Somewhere in New York Part 2
~~When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy in the company of strangers, in the quiet of the railway station, running scared. Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go. Looking for the places only they would know.~~
*********
It didn't take long to travel beyond my comfort zone. Although I knew my neighborhood inside and out, places to hide when the cops came nosin' around and where you could bum a bed for the night, the twelve blocks to the train station was uncharted territory.
Spray-painted graffiti marked rival gang's' turf. Strangers stared at the uninvited trespasser. Unstable street people, some with mean-spirited dogs and all their worldly possessions in shopping carts, rummaged through dumpsters or sought to score their next drink or drug of choice.
When I reached the depot it was nearly deserted. Scattered about the platform, late night passengers paid no heed to the, not as cocky, young man struggling to keep his brave facade from cracking.
The Seventh Avenue Station is as far as my allowable ticket money takes me. While the handful of riders drift off the train, no doubt, to the security of home and warm beds, I pause to get my bearings then quickly grasp the fact I have no fuckin' idea where I am or which way to go.
In a feeble effort to bolster my courage, "No turning back." is declared under my breath.
Slinking into a narrow walkway sandwiched between buildings with storefronts on the street level and apartments on the second and third stories, I cower among brittle leaves, scraps of yellowed newspaper, broken brown glass and discarded wine bottles to mull over my options.
11:18 or 19-it's hard to see my watch in the dusky space. "Maybe there's a twenty-four hour convenience store or one of those cafés that never close or--"
*Overuse of conjunctions.* Yeah, Ms. Johnston, I did learn something in fifth period English.
Since hunkering down is smarter than roaming the streets, I stow the duffle bag behind my back, zip up my jacket, stuff frosty hands in the pockets and settle in for the long, lonely night.
In the morning I'll join the rejected remnants of humanity. This time the ragged people will be my guide. They know the nooks and crannies; the soup kitchens and mission shelters.
It won't be easy-life never is.
*********
6:30 A.M.
The Blue Bird Diner's breakfast special is feasible. Two scrambled eggs, wheat toast, apple or strawberry jelly and a bottomless cup of coffee for $3.50.
Sipping strongly brewed caffeine, I take advantage of a previously perused New York Times left in my booth by a morning-rush commuter.
There are several rental listings I might be able to afford if I worked full time. Yeah, right. How many full time jobs are available for a sixteen year old street rat? A more practicable alternative, get part time work, share a room, spilt rent and utilities.
"Need a refill?" the grandmotherly waitress with "Wanda" printed on her nametag asks as she sets my plate down.
"Please." Get better service if you're polite.
An hour. Empty plate and three cups of coffee later, I tip as well as I can. Stomach satisfied, with duffle bag and newspaper in hand, I head up the street in search of honest employment.
*********
~~Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job, but I get no offers, just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue. I do declare, there were time when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there.~~
*********
"Are there any damn jobs in New York?" I growl in irritation.
I'm tired. My apple and bottled water lunch is spent. My stomach's protesting and, to top off this unproductive day, it's been drizzling for an hour.
As I pass a discount liquor store "Hey sugar." redirects my attention.
Huddled from the rain under a grim-streaked maroon awning, three whores do their best to look fetching.
The tallest of the trio, mid-thirties with auburn hair helped along by Clairol, is attired in a denim miniskirt, yellow sweater cut low enough to show off her ample cleavage, fishnet hoses and black knee-high boots.
Next, a slim girl barely older than twenty, encased in fake red leather trousers and a sheer pink blouse too flimsy for the chilly weather, doesn't seem as self-assured with her "working girl" role.
Lastly, a woman of mixed ethnicity, milk chocolate skin, large brown eyes and coarse black hair brushing her shoulders, is not as scantly dress as her partners in prostitution, yet there's no doubt she's selling sex.
Eager for a date the redhead saunters closer. "Lookin' for a good time?" is inquired in a thick Brooklyn accent.
"No money."
A coy smile flutters across crimson lips. "Well, sugar, I'm Cherry. Barbie, Cleo and I hang out here every night. When you've got money you know where to find us."
Midway down the block framed in a plate glass window, "LONE SHAMROCK PUB" is spelled out in bright green neon tubing. In the lower corner a tin sign states Patrick Malone, Proprietor.
Catching a glimpse of my green-tinted reflection, I frown. "You look like hell."
The judgmental appraisal doesn't lack accuracy when bangs plastered to my forehead, frayed braid, pale cheeks and listless eyes underscored by purple circles present irrefutable proof.
Maybe I'll find shelter for the night, maybe I won't, however one truth is certain. "Not going hungry." I swear, stepping inside the Shamrock that, fortunately at 9:42 pm, is still open.
I'm guessing the pub's interior hadn't been renovated in forty years. Wide floor planking, marred by a worn path between the heavy walnut bar and a row of six booths, ends at a pool table and restrooms marked "Lad" and "Lass".
