…And as he stood on the footbridge, overlooking the L.I.E, making his way over the foliage slithering through the cement that still managed to breathe outside of LaGuardia airport – he turned to face the Shea Stadium he always passed on his way home in his youth, instead he was confronted with a haunting gleaming light that spat wasted electricity through the famous Rockefeller octagon – only it was the glaring red of the otherwise impotent graffiti, below, that caught his eye, which innocently asked: Which way to New York?

Leroy had the Church of Scientology on one side and JP Morgan Chase bank on the other.

He knew he was in trouble. 

But he figured if he couldn’t find salvation in one, he could always find it in the other.  After all, the other, and more ancient, religions had failed him interminably and maybe now it was time to get with the program: money or outer space. 

“Fuck it,” he thought, “I’m ready for it.  Bring on the aliens.”

He knew it wouldn’t matter, that no extra-terrestrial invasion would change a thing – regardless of whether we were or weren’t demons from another moon-planet or the swapped saliva under Tom Cruise’s armpit. His mother, ironing clothes when he came home from school, holding up and shaking the iron every time L. Ron Hubbard’s commercials came on - the volcanic eruption, the flowing lava on the screen: “What the hell did Dianetics ever do for Black folks!” she’d cry and as soon as the bizarre sales pitch vanished and Oprah’s face filled the screen – she would calm back down. 

She was frantic for understanding and honesty and kindness and enormous amounts of generosity.  Especially when it concerned money.  Other people’s money.  This was probably why Leroy felt as foreign from the Capitalists as he did from the Scientologists, but he’d better get with the program – quick – or he’ll be destroyed.  Cause if the Aliens from Hollywood don’t save him, then money will.  And if that doesn’t work there is always death.   Because when you’ve got a bank you can’t join and a church you can’t believe in, then your options don’t seem that great. 

“No, couldn’t be,” he said to himself every morning, “this couldn’t be the end…”

He knew it was, or could be, or would be and it scared him.  It scared him in a fantastic nerve-knot way.  The rumble and terror in the pit of the stomach before an exam that you are not prepared for, and you couldn’t be even if you knew days in advance – it would still be the knowing of your inevitable failure that would haunt you.  A red “45%” scrawled like a murderer’s handwritten bloody note on the top of your tiny Mathematics-test paper.

Leroy was desperate to make a connection.

On his first day back the adrenalin pumping only crystallized his prey.  He turned on his heel, looked down the block, hoping to find another brother from Back in the Day. 

He seemed to recall at least two brothers he used to consort with before he entered that massive sleep which he still struggled to awake from.  

One, named Creepy, was the type of brother you take for granted.  The same way you might regard your favorite barber or bartender.  And no matter how awful things were, Creepy always managed to fill Leroy with just a little bit of confidence.  And faith.  He didn’t believe in God or angels, but he had lived and he was free and willing to espouse all he had witnessed as if he were some kind of anthropological scout in the form of a camera that pumped blood.  

He was a record-keeping device with veins.

He knew everything about Harlem and had seen all the changes.  He was always warning people to enjoy themselves now because it would soon be too late.  And he was forever warning the youth about the corrosion of will and spirit and manhood and sermonized at length about the horror of the drug trade, corruption, and his amazement at how less fights he’d seen versus shootings.  Which is why whenever he saw Leroy - he’d raise his fist.  He’d remark it had been:

"So long, so long, since I’d seen a man --

not a son with a gun, but a man with a hand.”

These were the days when a man could still stand on a corner and not do anything at all except observe and give his two cents.  When opinion is all a man has and he offers it – you will be surprised by how much it means to you and in fact how willing you are to hear it…Because he gives himself so fully and wholly and with nothing but loving risk involved.

And he spoke of the wars he’d been in and how serious enslavement was and of course no one ever listened to him.  He was not a prophet (he always said things would get better).  The looming shadow that lurked over the corner he frequented proved that.  The residents of his neighborhood had grown tired of his hallucinations and desired coffee instead.  Or at least this is what the land developers said. 

They had replaced the Brother on the block with a Starbucks and it was just the beginning of a very quick extermination.

 

2

 

At first, the rumor was that they tried to do to Creepy what the American government did to Sitting Bull: pay him to tour and exploit himself as the last “poet-pariah” of a newly-re-colonized land, the last remnant of a folks; a people who had created a culture of their own. The last patriarch of a tribe that was not allowed to be men.  The story was that Creepy has been paid out by the Big Developer to shut up and smile long and hard at the busloads of tourists and European “thrill seekers” that were arriving in droves; as if they were going to the circus.  

