year old landlady giant sized paintings in exchange
for his occupancy.
  Sara's words rung like a church bell in the back
of Donald's head, as he crossed East Houston Street in
search of a yellow cab.  Six cars flew by but he
didn't think of it as troublesome.  "The world don't
sit still baby!...  If it's to be got - I'm going to
go out and get it!"
  Finally a car pulled up along Donald's side, the
driver was suffering from a bleeding heart and it was
obvious.
  "Fifty Seventh stre.....", Donald started, cut off
by a loud obnoxious safety recording.
  'BUCKLE UP IT'S THE LAW!', "Fifty Seventh Street,
the Russian Tea Room!", Donald snapped.
  The driver dug right in.
  "Yeah, I saw those assholes that passed you by.  See
I would never do that!  I'm the type of guy that...",
Donald drifted off, contemplating his approach.
  Sara's parents had come into town from Arkansas
and decided to dine at the Russian Tea Room.  Rick
Scheemway and Karen, Sara's mother, for the most
part, had been deeply concerned with Sara's well
being since she absconded from the wealthy, sheltered
and disciplined lifestyle, of which Karen lucked out
and married into, solely for the sake of her children.
  Inside of the car Donald had to lean on one side to
keep from getting a wet spot on the back of his pants
from the hot synthetic leather seat.
  The driver kept a steady babble. 
  "Yeah, like the time I was at Rockefeller center.
Everybody and their mothers had on mink coats,
surrounding the ice skating rink...."
  Donald tried to envision what Rick looked like from
what Sara had told him, using the faces of the dark
tanned wealthy old men in the midtown area.
  Sixth Avenue was under construction from Twenty
Third Street on up and was a hell of a bumpy ride.
Left on Fifty Seventh, the driver slammed down on the
brakes and made a U-turn , stopping in front of said
destination.
  "Alright my brother...", said the Irish driver.
  Donald shoved the cash into the pay box and got out.
His feet rested secure atop the red carpet neatly
sprawled from door to curb.  At the other end there
was a man with harsh Nordic features in a black and
red uniform.
  "May I help you?", said Nordic looking man in suit.
  "Is this the entrance?", Donald asked.
  "Yes, but you have to use the service entrance",
replied man in suit.
  "Why?", Donald questioned, calm, a bit reserved and
squeezing the tennis ball in his trouser pocket.
  "All deliveries are to be accepted by the guard in
the service area", man in black and red suit responded
coldly, not even looking at Donald.
  "I'll tell you what, my friend.  I'm supposed to
meet some people here for dinner.", Donald said,
affably and grinned like a chess cat.
  "Oh.", man in suit sounded surprised, "follow me."
  Donald was led inside to where there was another man
with strong Nordic features standing behind a podium
in a funeral get up, who released a woman's voice from
the tip of his tongue and was staring curiously at his
almost twin. 
  "Yes... May I help you?", cold and distant.
  Donald almost burst into laughter.  He held his
breath, still grinning like a chess cat and said, "how
do?  I'm supposed to meet a party here.  Under the
name Scheemway.  Rickerson Scheemway."
  Man in funeral get up looked at the list in front of
him for an exceedingly long time, then in a cold dry
voice said, "O.K....  Follow me."
  Upstairs Donald was led through about twenty eight
neatly aligned tables, where beside, resting firm on
the walls were thirty foot high mirrors with gold leaf
imprints of wild animals dancing joyfully to the sweet
sound of century old classical.
  Summer must have been serious in Arkansas, for Rick
was as red as the carpet out front and it's Nordic
statue.  Rick  was wearing in a peach colored linen
suit with a maroon colored tee-shirt tight around his
gut.  Right of Rick sat Karen with the learned
disposition of a woman married to a wealthy man.
Karen wore a yellow and orange colored flowered summer
dress matching necklace, fingernails, stilettos and a
hair cut that Donald took for a mistake.  Sara was
slouched on the banquette and wearing the same outfit
as Karen, except her hair was blood red and cropped
short at the neck.
  "Good afternoon all...", Donald said, uncomfortably.

  "High Donald.  Long time no see", Karen always
seemed to be flirting when she spoke.
  Donald's dick got hard.  He felt at ease, as he slid
in next to Sara.        A waiter appeared with the
speed of a jack rabbit and set down a round of drinks,
then zipped off.  Sara had ordered a shot of Johnny
Walker Black for Donald, ahead of time.  She figured
he would need a stiff one for the occasion. 
  "Recon we started to get a little worried there
Donald.", Rick said.  He spread an evil grin.  There
was a dark undertone in his voice and the skin around
his chin and neck looked as if it had a mind of it's
own.
  "Recon you did?", Donald mimicked.
  Sara dug her fingernails into Donalds' knee.  For
she knew how Donald could get in tight situations,
when all he really wanted was to relax and enjoy life
outside of twelve hours of absolute hell in a downtown
restaurant. 
  Karen seductively drew in nearly half of her drink.
She was already on her second one and it was showing
in her face. 
  "I recon we did... ", Rick continued.  "So Donald...
What exactly do you do for a living?"
  Before Donald had a chance to answer the food runner
appeared with a metal rack that he slammed down on the
center of the table and placed atop a three leveled
plateau that consisted of twenty four oysters, two
crabs, three half lobsters, craw fish, scallops,
clams, jumbo shrimp, shell bowls, extra napkins, nut
crackers, small forks and spoons, of which he placed
in front of the four of them and stormed off like a
foot soldier, brainwashed and prepared to willingly
walk into an array of oncoming bullets.
  "What I was about to say before being so rudely
interrupted was that I am an independent contractor.",
said Donald.
  "Is that so?", Rick said, prying.
  "Umm. Does this all not look so good?", Karen cut
in, red faced and bubbly.
  "Sure does!", Sara chimed.
  "Rick doesn't this remind you of the time when we
were driving across country and we stopped off at that
place in Mississippi?  Where we had must have been a
hundred crabs?", Karen smiled a knowing one at Donald,
for on many occasion Rick had belittled her and she
was not about to let it trickle down onto her
children, nor whoever it was that they decided to walk
with hand in hand. 
  Rick sucked down an oyster with three different
sauces caked on top, as if not a single word had been
spoken to him.  "Independent contractor huh?"
  "Isn't that what I said?", Donald responded, his
tone of voice was stiff and solid.
  "Yes sir.  But what do you mean by independent
contractor?", Rick sucked down another oyster and
stuffed a piece of lobster into his gape.
  "I'll explain it to you another time...", Donald
said, "That is if you don't mind.  Right now I think
it better we - try - and enjoy each other's company
and leave work where it belongs."
  "And where would you say that is?", Rick kept on
digging.
  "Leave it alone Rick!", Karen said, "If the man does
not want to discuss work right now than let him be!",
Karen glared at Sara, raising her eyebrow and
pressing her glossy lips to the side, as if to say:
'MEN...'
  "I just wanted to know what he meant by independent
contractor!  That's all", Rick said, his eyebrows
pressed together and produced a beet red square in the
center of his head.
  "Alienation..." Donald growled, "It's strange how a
person's mere existence can be bothersome to
another's.  Wouldn't you say Rick?"
  "What do you mean young man?", Rick cracked open a
lobster claw and stabbed into it viciously with a
small fork.
  "I mean...", Donald paused for a few seconds.  "I
mean it's funny how in this town.  This town I say -
because this is the only town that I know, people are
segregated, but it's a bit subtle.  And when I find my
self in the company of older, not always older but
mostly, people of a different creed, white people I
should say, they tend to be bothered.  As if there
were not a single problem in the world that could
possibly bring forth a physical manifestation such as
my self and other kind Black folks struggling, trying
to piece together a puzzle that for centuries had been
torn apart, lost, gone with the wind.  That is exactly
why I don't waste my time in the company of people
like you and your nasty assed ways of thinking.  I
have no reason to try and fit in.  It simply makes no
sense.
  Karen and Sara's faces went flush, fire engine
red, for to them the words of a stark raving lunatic
had been spoken and created an uncomfortable
situation, for any one would know that there is a time
and a place for compromise, especially when it comes
to dealing with the parents of a loved one.   Donald
got to his feet.  He could have cared less if Jesus
Christ had floated down on a yellow carpet with his
dick out.
  "Yo I'm out...  Fuck this.  I told you I didn't want
to come to this shit Sara!  Peace Karen", Donald
said, angrily.  He adjusted his trousers and stormed
off.  Sara followed, unsurprised.
  Rick  ignored Donald's soliloquy and continued to
attack the raw bar.   "Niggers.", Rick mumbled through
a mouth full.
  "You are just unbelievable", Karen screeched.  "I
just cannot understand how you could hate a group of
people that have never done anything to you!", Karen
leapt from the chair like an alley cat for the first
time experiencing the burning sensation of scalding
hot water thrown from a backyard window, and skated
toward the exit sign.  The couple was standing out
front blowing clouds of cigarette smoke up into the
still air.
  "You alright?", Sara asked, soft spoken.
  "Yeah....  I'm cool.  Aint the first time I've run
across cats like that.  Shiiit....  I got better
things to think about.", Donald smiled and wrapped his
arm around Sara's waist.
  "I'm sorry Skoe.  I didn't expect this shit.",
Sara said.
  "Aint nothing doll.", said Donald.  He kissed her on
her ruddy cheek and eyed Karen's protruding breasts as
she approached.
  "Hey you guys.", Karen drawled.  "I don't know
what's gotten into Rick.  I've never seen him like
this.  I'll tell you what...", Karen dug into her
purse and came out with several crisp one hundred
dollar bills.
  "Nah.  That's alright.", Donald protested.  "I got
scratch."
  "No!  Here take it, it's Rick's money anyway."   
  Sara couldn't resist.  She extended her lanky
arm.  Donald interrupted, pushed back the bills and
said:   "Same way Rick can do for you - I can do for
Sara.  Black man's struggle aint always a scratch
one.  But thanks for the offer."
  "Be with your family yo.  Imma go chill with country
and them", said Donald.  "Peace Karen."  He crossed
the red carpet to where there was a yellow cab parked
at the curb.

