The Other Statue of Liberty
by jota
Posted to Stories on 2002-11-17 07:30:00
I don’t know what got him started but he got hooked and would stand there sometimes for hours hanging around this statue in Bryant Park, over on 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue. He’d mumble something about going out to “filch” some cash and be back by dark. Two weeks into this shit and I started cracking my knuckles, something I had never done before but I was now able to achieve a stupendous “crack!” by putting my hands together and splaying them inside out and holding them way up in the air above my head. Every time I did it, I felt like a gangster.
A couple times I gave him a ten-minute head start and then I’d unbolt the door and move the big long rod from the hole in the floor and ease my way out and slam the iron door shut. The elevator never worked because the Cou Cou twins and their friends were always smashing the buttons and playing Go See God in His Magic Elevator and the thing would rattle and snort and get stuck at the top of the building. The building super didn’t give a snot and the thing hadn’t been inspected in years. No way was I going to use the elevator. Fuck it. Take the stairs.
The only bad part about the stairs were the broken crack vials and the syringes all over the steps. The little half-thumb size bottles never seemed to be capped. I wondered where all the caps went to. Like you never see dead pigeons on the street or on the sidewalks but you knew they had to go somewhere. You never saw the caps. All you ever saw were the little broken bottles. Underneath the second floor was party central and you had to be especially careful not to crush something if you were wearing moccasins like I usually did. Doc Martens were the safest bet because that way going out you could give the homeless guy on the stoop a tap on his head instead of having to gingerly step over his three rag bag coated ass.
Once in the street, uptown that is, you had to be careful where you walked and I’d be sure not to let him see me. I knew he couldn’t hear me behind him. Not with the wail of all those sirens and the romantic echo of gunfire in the distance. “The romantic echo of gunfire.” I just loved saying that. Kirby Foss had told me that she’d seen it in a book but it really was about our neighborhood. The romantic echo of gunfire.
He never took the N train. Instead, he’d shuffle all the way down Broadway. Sometimes he took a shortcut and cut over on Amsterdam or else he might stop for a second at the Dinosaur Museum. He liked to stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk and stare up at the black birds flying across the streets on to Central Park. He told me once they were cormorants. What’s that? I asked him. Big mean greedy hookbilled rat catching birds bigger than bats, he said. I didn’t understand what the fuck he was talking about, especially when he said something about nature’s voodoo is the corona of the modern sun burning in our souls. Like I said, I didn’t understand half the shit he was saying anymore.
So I followed him down to Bryant Park and yep, there he was. Dirty shitty snow half melted from falling the night before, covering part of the worn out patch of dirt around the statue and he is at his same old spot. There was a park bench right next to it but he never sat down. He’d lean against a tree and stare at the statue.
The statue was a large lady squatting down. She had these humongo boobs and a bun on her head like the hair was pulled back tight. She didn’t look mean, just serious. The two times I ever went near it after he’d leave and go away, I couldn’t get it. She seemed sort of like a grandma lady, like one of the cooks at juvee hall. Not mean, but you don’t want to start no shit with her.
He would just stare back at her though. I would freeze my ass and play fake jump rope to stay warm. I’d hide behind trees so he wouldn’t see me. Finally he’d walk away and trudge towards Times Square.
One time I followed him and he almost went into the Army recruiting station right down there on Broadway and that really freaked me out. I couldn’t see him doing a Gomer Pyle and playing Platoon. It made me almost laugh. After standing in front of the little white building, some army guy all slicked up with shiny black shoes would take him by his arm and walk him towards the Newsday building. I could hear the guy bawling him out but he never yelled back. He’d just shuffle away.
Another time he almost went into those nudie places with the x x x but he stopped at the door and I noticed his head drop and he would turn around and head back home. I had to be careful there because that was near the bus station and guys would try to bang you.
Going home I’d catch a bus and beat him back. I’d just barely get in, half-sweating even though it was February and we had no heat because we couldn’t pay the heat bill. We had a cable that reached out one of the backrooms and run up the side of the building to an outdoor socket. So we had lights but no heat.
I’d peek out the sheets we hung on the window to keep out the cold and could just see him turn the corner coming home. About a minute or two later he’d pound on the door and I’d jump to let him in. When I unbolted the door and let him in, everything about him looked tired, except his eyes were shiny and clear. He sure wasn’t on any stuff no more.
I’d make scrambled eggs and cheese for him on the hot plate and he wouldn’t say anything at first.
Finally I had to ask him. “Who’s Gertrude Stein?”
He looked at me and for the first time that winter I saw him smile, a real smile and not the lying smile he’d been using every time he’d be telling about why my mother had died and how that was best for us all cuz she wasn’t in any pain anymore. This was a real smile.
“Ahhhh.”
He didn’t say anything more but started eating the eggs.
“Well, who is she?”
He looked up again with that same smile.
“She is the one who said there’s no there there.”
“Huh?” I scraped a few pieces of egg left and put it in his bowl. He looked down again and said something and I wasn’t sure what he said.
He wasn’t making any sense but I liked him smiling at me again like he used to long time ago.
“She also once said a rose is a rose is a rose,” he said smiling. “And so are you.”