It was finally here that the freaks would meet the geeks and the energy of Dylan’s Mr. Jones would pervade in the purple hovering like some close encounter of a fourth or fifth kind, easy ins and easier outs, a postcard to send home to their supposed-Suburban-dormant lives…

Here Fellini had collapsed into an eighth-rate Coon Zoo and Lipstick Regalia where fashion meets fodder and fools will shuck and jive for the Mass-Media whores and old ladies from Australia. 

Change had definitely come to Harlem.  And it had nothing to do with the death of Michael Jackson’s feet or a hip President whose wife had arms of steel. 

There was no sleep, there was nothing to eat. 

The party was over and all Leroy could remember was that huge explosion one morning and soon he was glad to be part of the mob--never looking up, smiling, or taking pride in himself; giving up in order to struggle and “make a living,” as wildness and romance died away.   He knew now that charm and passion could only get him so far. 

His talents were drying up and he now had nowhere to roam. 

Now awake in his crippled concrete pedigree, his asthma worse, the music--cheap, loud, and vulgar… He had to come to grips with the fact that he had lived passed 27 and was not rich. 

 

   

To make matters worse, when old Mrs. Tillens tried to organize all ten floors of their humble abode on 131^st street, only nine of the original 40 tenants still lived there and only half spoke English or cared. Some of the tenants were quite nice, had moved from other places – in pursuit of “something” intangible, some were going to College, some constantly wore back packs and said “dude” and wore funny glasses and pointy hair and told their friends back “home” how friendly, and actually harmless, the natives were.  They were curious about the famous haunts they had read about, but did not dare to actually engage any of the liberated minds in the area.  Instead they poked fun at the unconscious and lost-“youth” that swore like demons and paraded like minstrels on Satan’s moonshine and yet they “pretended” not to notice or had blocked it out with their new headphones or cell phones or some kind of phone or a kid who looked like a 1986 nerd but instead played the guitar.

All the while the pigeons overhead swooned and swarmed, but even they too were getting tired of the good fight.  If they could, they would have flown Mrs.Tillens away.  And she knew that. 

The other people in the building?  Well, the ones from other countries were more interested in just working (finally) and getting loans or sending for their loved ones back “home.”  They were not interested in the history of the block, Mrs. Tillens ninety-years, Creepy’s monologues, or the muted cries of the conscious. 

They were interested in buying some property and renovating and even opening shops for their “own” – just as long as the native riff-raff would be kept at bay.  Their children loved to be brutal like the exploitation pictures they saw on their computer screens and the bucket-head mop-topped geeks next door made it known that they were only trying to help the neighborhood by converting an old warehouse into a café – so that when their friends were coming to visit they could have a place to go: “Cause, like, we’re all people, and you know – we just want to have some place for ourselves, too -- like the way it should be, you know?”

Mrs. Tillens did not know.  

The conscious did not care to know.

And Brothers like Creepy – well, why should they have to know? 

Who knows and cares about them?

 

3

 

So Leroy had returned to the place of his birth as an outsider.

 

He knew if he could just get back "home" – he could some how asses properly, he could smear the scum the off the door and clean the horse’s ass.  He could steer out the barn of his brain and tell people to open up and think a little harder – or hell, just fight a little harder – and of course something would happen.  An answer might not fall from the sky, but a rat might whinny and when they do it’s good luck.

He decided to clear his mind and get out of the funk by riding the subway like he used to do early in the mornings.

 

The train he frequented almost his entire life had changed its number. 

 

The reason given was “because the subway riders on that line didn’t like that number.” Nor did they like him, because as he stepped on to the train he could feel the hostility move throughout the car and float like a spirit haunting the site of some historical assassination. 

But it was their long lean train face and alien cadences that frightened him – the large mobs of subway riders awaiting their trains, standing with funny hats and ducked-feet and awkward limbs; these were people not used to subterranean travel but the bright lights and well kept seats in the waiting areas kept them calm and safe and comfortable in a way that Leroy had never quite felt.

Surely, the bobs and belligerence of the young men who thought they ruled the city would appear again: the haunted faces, the slinky Joe’s dressed in black, the lonely Linda’s who never wore make-up and wouldn’t know how to – even the Chinese vendors and African street merchants now seemed distant and weary and they were the only anchors he could rely on; their rocks being their tongues.  The sound of their speech comforted him only a little because they were often overwhelmed by lateralizations and foreign accents his ears were unaccustomed to, but ones he recognized from other parts of the country. 