Street Gallery
 by: Livingroom Johnston



  August is usually hot....  So it was hot....  I
expected it.  And....  I had it together.  A job and
my bills were paid.  Life is simple.  It was Thursday
and I was off.  I didn't have to answer to anyone.  I
didn't have to change the toilet paper roll if I
didn't want to.  Perfect.  And I could walk around in
my boxers until I decided to get dressed.  Wet....
because I had no fan or air conditioner. My self
esteem was higher than it was on Monday because I had
ninety dollars in my wallet and seventeen in my
trouser pocket. 
  I didn't empty my pockets the night before because I
planned on wearing the same pants, anyway.  Life is
simple.
  Brooklyn is loud around the corner.  The street I
lived on was quiet except for the people.  I realized
it wasn't the street that was loud, it was the people.
And the cars.  When you wish for complete silence car
tires can be louder than you might have thought they
were. 
  The street I lived on was two long blocks away from
the subway.  The 'G' train.  I had never heard of the
'G' until I moved there.  It was usually a long wait.
But it ran.  Good enough.
  One hundred twenty fifth street was forty five
minutes away.  The 'G' two stops and then the 'A'.  I
never paid attention to street names or subway stops.
I went by the way things looked.  It didn't matter
because I never invited people to my place.  There
wasn't enough room.  Just enough for me.
  When I got to the subway station I swiped my card
and pulled an acid tab out of my wallet before
stuffing it back into my pocket.  The humidity had my
hands sweaty.  It didn't matter.  I would get high,
one way or another.  By the time I got to one twenty
fifth street I would be right there.  Walking down
those long streets trying not to focus on how silly
everyone looked, walking with their heads bobbing up
and down.  I would be walking silly because it was hot
and sticky.         Joyce would be there, probably
sitting on one of those street lamp posts that were
made for sitting.  We were cool with sitting on them
because we had jobs.  Otherwise we would be bums, and
that's not cool.
  When the train pulled into the fifty ninth street
station it sat there for a while.  Which was good
because it gave me time to focus on the fat lady
sitting across from me, reading a digest of some sort.
I imagined her big without the stomach.  She would
probably be sexy.  And have enough self confidence to
notice a perfect, perfect, stranger looking at her.
And not look back because she knew she was sexy.
But....  the lights behind the poster ads were more
important than her.  It  snuck out from the edges,
playfully, like it was getting away with something.
We were cool and I was never a tattle tale.  I smiled
at it.  I was wild, ready for a new episode, an
adventure.  What if I started pleasing my self, right
then and there.  People would have thought I was
crazy, when I was just pulling their legs.  But
there's always some dumb repercussion on the trail of
a dumb act.    The driver hit the breaks hard.
Everyone, including my self, did a sideways twist.
The doors opened with that musical 'ding dongggg'.
The orange tiles on the floor of the station could
have held my interest for the next ten hours.  People
trudged through the stinking station air.  I tried to
keep a few paces behind traffic.  But they were
everywhere.  In front, back, left and right.  Too
close for comfort.  The heat was enough without the
extra bodies.  I started to panic a little.  I was
cool though.  I knew I was high.  It happened  almost
every time.
  I got to the stairs, thinking if I put my hand on
the banister I wouldn't be able to eat a slice of
pizza before washing them.  After the stairs was the
turn style, then a right and another flight of stairs,
equipt with another two funky railings.  Outside there
were  people yelling and screaming at two police
officers.  A lot of commotion.  I felt like a ghost
walking through the crowd.  If I kept to my own
business I wouldn't be noticed.  There was a guy on
the ground.  He wasn't moving.  I figured it was hot
and he was just taking a break. 
  Diagonally across the street I saw Joyce sitting
there tending to her own business.  We liked it like
that.  She was smoking a cigarette.  The smoke
lingered around her like that of a ghost, giving her
that scary, stay away from me look.  She was
attractive when you looked at her.  If you weren't
looking you wouldn't have noticed.  Unless you
remembered looking at her from a prior occasion.  We
were day ghosts.  If we didn't say anything we didn't
have to back anything up.  We walked through life like
we were invisible, spawn from the twilight, because it
sounded good.
  People were rising from the ground.  Out of no
where.  More and more.  Police dropped from the
helicopters that were circling around.  They were low.
Real low.  When they sped by the propellers sounded
like they were shooting at everyone and anything else
moving.  Except Joyce and I.
  By the time I made it over to where Joyce was
sitting there must have been a thousand people on the
sidewalks, in the streets, every where.  The shop
owners, or who ever was working in them, began
shutting down.  Slamming the gates almost through the
filthy sticky ground.  We were cool though.  Joyce had
a bottle of soda and was willing to share.  We didn't
need the shops.  So it was cool.  There were police
officers appearing from around corners with silly
looking black uniforms on.  They were running toward
the crowd.  Their helmets met their shoulders and
wobbled like children's toys.  They had battle shields
like on the news.  Joyce and I sat in the light post
because that's what it was made for.  Arms were raised
and moving quickly, silly looking like the thousand
heads.  Either the police had hidden bull horns or did
some amazing breathing techniques that allowed them to
speak extraordinarily loud.  They were ordering the
crowd to disperse.  Joyce and I weren't part of the
crowd so we just sat there until I decided I wanted a
cold beer.
  We walked down the Avenue.  The deli on the corner
of one twenty fourth had the gates down but greed kept
the revolving window open.  Which was cool.  I got a
beer and one for Joyce, who said she didn't want one
until I handed it to her.  We were walking slow,