Walls paneled in dark wood, an embossed tin ceiling and light fixtures of tarnished brass evoke a sense of nostalgia. Booths upholstered in faded tan and green striped material have definitely seen their share of customers. Behind the bar a large oval mirror serves as a backdrop for semi-circle shelves holding bottles of whiskey, gin, mixers and three selections of bottled beer. Guinness and Murphy's Irish Red is on tap.
Chilled and frustrated; exhausted in body and mind, I flop down on the third barstool.
Presumably the bartender drying pint glasses is Malone. At least sixty with flecks of gray in his reddish hair, narrow shoulders and slightly plump around the middle, he gives me a quick look up and down.
"Patrick Malone." the Shamrock's proprietor announces in a lilting Irish brogue, "Just call me Pat. And what might ya name be?"
*Name.* echoes inside my head. *New beginning.* murmurs alluringly. *Mom always said we made a terrific duo and, other than me, the only person she ever trusted was Father Maxwell.*
Without prior utterance to test the words aloud I introduce myself. "Duo Maxwell."
Pat tilts his head in a moment of contemplation then grins. "That ain't ya real name, is it lad?"
"It is now."
"Well, Duo Maxwell, ya put me in mind of a scarecrow. Would ya be wantin' to eat?"
"Don't have much money."
"Feedin' ya for free it better than havin' ya faint over. Wash up then claim a spot 'fore I change my mind."
Duffle bag tucked under the second booth's bench and damp jacket folded at my side I lean back with a deceptively casual attitude. Awaiting my suppertime hand-out I recall Cherry's lustful invitation then wonder if a full stomach also comes with strings attached. After all nothing in life is really free.
Preoccupied with figuring cost versus consequences, I don't notice Mr. Malone, ah, Pat until he sets down a tray.
"This otta do the trick." he nods at the smoked turkey sandwich with mayo on rye, a steaming bowl of vegetable soup and---"
"Milk!" I exclaim in surprise at the unexpected glass of white liquid.
"Tis good for ya."
Pat anticipates my tendency to bicker. "Don't argue." then coaxes in a fatherly tone, "Eat."
Although it's difficult to resist hunger's coercion and wolf down dinner like a stray dog, it would be harder to be sick. A bite of sandwich, chew slowly. Each spoonful of soup is sipped. Even the milk is enjoyed unhurriedly. Also not knowing when I'll get another substantial meal, dreading to go out into the rainy night and the prospect of sleeping in a homeless shelter with drunks, druggies and perverts with roaming hands encourages my leisurely pace.
Currents of nippy air rush inside when the front door opens and, despite the booth's high back blocking the draft, I stifle a shiver. A young man, dressed in black sweatpants, a light blue hooded sweatshirt with Goldman Gym printed across the back and carrying a black nylon duffle bag, eases down at the bar.
With weary body language suggestive of a longed-for end to a rough day, he brushes brown bangs aside. Offered only a profile view I can't see the color of his eyes, yet tanned hands are two shades darker than the pale ale in his glass.
What's easily observed is an athletic physique; the underlying strength, agile movements and confident posture of someone who wouldn't start a fight but wouldn't shy away from one either.
I finish eating while the mystery man and Malone share familiar conversation, evident by knowing nods and relaxed gestures. Once Pat glances at me as if an explanation for my presence has become part of the subject matter.
"Feelin' better?" Pat inquires about the state of my stomach as he slides into the booth's opposite seat.
"Yeah, thanks for your kindness." Not wanting to overstay my welcome I gather my jacket and reach for the duffle. "I'll use the toilet and be on my way so you can lock up."
Pat holds up his hand to delay my departure. "I have a proposition that could be useful to both of us."
*Shit, here comes the strings.*
"Appreciate the meal but there's somewhere I have to be." I lie.
"Just hear me out, lad, that's all I'm askin'."
"One minute."
"Fair enough." is agreed. "Can't pay ya a decent wage but if you'll sweep up, wash dishes and keep the storeroom in order, I'll make sure ya get enough to eat and some pocket money."
Skeptical of any proposal that seems too simple I search Pat's face for signs of sincerity. "What's the catch?" is asked point-blankly.
Patrick Malone looks me straight in the eye. "I swear on the saints there's no catch. I need help and ya need to be off the streets and this fella," he nods at the mystery man, "is willin' to share his room so you'll have a roof over ya head."
Are my instincts sufficiently street wise to trust Pat or should I get the hell out as fast as I can? Weighing the pros and cons of staying or leaving-a warm bed and regular meals are tempting or am I tempting fate?
"Okay, but if I don't like the deal, I'm gone."
There's no doubt Pat's delighted smile is genuine. "Well then, lad, meet your roommate. Duo Maxwell this is Heero Yuy."
TBC...
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