In all that seasoning, he could not detect one New York accent or one real sigh. 

As the natives used to say, “Go figure.” 

 

4

                       

Downtown, he made his way to the ferry. 

He figured a nice breeze would do him good.   He could daydream and gaze out into the water but he couldn’t find the entrance to the ferry–it seemed further than usual as if the construction in the street had actually pushed the ocean back a bit. 

A gigantic scaffold stood like a massive insect at the foot of the block and torn placards flapped over the sidewalks from the protest the night before.  They might be the only thing left over that was real.

There was a man huddled over under a gray wool blanket with a sign that said: “I’m so broke, I can’t pay attention.” 

Leroy understood – he too was a whipped dog.  In fact, the dogs were doing better than the people. 

He wanted to talk to the Broke Man, but he was unsure of what to say.  Getting a better look, he realized this man was the other Brother from uptown he used to see every afternoon on his way home from work – two mayors ago – right outside his apartment building.  He used to alternate corners with Creepy, but he was a bit younger.  His face had a dull shine like a used bowling ball.  And it was all the more daunting when he saw the green awning of the Starbuck’s Coffee shop six feet behind the Brother.  Leroy knew it hadn’t been there before.  And already, the NY skyline was morphing into something miraculously abominable.

“Hm.  You don’t want any,” the Broke Brother assured, “the coffee is bitter and gives you the shits.”

 

5

 

Back on the train.

The settlers arrive like thieves in the night. 

What is it they are looking for? 

 

The quotidian beat of an urban ghetto is the same as a suburban village…

 

He had a place to sleep, but it didn’t feel like “home” and he was anxious to have his own “home” again.  And what he had just paid for a bedroom in a three-person share – he had once paid for an entire apartment twice the size of the unit they were now all cramped into.  His friend, Jose, had gotten him the place when he was still working as a muralist.  But eventually, Jose gave up art in the city and flew back to join his folks in Puerto Rico.  He said he could no longer take the dreariness of the city and that he knew he would die soon and if he were to die he wanted to see clear, blue water.  That was all.  Something pure.  He always warned Leroy about “the shift” – he knew “the shift” would come and when it did – all would be forgotten, all would be lost, all would be…frozen. 

Leroy cursed himself for having given up the two leases before that fatal morning and before he slid into his deep freeze, but he knew – or at least began to sense – that he was lucky.  Some people had no place to go at all…and more and more of the masses found themselves bumbling and tripping the street curb with worthless promissory notes and pay stubs caught in gum from years ago…

That talk about luck would have been fine and dandy if he didn’t feel like he was living in a construction zone.  Or airport.  Or broken sewer.  Somewhere in between all three.

His “flat-mates” were less agreeing.  “This neighborhood’s always been noisy,” one said.   “Anything’s better than gunshots,” the other mocked.  They both laughed.  “Besides, in one more year – we’ll be living in the center of sin city!  This place is gonna be hot.  You’ll see, Leroy.”

“See what?”

“That this place is gonna be hot.  You don’t know how lucky you are, man.  Our landlord upstairs just told us he bought that abandoned building across the street.  He’s gonna make it into a café-concert hall.  We’re gonna work there. Isn’t that cool? We’re sooo lucky!”

Leroy was getting tired of feeling “lucky.”  Especially when it was coming from kids who had no clue as to where they were living and what it meant or what had occurred before.  Kids who hadn’t known the meaning of the Lenox Lounge or Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard or the significance, say, of the old Renaissance Theater and Casino…

“Well, you mustn’t be like a prisoner of history,” the other one said.

“Yeah, that’s like Nationalism.”

“Yeah,” the other one said plopping down on the couch, burping, “that’s how the Fascists always end up getting riled up.”

Leroy sighed, went into his room and stared at the painted-over window.  The room was stuffy and the smell of paint inflamed his sinuses. He strutted back into the living room.

“What time does our landlord get home?”

“Oh, he’s always home.  He works from home.”

“Well, what’s his number?”

“It’s on the fridge,” the other one said, as he hooked up his play-station.

“But he’s not here right now.”

“Oh…”

“He’s in Seattle for, like, the next week.  But you can always leave a message.  If you want, I can call him at his mom’s house.”

“You know his mother?”