hovering across the hot pavement like the day ghosts
we were.  I felt like a rich man.  Fourteen dollars in
my pocket and ninety in my wallet.  I could do just
about anything.  Except open my beer in the presence
of a thousand police officers.
  We made a left on one twenty third and took the back
streets across to the broad street where two blocks
back was the number two train station.  There were a
lot of people on the back streets.  Some police cars
but for the most part it was mellow.  Joyce and I
drank our beers and decided to walk down to the one
sixteenth street station.  The humidity had my
tee-shirt sticking to my chest and back.  Joyce had on
a skimpy tank sticking to her too.  If we were
inexperienced trippers we would have thought bugs were
crawling all over us. 
  The one sixteenth street station wreaked of urine
and whatever else helped induce  the smell.  And the
two usually ran those old rickety red cars, so we
decided to walk back over to where the park was.  The
big park, where over the hill was the cleaner, more
mature subway station.  I got a six pack because I
could drink like a fish in a pool of liquid acid.
Plus it helped fight off the heat, even though there
was nothing to be mad at.
  Joyce and I were done with the sixer and approaching
the park, which was blocked off by the police and
their silly black outfits.  We laughed a little and
turned down the uninviting head whipping.  We weren't
above or below the law.  We were invisible and quiet
in the eyes of the public, floating, laughing, living
our lives, minding our own business.  We walked down
to where the head or tail of central park was.  We
stopped to stare at the motorcycles lined up across
the street like free horses with no annoying humans on
their backs.  Then we entered and exited the park.
The side streets were always better.  You could see
the manmade nature get up and the city streets, people
walking their dogs, everything in one shot. 
  Joyce and I continued without speaking.  I was in a
different part of town where I didn't want to be
discovered.  Joyce was as real as I wanted her to be.
When I wanted.  The perfect relationship.  We never
had anything to argue about.  We were cool.  We hung
out on my days off and met on one hundred and twenty
fifth street and walked back to Brooklyn, most of the
time.
  At the other end of Central Park we noticed everyone
was tending to their own business, just as we were.
It was cool to talk.  No one could see us.  We laughed
and made jokes about the horses and carriages.  Joyce
said she actually liked the way hoarse dung smelled.
But she worded in a ugly way.  I said if you like the
way dung smells at least dress it up a bit.  Call it
manure or something.  It helps the plants grow.
  I realized I had a paper towel folded in my back
pocket.  Which was good.  In fact, I always kept a
napkin or something, in case of unwanted spills, or
extra sweat.  I took it to my chest and back.  It felt
good.  Made room enough for the newborn droplets to
squeeze through the tiny holes in my flesh.
  The buildings grew higher and higher as we kept on
our heels.  We took another left.  I wanted to walk
down the Avenue where the rich people walked, since I
was rich.  The rich walk with the rich.  Where the
rich walk.  My favorite was the building that appeared
to be gold.  Wow!  Imagine a building in New York City
made of pure gold!  Joyce and I grimaced.  It would
have to be heavily guarded because people would chisel
at it.  Make the foundation weak and it would crumble
to the ground.  No one would get hurt because it would
be at night, the offices would be closed.  People
would creep up and gather the gold. Yeah!  The value
of the American dollar would be point next to nothing.
There would be so many people trying to sell the gold
no one would be able afford it.  Then the dollar would
gain power.  The gold would be of no importance.  We
would have a nation of jewelry clad people.  People
wouldn't steal it from one another because it would be
impossible to sell.  And if it were impossible to sell
it would be worthless.  And people don't tend to care
for what is worthless.  So they would throw it all
out.  The sanitation department would recycle it and
there....  We would have gold garbage trucks.  Better
to look at.
  Joyce and I laughed until our stomachs pushed up
some of the beer we had consumed.  We were laughing at
how the spit dangled from our lips.  Then we studied
each other to see who could hold on to the longest
line.  That's when the shock started to set in. 
  We weren't as invisible as we thought we were.
People were walking around us.  Staring at us.  Our
tee-shirts were soaked.    Somehow, a woman sitting on
a planter in front of one of the tall buildings saw
us.  She was staring directly at us.  We zig zagged to
see if it was really us she was staring at.  It was.
I thought about the paper towel that I dropped
somewhere along our trek.           Maybe she was
staring at us because our tee-shirts were wet.  I told
Joyce it would be a good idea for us to turn around so
that I could find the paper towel.  She agreed.  Since
the sun had been gone for a short while and the street
and traffic lights were turned up to high, I knew it
would be impossible to find the napkin.  Besides,
someone could have stepped on it. That would have
ruined everything.
  We made another left and headed over to where the
river was.  Where the cars made that long loud turn
and stopped at the light.  Where there was benches we
could sit on.  There's always a breeze by the water.
We could dry off in peace.  We could talk or be
invisible if we wanted to.         Along the way we
joked about the trees that lined the sidewalks.  About
how dumb the mayor was, with the new 'J' walking rule
in affect.  If they really didn't want people to cross
in the middle all they had to do was line the
sidewalks with trees so you couldn't get through! 
  The breeze was nice by the water.  It was a loud
kind of quiet.  Not like Brooklyn.  It was the kind of
loud quiet that didn't include human voices.  It was
ok.  The lights were on high and we were cool.  Joyce
and I took a nap because we were off the next day.  I
could go home when I was good and ready.  Alone and
without Joyce because she wasn't even real.  Only when
I wanted her to be.

Sexy sketches . . .


