The Pinehurst Stairs
Washington Heights
NYC
The west wind was blowing off the Hudson River from New Jersey and was just starting to chase away the heat and humidity that is late July New York City. I was somewhat irritated and more than aware of the irony that I had come to the “City That Never Sleeps,” to be a part of the allure, the glamour and now all I craved was a nap. The mundane day-to-day had trumped the romantic adventure. My apartment was 50 feet and a five story elevator ride away but the prospects of getting there were dubious at best. I felt I had earned a break. Tired and sweaty, I decided to sit down on the benches lining the Pinehurst stairs and enjoy the ice tea that I was saving as a reward for myself for making it up the hill to the apartment with an armload of dry cleaning and a backpack full of groceries. I eased myself down onto the weathered wooden bench. Cooled by the shade and the breeze I held my cold damp hand to my cheek. The tea refreshed me. My body began to unwind, I relaxed. I sensed I was not alone and sure enough to my left, there he sat. He seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
Sharing a bench with me, he had stopped to savor a cold forty ounce malt liquor, barely concealed in a soggy, sweat stained brown paper bag, and to see if the crumpled lottery tickets he held in his hand would change his luck.
Because it is a small densely populated island no one who lives in Manhattan is really a stranger. Conversation and camaraderie flow easily. We are comfortable at home and at ease with each other. And so it was this languid summer Friday afternoon
“Hey, my name is Damien and you are…”
I told him my name was Mike. He decided he preferred Michael. “It suits you better.” Being renamed by a perfect stranger you had known for less than five minutes in another context made no sense but on a magical Spanish Harlem summer afternoon it was natural, part of the texture and feeling of the place.
Introductions and formalities out of the way we both began to relax, ease into the place where each could enjoy the other and what we bring to that unique moment. He was engaging, spellbinding, fascinating. There was a sense of danger about him combined with an innocence that you would not guess he possessed. He slowly began to tell me his story. He was Hispanic/Irish. Born to a Mexican mother and an Irish father his roots ran deep in the Washington Heights neighborhood of North Manhattan. Three generations of his family had resided on the bluffs hard up against the banks of the Hudson. He was a part of the place, tuned into the neighborhood.
He was good looking, dark haired, brown eyes which constantly surveyed his surroundings. He was slightly built but lean and muscular. While outgoing and gregarious, he had an edge about him. Maybe it was the sparse clipped phrasing of his speech, his heightened awareness or perhaps it was the way his hands revealed a slight tremor as he clutched the lottery tickets which represented a future filled with promise.
His most striking feature was a huge black widow, blue and orange in color, tattooed on his throat. The body sat directly on his Adam’s apple, the legs reached around the side of his neck. He sported webs on his forearms and his hands to match the colors of the spider.
At first we made small talk. We checked each other out. In spite of our differences, it was clear we were both tuned into the aura of the New York City streets where danger and beauty often live side by side on the same corner. “It’s kinda funny ya know,” he said. “You’re tryin’ to break into this place, I’m in and tryin’ to break the fuck out.”
We laughed and smiled, at the very notion of trying to get what the other one already had. The wonder of a perfect Friday evening coming on overtook us. The silence was comfortable, necessary. Very different lives, very different experiences but for a few moments we enjoyed each other’s companionship and each other’s take on the world. We drank malt liquor from a paper bag, admired the beautiful women that are so much of part of the neighborhood and watched as the Heights came to life in the dusk.
Sunset-The George Washington Bridge As Seen From Washington Heights, NYC.
His dream was the open road and the freedom that long straight ribbons of asphalt seduce you with, the constant promise of redemption just beyond the horizon.
“When my parole is done I’m buying a Harley, all tricked out, high rise bars, metallic paint, lotsa chrome. Gonna ride until my front tire kisses the ocean. Think I will get a cold beer, watch the sunset, and start over. Maybe I’ll find one of them Cali girls the Beach Boys sing about.”
His voice trailed off like he was already there.
“It’s always summer in Southern California,” I said. Savoring my own memories of drifting rootless in a seaside, rundown Redondo Beach apartment. I continued, “You can get lost in the smoothness of fine tequila, hazy pink/orange smog-filtered sunsets and the elusive hard-bodied roller blading women that are the icons of Redondo and Venice Beach.” Puzzled I explained to him, “for some reason they are always named Melissa or Bridgette.” Finally I told him how easy it was to acquire a rose tattoo that would always evoke the sense of being lost and the timelessness that is so much a part of the place. A bookmark to remind you that the experience was real, not just a dream.
He smiled. “Sweet,” is all he said.
Appearing almost to be in another time and place he told me of his life and times in Washington Heights. “Most of my life I ran a “crew” near Time Square, between eighth and ninth Avenues-drugs ya know… and street hookers…heisting whatever I could when I could…lived by my wits and lack of a conscience.” Matter-of-factly, without emotion or effect he added, “I done time in Rikers and Sing-Sing.” He sensed there was no need for further explanation. The statement stood on its own.
As he spoke I noticed a delicate, beautifully tattooed floral bracelet which encircled his right wrist. In the middle of the design was the word, “Attica.” The beauty and delicacy of the flowers stood in stark opposition to the violence that the mere mention of “Attica,” conjures up. Our glances caught each other for a split second. There was an awkward pause. I waited to see if there would be an explanation, a story. Then I realized there was no need for words. We both understood and it was enough.
His story cast a spell, hung like a tapestry in the warm night air. We sat for awhile, talked a little longer. His parole officer has a construction job lined up for him. He starts Monday-a long forty-eight hours away. A lot can happen in forty-eight hours. As insurance I gave him the thirty-three dollars in my wallet. An impulsive gesture motivated by what I am not sure. Kindness to my fellow man or a chance at somehow easing the pain of the sins etched into the core of my soul. Maybe I will never know and in the end it may not matter.
“Hey, man, you don’t have to. . .” I felt the weight of pride, honor and self-reliance clinging to his words.
“Yeah Damien, I do. A heart attack almost killed me. God has given me a second chance. I will be damned if I know what for… guess I forgot to ask…to balance my heart against a feather, maybe karma, to lighten the burden of my sins. All I know is I won’t fuck it up…I can’t…trust me.” With that I pressed the money his slightly shaking hand.
Suddenly my companion decided it was time to leave. He assured me I would be alright in the streets of New York City, “it is the way you carry yourself, you demand respect, and you’re a tough guy, one of the big dogs-it shows.”
In the fading light he stood up. “Hey Michael, I gotta go meet some people-you know.”
In the pink glow of a hot New York night, we hugged, touched our closed fists together. He held me by both shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Michael . . . it’s a great name, Michael. He sits at the right hand of God you know-the enforcer. Is that where you sit Michael? I bet ya got some great stories. Secrets that only come out when the night is still-you old guys always do. I’ll be back to listen. Until then stay hard my brother, stay strong. “Then he was gone, swallowed up in the poetry and danger of the New York City Night.