“Yeah, totally, dude.  His mother used to feed us all the time after school back in

Columbus. ”

 

6

 

He squinted into the night as the cranes and trucks beamed and flashed their white light far up into the cosmos--perhaps it was a signal to the Martians, or homage to Brecht: space invasion and unemployment in a New York sky…

He sauntered by the construction site.  An entire block along Second Avenue had been completely excavated.  Looking into the street, below the surface – was like seeing the organs of a tormented dinosaur; an ancient orifice whose juices still flowed, but whose mystery was no longer respected…

Something was afoot.  Unless there was an emergency or a sewer-break – there was no reason why anyone in their right mind would be digging in the twilight of the night.

He walked up to one of the construction workers who paused in between his jackhammering.

"What's the emergency?'

The construction worker scowled at Leroy.

“People work around here, you know.  And they need their rest at night, we need to sleep…”

“Oh yeah?”

And then he jackhammered even louder than before. 

On his way back to the apartment, Leroy stopped by his Grandfather’s old barber-shop, which was now a tiny boutique which sold overpriced second-hand clothes, jewelry, and as the sign said: “all hipster essentials.” 

He walked in to the store and looked around.  He couldn’t believe that after all these that the vacancy had reopened and was now catering to people who did not care about the struggles that once existed on that very block.

“Can I help you?”

“No, no. Just looking.  My grandfather used to have a barber shop here.”  He was proud.

She rolled her eyes, she was trying to close up.  “Is there anything you want in here?”

He shook his head and left.

 

7

 

The next morning a small table was set up in front of his apartment building with a couple at the end holding books. 

There was a sign at the center of the table:

Are You Stressed?

The couple smiled at Leroy as he stepped out to go on a job interview.  He smiled back and nodded, but did not say anything.  On his way back, he noticed the couple was still there – even though the construction directly behind them was scattering dirt and tar and concrete.  Leroy tried hard to not get hit by any of the showering debris, and he darted into the lobby of his building – as if dodging a hail of bullets.  And in a sick way, he thought that dodging a hail of bullets would be easier.  In fact he had, once.  But nothing could be deadlier or unpredictable than construction. 

The couple at the table stood up and yelled:  “You seem worried, would you like a stress test??”

 

That night he dreamt that the New York accent had become extinct.    And people earned their living by performing classical monologues in full glorious New Yorkese in small cages with sliding doors. On the sides of the cage was a Rockefeller octagon with “The right relationship…” chiseled along the ominous rims.

The only options the poor natives had was to perform in this ghastly JP Morgan Chase-Millennium Freak Show, although some were allowed to retain their posts at the DMV, the police station, or local Social Security office.  Some natives were left to fend for themselves as others died off quietly.  A few rebelled and many lost their minds. 

It was too late to call Jose. 

He took comfort, however, in an email he received from an old lover who had settled back overseas.  She wrote him that although she missed him greatly, she could not set foot back in New York.  She begged him to visit when he had enough money, when he felt free again, when he felt he had settled the score.

She didn’t understand.  New Yorkers don’t handle failure well.  And they seldom can admit when they have lost…What was he trying to prove?

He looked out and this time – through the thin white layer of paint over his cell window, beyond the wire mesh and over the broken fence within the yard was a huge billboard of a pair of hands that had burst through the concrete jungle holding a newborn baby, with the words:

And who are you?  What will you do for yourselves? 

And below it, beside a picture of a pink man in a suit with a bow tie with his arm around a brown man with a baseball cap and baggy jeans, was the text:

What you can’t do – the Believers of L. Ron Hubbard will!

The New Scientology Complex: Coming Soon in the New Year.

 

8

 

Leroy found a job working for a Virginian in a new restaurant in Chelsea.

He had never waited tables before and he really missed the old odd job or intermittent construction gig he could pick up every now and then before the digital revolution.  He remembered working one Christmas season for a Hungarian flooring company.  The owner liked him so much – he offered him a full time job.  Leroy was 20 at the time.  He thanked the man, but turned down his offer--for he had greater aspirations:  He wanted to make a contribution to society, not floors.  But now, working in this posh restaurant, feeling uncomfortable when people asked him about his "accent", he yearned for the independence and authenticity of flooring and driving and working with his hands with other people who may not have liked him – but at least understood him.  In true New York fashion, they knew where he was coming from, they could respect his struggle. 

Well, struggle was nothing anybody had any respect for or interest in.   