  Phillip had been in the park for nearly three and a
half hours.  He was clad in tattered denim overalls
and was sitting on a green bench at the north east end
of Union Square Park.  With his sketch book opened
wide on his lap he brought to life an ideal world.  A
world that contradicted every thought that came into
his mind when Kate the manager of  the Coffee Shop
restaurant 'let him go'.
  "Hey Phillip", it was a woman's voice.  Disinterested
he kept to his game of 'escape reality'.  He'd just
been fired from the eighth job - in nine months.
Things were going down hill, fast.
  "What's up?", Phillip forced the words out of his jib
and looked up at the bodacious hips and crotch
standing in front of him.  They belonged to Michelle.
He'd met her a few months ago at a party thrown by one
of his 'ex-co-workers'.  
  "Oh, nothing...  Just taking a walk after being
cooped up in my apartment for the sake of that
annoying midday storm.  What're you sketching?",
Michelle had a way with words.  They were evermore
enhanced by her attraction to Phillip. 
  "It's a picture of my utopia.  A place where I won't
ever be fired or stressed out."
  "You got fired?", Michelle asked.  She sounded
concerned.
  "Yeah", Phillip drawled.  "About four hours ago.
Politics you know?"
  "Yeah, believe you me I know exactly what you
mean.", Michelle batted her pretty eyes, with her
manicured hands sculpted a look of resonance on her
face.  "You want to take a walk?".
  "Sure.", Phillip closed the sketch book and got to
his feet.  "Where to?".
  Michelle let out a sigh that indicated a bit of
indecisiveness.  "First I want to get out of these
shoes.  I bought them for two hundred dollars and the
fucking things are killing me.  If you want, we can
stop by my place and I can change into something more
comfortable.  Then we can figure it out from there."
  "Alright.  But will your roommates mind you bringing
a total stranger into their home?", Phillip asked.
More as a probe than a question.
  Michelle bought it.  "Oh no...  They're out of town.
And luckily my roommate Catalina took her godforsaken
cats with her!"
  "Right on.", said Phillip, relieved.  He wasn't in
the mood to entertain any-one but the sexy woman
flirting her way home with him.
  The couple stopped at a deli on fourteenth between
fifth and sixth for a few bottles of beer, then headed
to University Place where Michelle rented a penthouse
apartment with two other women. 
  "So this is it!", Michelle said, as she twisted the
key out of the luxury apartment door lock.
  "Nice.", Phillip had seen better.  He wasn't
impressed but still he played the part. 
  "Make your self at home."
  "Thanks.  I will."
  There was a white leather couch about five feet from
the window pane on which sat a flat screen t.v.  A
large glass coffee table sat in between the t.v and
the window.  The legs were mashed deep into a ,maroon
colored,  fake fur rug. 
  Phillip scooped up the remote and flicked on the set.
Michelle was in the bedroom for about fifteen
minutes. The air conditioner was loud but he could
still hear her in there fumbling around.  He knew she
was getting her sexy on.  He stopped at the Latin
channel to see if there was any ass shaking.  Michelle
moseyed out of the bedroom in a see through night
gown.  Phillip changed the channel.  He acted as if
everything was perfectly normal.  Like a Nissan
commercial was as interesting as new pussy.  He popped
off a beer cap with his cigarette lighter, took a swig
.
  "What it is girl?", Phillip asked.  His eyes were
fixed on the tube.
  "This is a lot more comfortable.  Besides I don't
realy feel like walking after those shoes."  Michelle
rested her round hip on Phillip's left side.  He was
cornered.  Her body was soft, warm like a packed rush
hour train full of women.
  "That's cool.  Shit after what happened this
afternoon I'm not in the mood to be around a lot of
people anyhow!", Phillip said.  He slid his hand across
Michelle's knee, then up in between her hot thighs.
"Do you mind?"
  "No....   just keep drawing."
  He had been sitting on that park bench for hours.
His behind was sore.  He stood up and stretched.  The
sun was setting.  The clouds were pink, fluffy, ready
to be fucked by night fall.. 
  Phillip didn't know how long Jessica had been sitting
there.  Her nipples were fighting to see what was
happening outside of the turquoise tank top.  She was
a the type of person that would see you walking down
the street and join your footsteps.  Walk with you
until you noticed.  If she liked you.  And she just so
happened to like Phillip. 
  It had been about a year since Jessica and Melvin
broke up.  Melvin wasn't necessarily a friend of
Phillip's.  They only saw each-other in shit hole
dives, so the respect level was on zero.  Phillip even
went so far as to pickpocket the guy while helping him
to a cab, when he was too drunk to walk his funky ass
on home.  So It didn't matter what Melvin thought
about Jessica shaking her ass in Phillip's face.  She
was a borderline hooker, and that was that. 
  Phillip sat back down.  He was tired from sitting
there for so long.  He looked Jessica up and down and
wanted to fuck.  Point blank. 
  "Hey Jess...." 
  "What are you doing sitting here all by your
lonesome?"  Jessica asked. Her tight skirt rose higher
as she scooted closer.
  "I aint alone no more am I?"  Phillip glanced at a
dog walking a old man.  He made a quick run down of
him.  The old guy probably lived alone and sent his
grown ass kids money when they needed it.  Probably
let the dog lick his nuts too.  Nasty mother fucker.
That's why his wife left him.  Damn freak.  Then he
put his eyes on Jessica.  She was right up on him.  A
zit the size of a nail head smiled a come fuck me.  It
could have passed for a lip stick stain.  But as they
say, 'PUSSY AINT GOT NO FACE'.
  The lunch shift was over at the Coffee Shop.  People
were filing out.  Standing around like they just got
out of bed.  Fuckers were walking away with Phillip's
money.  'Whatever', he thought.
  He sharpened his pencil with a one inch razor.
  "You're funny.  Mild sarcasm.  It shows you have
character."  Jessica grinned along with the lipstick
stain like zit on her forehead.
  "Yeah....  I got jokes."
  "Ok joker.  There's this shitty band playing on
Avenue B.  Right by third street.  They're kind of
corny but I like the bar.  You wanna go check it out?"
  "Sure....  Why not?"
  "Well there are a lot of other things you can do.
Like sit on this bench.  ALONE.  If you like."
Jessica laughed.  She stood up and adjusted the strap
on her right stiletto.  Phillip glanced at that booty.
He had a chunky, which is one step before a hard on.
He didn't have the money to be lollygagging in some
damn bar.  But why not?  He'd been fired and could
have used a drink. 
  Jessica moved with an overconfident stride.  As if
she were alone.  That ass was in the wind, winding
like a pair of siamese melons. 
  "Now I'm not gone tell you to wait.  When you and I
both know you want me to come with that ass!"
  Jessica smiled.  The muscles in her cheeks were
tight like she'd been giving some serious head.  She
thought about it.  About how the bar two doors to the
right of her building had been shut down for months.
  "Ha, ha, ha!  I knew this shit was closed!  I just
wanted to see what type of games you were into!"
Phillip's face looked like a bruised coconut.  He
scratched his head.  Jessica's thick body stood
stomach to stomach with his.  She pushed her tongue
past his lips.  After a few minutes of getting at it
in the doorstep Jessica produced the keys. 
  "Fuck Melvin!" said Phillip.
  "No.  Fuck me."  Jessica led the way up to the
fourth floor flat.  Phillip couldn't pry his eyes from
that tail if you paid him.  He pulled a black oil
stick from his bag, lit a cigarette and noticed
Patricia from the corner of his eye.
  "Mr. Phillip Jameson!"  Patricia was a slender dove
that moved like a swan.  If there was a true and
living cat woman her real mane would have been
Patricia Golden.
  "So whatcha drawing?"
  "Oh....  Nothing."  Phillip smiled and welcomed the
new episode.

Go to: http://murs316.net/  <------- Click on the NEWS section at the bottom of the page, then click on STRANGE THINGS and enjoy the story. Also, there's another story here below. Published on line by FRANK 151 magazine.

Rock n' Roll by Livingroom Johnston Livingroom Johnston was the champ at sitting at his dining room table not doing a damn thing, after eating a large bowl of pesto pasta. The pasta was cheap and it was a good meal. He had not worked for over four years. The last gig he had was pure self employment. Not that anyone should do such a thing, but he pick-pocketed an off duty police officer. The cop had just been paid and had a wad of cash crammed in his wallet, which he unfortunately had in the pocket of his worn, washed out leather jacket. The jux had taken place the night before, in a bar around the corner. It was becoming a regular money pit for Livingroom. What paid for the pasta. Livingroom did not usually have company over his pad when he was broke. I knew he hit a lick when I walked in and saw a brother we knew from the New York City bar life. The cat's name was Kareem Bunton. He was a musician who recently moved to Fortgreen Brooklyn. His younger brother Jaleel was a musician as well. Jaleel recently got back from touring with the band T.V. on the Radio. At the sight of Kareem I thought about music. As he was and still is a musician. The night before I was at a night club in Manhattan . The club usually housed a diverse crowd. Which works out for everyone. The bartender in the back bar's name was Jorge Gonzales. Being that music was on my mind at the sight of Kareem, I got to talking about it, about Jorge, once I got settled and we did the Soul Brother handshake and greeting shit. "Kareem you know this guy named Jorge?" I sat at the table with the question. Took off my coat and swung it around back of the chair. Livingroom was up at the sink washing his dish. "I don't think so. Where he from?" Kareem asked. "San Bernadino California . He's in a band named Kalla, his primary band is called Soundtrack. I asked him who his influences were and he said: 'U2, The Beatles, Minor Threat, Fugal.'" " Harlem … what's this got to do with anything?" Kareem asked. He was a rather large brother. Not fat, just big. Jaleel was a big brother too. He could play Ms. Pac Man like a mother fucker. Kareem was in an applejack hat, a tweed sweater and a pair of brown suede Clark shoes. His dread locks were tied beneath his hat and fell down his back. I had walked in with a six pack and two extra beers. Livingroom and I liked to drink like a mother fucker. Dark beer. It settles the stomach. A gatdamn lie, but we chose to believe it. Livingroom turned off the faucet, dried his hands on a dishrag that was tied to a cord on the refrigerator and joined Kareem and I at the table. "So what was these cats talking about?" Livingroom asked. "Rock n' Roll." I answered. "Nigger I know they were talking about Rock n' Roll. What was they saying? That's the mother fucking goddamn shitinassed question!" "It's not these cats." I said. "I was talking about one dude." "Alright. I guess the water was too loud. What was you saying Harlem ?" "I was asking Kareem if he knew this cat Jorge Gonzales." "Oh. I know that cat. Skinny white dude right?" said Livingroom. "Yeah." " Harlem . What was you bringing him up for?" Kareem asked. I put my pack of smokes on the table. Smoking is a social thing. The three of us smoked out of it. "You into music and shit, so I thought you might know him. Jorge's band Kalla opened up for this band called Interpol recently." "No. I don't know him," said Kareem. "Speaking about music..." Livingroom cut in. "Why ain't nobody ever said nothing about that shit in 'Back to the Future'?" "What shit?" Asked Kareem. "That shit where Chuck Berry supposedly cut his hand and Michael J. Fox took up the guitar and did all the Chuck Berry moves. And Chuck's cousin was playing cause Chuck cut his hand. Michael J. Fox did the thing and Chuck's cousin called Chuck like: 'Yo! Chuck, check this out!' and held the fucking phone up! Kareem from a musical perspective, what you think about that shit?" Kareem folded his arms, leaned back on the chair, contemplatively, then spoke. "A lot of people were great artists. Not to discount anything they've done. I can't take that away from them. Now if you go back – take Robert Johnson for instance. A lot of white folks, a lot of Japanese folks, non-African American people. When you hear a recording from Robert Johnson, that was recorded by a white man, who fucking got a huge ass nineteen- twenty's recording machine, weighed like three hundred pounds, dragged the shit across the fucking country, to record this cat. He archived it. He heard it, he understood it, he felt it, he loved it. And nobody black, white or else was doing that shit. I'll say this: 'within black music there's always that white guy. He's always been there. To archive, to sell to franchise it. To make it palatable to the world. You know what I mean?" "What also comes with that same cat is, later, his grandchildren who play the same music, affect the same styles, and are guilty about it. Our friends are guilty. Like what? You talk like a nigger, you dress like a nigger. You feel a little guilty about it. You're playing guitar like that. So you know where it came from. You'll always be a tiny bit of a fraud. Even if you're a for real dude. Loving that music. The reason is this, this is not on some Black Power shit. Not a positive statement. Black folks are so disenfranchised and so assed out, we're always the underdog. It's the underdog. Everybody loves the underdog. It's like watching a Rocky movie. That dude is coming with it so goddamn hard I don't understand it. Like you don't have anything. Anything but that. You're that desperate. And that's what the essence of Rock n' Roll is." "Even a band like Black Sabbath. That ghetto ass band from England . Heavy Satanic, weird Norse, very Dungeons and Dragons. That's why the music you feel comes from two places, the U.S. and England . Just cause culturally it's like that. The underdog. I know a couple of dudes, crazy White cats that would fucking go to Jamaica and go to a Dance Hall club, alone. But you won't find that often." With all that said from Kareem's country gape, Livingroom laughed so hard beer rushed out of his nose. I thought for a second we would have to call for help. He snatched the dishrag from the fridge and cleaned himself up. "You a crazy dude Kareem!" Livingroom said. The beer nostril thing didn't stop him from opening another beer. Kareem passed on the drink. He had to work at the Von bar in Manhattan later. "Alright fellas! I gotta go!" Kareem got up on his big ole feet, gave us Soul Brother pounds and got the wind at his back. It was getting cold outside. I had on a grey overcoat and a filthy button down shirt, black slacks. It was already the next day. The night before, Livingroom and I were cool with the conversation. We were into Jazz. So we said shit and drank more beer to a few mother fucking Jazz records. I was still on this Rock n' Roll venture. I wanted to really find out how this particular music could actually divide people. Face to face or not. The shithole restaurant I worked at had the worst staff meals in SoHo . So I went for an expensive ass sandwich from the deli. I was at the corner waiting to cross. Reid van Renesse, a film cat rolled up on a track bike. I knew him for years. "What's up Harlem Farfromsquare?" Reid always made fun of my last name. I let him slide with it. "Nothing. What's up with you?" "Just working." "Reid... lemme ask you something." "What?" "What do you think of Rock n' Roll?" "I don't. I do video. I better catch this light with the quickness!" "Ok." "Ok." "Later." "Later." I ordered my sandwich. Looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes before my shift started. I would have to eat fast or hear the manager's mouth. Didn't make a difference to me. I was looking for a reason to quit anyway. On my way out of the deli I ran smack into John Lurie. Literally. He was an older cat that was in a bunch of movies in the past. The last one I saw was Stranger than Paradise . "Hey, watch where you're going man!" John said. "Shut up! Where you been John. I ain't seen you in a while." "I've been sick for a while. Stuck in the house. I haven't even been able to play music. But I've been painting a lot. Gimme your info, I got a show on January fourteenth." "Alright..." I said. "Lemme get a pen. We entered the store and approached he register. John squinted from the lights. "John. Last night I had an intense conversation on music." "Oh, yeah?" John is a sarcastic cat. "Yeah." I said. "What was it about?" "Rock n' Roll. What do you think Rock n' Roll is John?" "Well there's a moment there where it kind of slides out of the Blues. It's not really a clear line. Guys playing in Chicago , like Muddy Waters and duh, duh, duh. Chuck Berry kind of comes out of that. I bet there are guys we never even fucking heard of that were playing that. But what makes it Rock n' Roll? Because there were those Blues guys playing with electric guitars and it just got a little more visceral and then suddenly it was Rock n' Roll. You got Robert Johnson, then you got Muddy Waters, Little Walter, those guys. Then Elvis. That's around the corner." "Have you ever played any Rock n' Roll John?" "Naw. I had to do a few film scores. But I don't even know what Rock n' Roll is. What is it, the Rolling Stones? Rock, when you put the word 'roll' on there it's a different thing. There's Rock. Is Rock – Rock n' Roll? To me, Rock is the nineteen fifties and sixties. Chuck Berry. Da, nah, nah, nah, neeeer! Which is basically a fast Blues. Rock n' Roll to me is Hendrix, the Beatles and ummm... Nirvana. I played with John Lee Hooker and Canned Heat in Philly. My friend and I went to a show here in New York . We waited for them outside and told them we would hitchhike to wherever they were playing next. We got to Philly the next day and played for them. They let us play about three or four songs in front of twenty-thousand people. That was before your time." "Alright John. I gotta get to work." "Bye Harlem ." I crossed the street and entered in to the restaurant. Jeff was in the prep room. He had coined himself 'John Brown.' I thought the guy was losing his mind. I imagined him with some huge horns, playing an electric guitar. As I scarfed down my sandwich I thought about Rock n' Roll. Then I thought: 'FUCK ROCK N' ROLL!' I had other shit to think about. www.livingroomjohnston.tk

Thank for your time.