So now that he was working, it only seemed right that he would have to lose his room in the apartment of the “Bo and Luke Duke” of the Slummers.  The blonde had his girlfriend visiting and the brunette was thinking about “renovating” and since he knew how sensitive Leroy’s sinuses were – he thought it would be only fair to warn him and suggest that he find another place to live.  He even said he would refer him to a few places and Leroy quickly advised him that that would not be necessary.

He packed that night and slept at the restaurant downtown. 

The couple selling stress tests and pamphlets downstairs moved into his room two days later. 

 

9

 

Leroy found an apartment with three Higher Education graduates; two of which were pursuing their studies.  A female gay couple from New Hampshire

and a Chinese woman from Chicago who was trying to get in to the Fashion industry.  They liked Leroy and he liked them and the price they were asking.  They all seemed nice, but they knew, as did Leroy, that this would not work.  He did not want to be construed as anyone’s pet or curiosity.  And he knew if he ever got angry – there would be hell to pay…

The next place he looked at was three blocks away. 

It was a dump, but it was cheap. 

Three guys and a girl. 

Two were siblings; the couple were posing as manic depressives with heavy problems.   Her father ran a law firm in DC and he tagged along in hopes of becoming a professional stoner. They were into pills and asked Leroy about “places to hit in New York."

 When he told them that they missed that boat, that the NY nightlife was dead, they just glared at him and slammed their bedroom door shut.  

They politely asked him to leave the next day. 

 

This is the third apartment I have gotten kicked out of. 

And it always seems to happen on a Sunday. 

Remember how we hated Sunday’s when we were kids, how you could never really get comfortable?  Now I know why.  It seems as if the apartments themselves have gotten uglier, the streets of Harlem have now grown sinister as they gleam and try their best to withstand the nouveau ignoramus’ and the pelting feet of miserable foreigners and the hiply displaced downtowners who – ten years earlier – wouldn’t go past 116^th street.  Unless they were in a bus. 

With a very big map.

No longer need a bus.  Or a map.  No longer eager to “discover” us; we’ve been demystified and are capable of being bullied. 

They’ve taken our moon, our sun, our stars.

Even the street lamps above have been tamed.

 

10

 

Further uptown, ten, twenty blocks…He checked to see if his old friend, Hughie, was still around.  He wasn’t.  

He found a vacancy across from a bodega and a “Real Estate” office on the corner.  He paid a handsome fee and they gave him a key.  He could stay in the room as long as he wanted.  As long as he told the landlady that he was Dominican and not Black American.  In case she or anyone asked.  Not that they would; he could easily be taken for a Dominican.  And there really wasn’t a difference in how they looked.  Leroy said he had family all throughout the Caribbean. 

The agent eyed him suspiciously and then smiled.  “You sure?  How come you don’t speak Spanish?”

“Brother,” Leroy assured, “I speak English the same reason you speak Spanish.”  

The agent looked puzzled.  

The first couple of days not much happened and everything seemed fine. 

And then it happened.

 It was on his way upstairs (he lived on the third floor) – he had held the elevator for a couple and decided to just take the stairs.

The man said “Yo, hold that elevator.”

“Yeah,” Leroy said, “sure thing, brother.”  And the man and his woman hopped in.  The man stared at Leroy through the elevator-gates.  If looks could kill.

Later that night, Leroy decided to smoke a cigarette.  He went to the bodega to buy a “loosie”.  They no longer sold them.

He ended up having to cop a cigarette from a passer-by on the street.  He thanked the generous soul and then went in front of the apartment building to smoke.  But he needed matches. 

He waited until he saw someone smoking.  He saw the mother of the three children who lived below him.  She cursed like a psychotic and so did her kids.  But she always smiled when she saw him.  And she smoked like an old nightclub comedian – thick cigars, constantly.  He asked her for a light.  She obliged.

“Thanks, sister,” he said, without even thinking.

She flinched. “Que?  What you said to me?”

“Thank you.  Thank you.”

“You say somethin’about my sista?”

“No.  What?  No…”

She eyed him long and hard and her three offspring did the same and they did a slow and steady walk around him and into the building.  She never smiled or said a word to Leroy again.

The social epidemic was made clear to him, the next morning when he went outside to buy a coffee.  While standing outside, sipping his coffee in the early morning twinkle – he noticed a younger man with a swollen eye and a head buried in three or four hoods passing by.  It was cold and he looked cold and he was also humming or whistling or talking to somebody on a phone with an earpiece – Leroy could not tell.  He made eye contact with Leroy as he was passing and out of instinct, Leroy nodded his head and muttered “Wha’s up, brother.”