Livingroom Johnston.

Weather conditions...                                  

                                           1.


  Peter set up a make-shift coffee table and old
dining room chair next to the livingroom window, which
provided a dead end view of a lonely roof top and a
garbage filled yard.  On the sill he secured his
cigarettes, coffee mug and cordless telephone, then
slowly rested his tired skeleton like frame on the
chair and let his mind go adrift. 
 
  The weather forecaster predicted a hell of a storm.
West Virginia was knee deep in snow and the
sonofabitch was supposed to reach New York within an
hour.
 
  In his daydream, Peter got his strut on with no specific plan. 

  It was his own way  of  rewarding  him self for many hours
of some serious ass busting - on a half empty stomach.
  

  Hundreds  of  people  garbed  in  the  latest
consumer digest outfits moved equivocally  up and down
the strip with overstuffed shopping bags, biting thin
air on hidden cell phones.  Some were poised in
between building entrances, jabbing at two way pagers.
 On every other corner there were boxes set up with
two or three people who clearly did not fit in with
the working class citizens/denizens, standing like
buzzards over three cards shuffled by crusted hands.
Traffic was tied like knots which made life for the
walking simple and easy.  

  Carla, a half Iranian - half Afro American woman,
with a tail and set of racks that could not be missed
by a thousand yards, turned the corner from fourth
street onto Broadway and met face to face with none
other than Peter Somber him self.  Life could get no
better.

  Peter sipped at his coffee and grinned.
 
  The storm was arriving.  Gusts of wind whipped the
hanging cord out side of the window something terrible.

Carla was just about to speak, hopefully invite Peter
on a skip a date, (sex with no strings attached).

 The clock radio situated on the floor a foot away from the
make-shift coffee table went to static.


               'Aint no sunshine when shhhhhhhhhh......'

  A whirlwind of snow rocked it's way in between the
back yard buildings so fast it was like the devil
tried to escape when hell froze over. Danger in its
purest form. 

  The dingy off white walls that hadn't been painted
in more than a decade seemed to be closing in on him
and the sea blue clock hanging by a thread on the wall
was screaming two-thirty.  A bit of tension crawled
slowly up Peter's spine and pinched at his shoulders.

He daydreamed a little more.

  Carla's pretty face and creamy complection was
tinted darker than what Peter had remem bered and
looked tight like she'd been lying out in the sun.
Her shape was complimented by a red tank top, snug
above the belly and a pair of peach colored fitted
shorts that faded to black, along with her lustful
image.    

                                   

 
                                        3.

  "Hmm...", Peter rubbed his burning eyes and peered
out of the window at the worn bricks that barely held
up the building which stood a mere ten feet away.
Something had to give.  It was impossible for every
one in the world to be depressed and asleep - do to a
deep freeze. 

  Hell was still hot and he knew it.  He lighted the
fifth consecutive cigarette, palmed the jack and
punched in eleven numbers.

  All two hundred and twenty five pounds could be
heard in one breath.  Garette's strong boned carcass
was propped up on the couch like a giant bear full of
salmon.  "Hullo?"

  "Garette what it is?  It's Peter...  Bored as two
Negro's in a cotton field - turn of the century, after the
red coats done left!"

 "Shiiiit!  We over here....", Garette sucked in
nearly a whole joint packed with angel dust, then
exhaled.  He sounded like a sun GOD caught in a winter
storm, "Michael talking about he got a job.  Shiiit!
What kind of job he think he got?  Type of money he
think he gone make?  Negro to good for hustling.  He
over here talking bout' he done went straight.  We
just gone watch' n see how straight they have his
funky ass!  And aint nobody gone be sitting around
waiting for his funky ass come crawling back
neither...  Talking bout' them fools done tore his ass
up in the work force!"      
 
  Michael could be heard in the background trying to
defend himself like a dignified pothead with a stomach
full of beer.  Cinderella, Garette's psychotic
girlfriend was laughing hysterically.

  Cockeyed Arnold snatched the receiver from Garette's
paw.  "Negro don't bring your ass over here empty
handed - out no goods neither!"

  "Shut the fuck up!" Peter had to laugh at that
one.  "Yo! Tell Michael I'm gone get on his ass with some

damn  jokes, in a minute!". 

  Peter hit the off  button then got to his feet. He

looked around the dim lit room.  "For all the hard
work I put in this is what I get!  Nothing!
Absolutely nothing!  Hours of back
breaking labor!  And there's millions and millions of
people busting their mother fucking asses for what?
Absolutely nothing!  What's it worth?  Hmm?  Why try
and figure it out?"

  Next to the fogged up window was a tattered

couch he used as a clothes horse, a
large china cabinet across from it with a thousand and
one papers scattered, a dark grey towel with an iron
on top and the sea blue clock hanging on the wall
screaming three-forty five. 

  Peter stood in the center of the room debating on
whether or not it was even worth traveling into
Brooklyn.  He lighted another cigarette and let his mind
drift with the smoke. 

  "Everything in life one could ever want, just say
the correct words", the thought appeared as fast as
the snow chasing the devil out of hell.  But it did not
going to stick like the pile outside of the window. 

  Earlier in the year Peter did some construction work

for a group of  wealthy Wasp Americans who would brag

about what they had - in the presence of their employees.

 He'd never really payed attention, for he
wasn't the jealous type.  But some things just don't
go unnoticed.  Like the car one of the guys drove.
The thing could have paid Peter's his rent for more than a
year.  And all the Hampton's talk.  The party's, etc,
etc.  At the moment he fell into another daydream

  Peter was decked out in a bright yellow linen outfit,
designed especially for him, barefooted with a
margarita, the kind with the fancy straw, on the beach
somewhere on a hill in .  Kelly was there with
him.  She was wrapped in a sarong that covered her
bikini and was walking at the water's edge.  Peter
looked at the two story mud brick house atop the hill
that he'd just bought.  Never mind the price, then on
at the baby blue sky - one hundred percent carefree.
The thought of having to be at work the next day was
nonexistent.  As a matter of fact, the thought of ever
having to work again in life was nonexistent. 

  He jerked out of the dream and thought:

' Shit is there man...  It just depends on how dirty
you plan on getting your goddamn hands before you get
through to the bright side'.

  The walls seemed to have been listening, as if they
shared the pleasures and internal anguish in the
confused mind of  Peter Somber.

  Mexico disintegrated in a flash.  Peter felt a little
better and noticed the snow piling at the window sill.
It didn't look so bad after all.   

  Carla's sexy image got to creeping.  Peter laughed
it off, lifted the jack and punched in eleven more
numbers for a cab. 

  Weather conditions meant a long wait and an
additional snow charge. 

"Who gives a shit?  I can at least afford a trip to
Brooklyn!  Hell! I work hard as a mother fucker!"  A
wide grin spread across his ashen face, cut short by
the jack jumping sassy on its rocker. Peter glanced

around at the four listening walls.

  "Yeah?", Peter answered. 

  "Yo!"  Garette sounded anxious, "you coming over
here or what?"
 
  "Hmm..."  Peter slammed down the phone, lighted another
cigarette, strutted over to the closet, climbed an old suit that

had one more wear before the cleaners would become

mandatory for the garb. He pushed his way through the

threshold with a new confidence. A confidence that would

lead to nothing, but he still had it.  



                                                4.
 

  "Yo... Garette!", Cinderella snapped.  "Oh, you to
big to answer the motherfucking door now huh?  Ole fat
ass soneofabitch!  Who is it!"
                             
  Peter shook the black plastic bag and let the beer
bottles answer first.  "It's Santa Claus!   You hear
that?   Open this shit up fore I bust through the
goddamn window.  With your stupid assed name!  I aint
never seen no Asian woman named no goddamn Cinderella!
You crazy?  It's cold as hell - when the devil
decided to say sorry out this bitch!"

  The locks popped like a thousand lashes afforded by
brutal cop.

   Peter pushed his way on in.  "Mary Christmas
mother fucker!  Yeah, it's Slick Dog on the gravy
train - now let's eat!".  Five sets of high eyes cut
at the corners in laughter.
                                          
  "What's all that shit you was talking over the
phone?", Michael got to his feet.  He was a lot of
Negro to contend with.  Black as night with a bull's
temper, but it was all in jest. 

  "Man sit your funky ass down fore we cut into it
again!  You's lucky we gave you a break - talking
bout' you got some damn job!", Garette blubbered.
       
  Derrick and Esporanda reached said destination a
half hour before Peter with a few six packs and
cigarettes.

  "Oh shit!  Derrick.  What it is fool?  Been a while
I recon!" Peter slapped palms with Derrick and put a
wet one on the cheek of Esporanda.  "What's up
Garette?"  He placed the bag on the diningroom table
and got out of his coat. 

  Garette kept a slick pad for a small time hustler.
Above the table was a crystal chandelier with flame
shaped light bulbs that were turned down to a level of
relaxation and a leopard print rug beneath the socks.
The man permitted no shoes past the front door.

                            
                       

                        5.


  "Look good in this motherfucker Garette!"  Said
Peter, as he flopped down on one of the plush leather
padded chairs.

  "Fuck you expect Negro?  If a rich man gone do it
what I'm gone sit up in some funky assed joint for?"

  "Right on papi!"  Esporanda held up a beer bottle
and released a ring of angel dust, then passed the
joint to Peter.  The two shared a secret attraction
that never went further than a private smile, maybe a
wink now and then.  Peter admired the way she took
care of her self, her ability to flow in different
environs.  Especially being in her early forty's with
a twenty six year old man child and his nutty friends.
Peter ignored the large nipples fighting their way
through Esporanda's orange tee- shirt.  
                            
  "Let me at one of them beers." Cockeyed Arnold
stretched his long and limber arm over Michael's broad
shoulder into the bag and pulled one out.  For some
odd reason he was out of his shirt and there were two
full heads of hair lodged in the pits of his arms. 

  "So...  Peter.  How's Kelly?  You all still
living in the City?  That shit is expensive right?"
asked Arnold.  He spoke so fast the entire party paused
to catch the line.

  "She's alright.   Out on the West Coast for a video
shoot," said Peter, "I mean it's obvious what's
happening down there."

  "What do you mean?", Arnold asked.

  "There's a process of gentrification in full
effect.", Peter added.  "That shit is real!"

  "Yeah, I heard about that."  Esporanda cut in.  "My
girlfriend was telling me that the rents are
incredible.  Like, for a one bedroom on St. Marks
they're asking for a something like two thousand
dollars!  That shit is crazy."

  "That's why I'm staying out here in Brooklyn,"
Garette lighted a cigarette. "Derrick!  Let me get that
ashtray.  Watch them fools flood the area and want to
get at Brooklyn.  But believe you me - Brothers aint
trying to be run up out of here!"
                          
  "Take a lot of work!" said Michael.

  Derrick raised a narrow finger.  "It could be done.
I remember my moms telling me about when she and my
father first came from Poland.  My father worked a
labor job and life was a hell of a lot more simple
than now.  It was segregated but in a different way.
Now days the economy is off the hook and every body
and their momma want to come to New York.  Scratch got
to be safe so rents is high to protect it."

  "Basically," Peter leaned back in the soft padded
chair.
                            
  "No seriously!"  Arnold sounded like a madman.   Where
the fuck do they expect the people that's living in
them old assed buildings to go?  All them Puerto
Ricans and shit?"

  "Puerto Ricans and shit?"  Esporanda tweaked.  "I'm
Puerto Rican!  What do you mean Puerto Ricans and
shit!"

  "That's just a figure of speach girl!"  Arnold's eyes
looked like they were going to pop out and roll around
in agony.  "What's wrong with you?"

  "Further on down to avenue C and D,"  Peter

inserted, loud enough to break the feud.

  "This summer is gone be crazy!", said Cinderella.
She was a petit Chinese woman with a head full of
bleached hair that shook nervous when she spoke.  Her
eyes were nearly closed from the smoke and her tank
top was nearly see through, like Esporanda's.
 
  Peter tried not to look.  Kelly had been out of
town for two whole weeks.  His hormones were out of
control.  But he wasn't the cheating type.

  "However shit go down, I know scratch is mandatory.
Like money is thou savior in two thousand one.
Shiiit!"  Garette slammed a hard hand down on the
couch leaving a print that breathed it's self back to
life, then he laughed a full one. 

  The clock got it's aerobics on.  High were the heads
and the hours were flying by like feathers in a storm.
Snow piled four inches and the sky had the nerve to
be clear.  The remaining scoundrels were fast asleep
and Peter was almost right there with them.
 
  Barry White sang his last song for the night.
Peter got at the jack for a ride home.  He waited
patiently for the car to arrive.  To blow it's savage
horn and carry him back to the lower east side, where
he would dream of a life greater than what he'd seen
over the last twenty eight years.      

                                    
                                            
                        6.

  Peter stumbled toward the car, yanked open the
door, blurted out specific directions and went
straight for the forbidden images deeply embedded in
his mind.  Freedom.  All of the distasteful things
that he was held responsible for in his tainted world
went out of the window with a cloud of smoke, as he dreamt.

  Carla was in a white see through night gown.  She
wasn't wearing a bra, but she did have on a bright
pink thong, which was enough to cause a massive
erection. 

  Peter was sitting on one of the many leather padded
arm chairs in his luxury 'Park Avenue penthouse',
waiting for her to get naked and ride him like the
stallion that he was.  She did strip tease that lasted
all the way to Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn, where the
driver stopped and copped a bite to eat, over the
Manhattan Bridge, a block past 'said destination', to
Clinton and Houston Streets.

  "Jo, this is it!"  The driver was a large Dominican
man in his mid forty's with years of experience in
regard to road rage and disgruntled passengers.  And
he wasn't up for any shit.

  "Yeah, this is it,"  said Peter.