The man scuttled one or two feet passed Leroy, turned and scowled at him.  A woman from across the street, smoking a cigarette under the construction scaffolding, yelled out: “This ain’t 1962!  What the fuck you think this is?  1962?? He’s not your brother!”  She couldn’t have been any older than fifteen and huddled in a corner with her boyfriend.  The man with the swollen eye made up his mind and brushed passed Leroy as he made his way into the apartment building.  He turned back in Leroy’s direction, cursed in Spanish, and spat out the Lobby vestibule.                                                   

 

 Lately, I’ve been calling the men on my block ‘brother,’ and this hasn’t been going over too well with many of the people in my building.  Many are stunned.  Most are suspicious.  I can understand their suspect-ness, I too believe that just because you’re not paranoid doesn’t mean that no one’s after you – but I am concerned because something happened, something’s changed…and I’m still afraid I don’t understand.  But maybe the answer was right in front of me.  All this time – it stood, right in front of me.  I realize this now, as I write to you.  I can now recall the demon and the sick feeling I had upon my return…and the struggle just didn’t let up.  Three nights ago, I heard the most peculiar sound…It was about 3 o’clock in the morning and at first I thought it was a dream – these muffled sounds, stifled cheers as if a crowd was at a football game – beneath the hum, you could hear a clear strain of choral chants and applause.  And every now and then “Yes!” or “Alright” and then what sounded like “Amen.”  I could not tell where it was coming from –but I wasn’t dreaming and the TV wasn’t on cause I don’t have one…Maybe I left my headphones on?  No. 

 

I was determined to find the source of this alternate universe. I scrambled to the door and opened it – but heard nothing.  Not even the snoring of the elderly man in the bedroom next door.  

 

I tiptoed to the kitchen and tried to detect the sound of this subterranean gathering.  The sound was even more distant in the kitchen and by the window than it was in my room.  I went back to my room, wiped my feet, and put on some socks.  Doing so, I had bent down and was standing right by the one window in my bedroom.  The sound was even louder and clearer than before – it was definitely a crowd of people, at least a hundred.

I lifted the blinds and slid the window open.  A gust of cold air blew in and nearly sucked me out.  I stuck my head out into the frozen night, and notice a man about our age running across the street – his yellow coat swelling under the orange pool of light shimmering under the street lamp.  He ran so fast I could not even see him open and enter a door – it seemed as if he just disappeared into the scaffold and construction boards that were directly across the street.  The huge wooden panels chained and the adjacent territory behind it was still in the midst of development. 

 

A moment later, I saw another man run into the “building.”  Then, another and then two more (I think they were holding hands, but I wasn’t sure).  All you could hear was the excited rubber soles pounding against the pavement and the sharp echoes that it left.  For a second I thought: “It’s a fire! The building’s on fire, they’re all seeking refuge!”  But of course it wasn’t and that was well established when I heard the next wave of underground cheers and applause.  And I was convinced now it was some kind of concert – with the manic fever of a revival meeting.  But it was neither, of course.  I don’t think those energies could incite this type of electricity, any more. 

I was curious why nobody else was peeking through their blinds and opening up their windows and why no one shouted “Shut up!” or cursed or honked their horn.  The street was empty and so was my building apparently: I was the only one left.  

So I went downstairs and walked slowly across the street, I could hear some traffic from the West side highway and if I squinted I could see all the way down towards 125^th street where bodies were still moving across the streets under the swirling lights and traffic stops.

As I crossed the mid-section of the large street, I could feel the music flow through me – it was nothing instrumental or electric – it was hand clapping and singing.  Almost messianic.  As I approached the scaffold and the construction site – I began to get light headed, for I noticed a twinge of the same feeling I had weeks ago when I first got off the plane.  It was all apparent at this point, but I needed my hunch to be confirmed.  I got closer to the chained wooden boards and the huge planks that were joined together under the scaffold.  My heart was pounding. (There was always a chance I could be wrong…!)

I licked my lips and noticed that I began to breathe heavily.  I was hoping there was still some justice left in the world, but I looked up and saw the letters that I knew would be my death.  The arrangement of words, the sick melody of name could defeat you like a lover’s sigh. 

The tiny print on the wood planks above the construction permits said it all:

 

  C-H-A-S-E

 

 

It was in front of this construction site that Leroy was stabbed 37 times for calling someone “brother.” 

 

 

 

© February 2008 by Dennis Kangalee.  Original llustrations by Reid Schwartz.