  Carla was a mere three paces away.  She was out of
the night gown.  Her breasts were hanging low, as she
crawled toward him.  He zeroed in on the thong resting
snug in between her heart shaped behind.

  The driver flicked on the ceiling light, took notice
of the log protruding through Peter's pants and
lost it.  He stormed around to the passenger's side
and almost ripped the door from the hinge, "I said
this is it modahfukcer!"

  Peter almost fell out onto the hard paved street.
He caught him self with a pointy shoe and glared at
the sunken in face.  His vision was impaired.  Luckily
it sharpened in a wince.  The driver's face looked
like stone, and the angel dust still floating around
in Peter's narrow skull made him want to punch a hole
through it.

  Peter snaked his way out of the car, put on his
brim at a forty five degree angle, pushed a crisp
twenty dollar bill into the giant's palm, then
backtracked to his hole in the wall; where he slept all

day, got up without showering
and went to work.



                                                                    7.




   It was approaching two a.m. Peter was sitting by the

threshold of  a bar he had been going to after quitting

time at the construction site he had been working at in

SOHO Manhattan, with a  baseball cap pulled down

on his head.

 There were a few young drunks swallowing the last of
an expensive bottle of wine and pooling a large amount
of trust fund dollars at a corner table, known as
fifteen. Peter knew they were making fun of him - but he

didn't care. He could have taken all three of them on if

he wanted to. He  thought  about how  insane the world

was.  How most of the people in the  neighborhood from

which he'd come would never in a million  years live to

see a day when they dined at a  place such as that. 

Never get a chance to hear or partake  in conversations

 such as the kind he'd heard throughout his life. 
  Part of the strong thought escaped and passed
through Peter's lips, "Damn!  I'm glad I'm not rich."
   
  "What's that?"  One of the three trust fund looking cats

said, as they were about to exit the joint.

 "Nothing," said Peter, "just thinking out loud. I had a long day".

 The guy didn't want to let it go there. "Well I suggest you keep

your thoughts to your self".

 Peter wasn't shocked at the fight that was being picked. He had

experienced similar situations in the past. "Excuse me?"

  The bartender was a middle weighted American white
man with strong Nordic features. He was pleasant with a very

mild temper. One could tell that if the man wanted to get down

to business he could at the drop of a dime. "Let it go man."

 Peter couldn't tell if the bartender was talking to him or the

Trust fund guy.

 "Look man… I don't want any problems. I just want to sit here

 and finish my drink. Then go about my business."

 Still… the cat couldn't let it go. He did the wrong thing at a very

wrong moment. The man went to poke Peter on the chest.

 Peter grabbed and twisted the cat's thumb. The other two guys

Were Against the door. Peter pushed the three of them out and

 followed with that cat's thumb in the palm of his left hand.

 As the cat's thumb snapped he let out a scream.

 "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

 The other two cats caught the murderous look in Peter's eyes and

took off running. Peter looked at the cat rolling around on the floor.

He was no sucker. He wouldn't kick a man when he was down,

therefore he walked to the corner and got a cab across town home.

                                                    8.


  After waiting for what appeared an eternity in the
life span of a mortal, Kelly caught a taxi from the
airport.  By the time she arrived Peter was awake,
garbed in filthy clothes and slumped on the couch.
Since he'd been working nights, three in the after
noon was his morning.

  Kelly was a thin woman, almost as
tall as Peter, with slender shoulders and a
mop of dark brown hair that she wore in a short
pony tail, most of the time.

  She had been through a lot of insane shit in the ghetto

of New York as Peter had.

  But that was the past...

  The two of them, equipt with enough war stories to
write a history book, took charge, grabbed the reigns
of information and rode past the sun set, deep into
the great ball of fire.  Combined they made one hell
of a team.

  Kelly jammed the lonely key into the lock.  She
made her way into the tiny apartment with a huge black
duffle bag, a trying case of fatigue and a wool
overcoat that she let the floor wear.

  The sea blue clock screamed three twenty four.
Kelly pulled the plug then sprawled out on the
couch, across Peter's aching legs.

  "I'm home goddamnit!"

  "Yes, you is!"  Peter caressed her sunburned back.
She could feel his erection poking at her waist.

  "You miss me?"  Kelly pushed her nose in between
Peter's shoulder and neck.

  "Course' I miss you."

  "Shit, you smell like you miss me."

  The couple laughed and made love like inmates
released after ten year stints.  After the nap Peter

and Kelly would recount their experiences over the

duration they had not been in each-other's company.

Hmmm.....

  I had just walked into the joint.  I copped a squat
on a stool and ordered a straight shot of scotch.
Wayne was three stools further into the bar running
his mouth to Thomas.  Whatever he was talking about
didn't appear to be in his favor.  He spoke with
conviction. I couldn't really hear everything Wayne
was saying.  He was a pretty mild tempered guy.  The
kind that rarely got upset but was ugly as  hell when
he did. 
  I wanted no part of what I had expected to go down.

  I watched through the corner of my eye.  Wayne
clapped his hands together and got up off of the beat
up wood stool.  He walked slowly toward the door and
stated some ragged sonofabitch stole his new jacket
and was done.  Finished on sight.
  "Lucky I'm not stupid enough to leave my money and
keys in that shit!", said Wayne.
  "You got money?", asked Thomas.
  Thomas was drunk.  He must not have heard Wayne say
that he didn't leave his money in the jacket.  Either
that or was trying desperately to be sympathetic and
was expecting a 'no' and a 'thanks' for brownie
points. 
Wayne took advantage of the situation.
  "Why you offering?"
  Wayne looked Thomas in the eyes.  The guy was at
least six foot seven.  Half Black, mixed with
something or other, and intimidating. 
  I looked on through the mirror at the other side of
the bar.  Thomas lifted his wallet from his trouser
pocked and pulled out a wad of bills insinuating he
had more than what he really did.  It was Thursday.
Payday.  And all of his earnings were kept in the
brown leather wallet that he was waving in his hand.
He worked across the street from me at a small woman's
boutique that couldn't possibly pay more than ten
dollars an hour and was about to loose some of it.
  "Here you go man.", Said Thomas.
  He patted Wayne on the arm and handed over two
twenty dollar bills.
  "Good looks.", said Wayne. 
  I noticed Wayne didn't to put the bills in his
wallet.  Probably because he didn't want to reveal all
of his wages.  Not that Thomas would do anything
anyway.
  The juke box shocked everyone in the place with a
loud electrified song that hurt my ears like a bull
dog on a cur.  Everyone turned on their stools.  Wayne
and Thomas were standing in the middle of the isle
like the fools that they were.  A chick in black
leggings, red cowboy boots and a tight shirt was
standing in front of the box shaking a blond mess and
squealing like a pig.  I couldn't tell wether or not
she knew the song or was making an ass out of her self
on purpose.  That's when the door flew open and Barret
came bolting through it like a horse dragging a dead
body on it's side.
  I looked at my watch.  It was a quarter to four in
the morning and I had to be back  at the shit job to
sell authentic shoes at noon. 
  Barret was wearing Wayne's new jacket and counting
out the change from the ten dollar bill Wayne had
given him for a pack of smokes.
  "Oh shit!", wayne howled.  "I thought somebody stole
my shit!  I was ready to tear down the place!"
  He cut a grin and rested his giant hand on Berret's
skinny shoulder.
  "Here fool.", said Berret.
  Wayne took the cash and stuffed it into his pocket.
Thomas was standing there looking as if he wanted to
ask Wayne for his money back but was too damn scared.
  I walked out without saying a word.