by Adam Lowe
“What time are you coming back tonight?” Alex looked to his father, who busily stashed pens and a sketchbook inside his courier bag.
“Probably around eight,” said his father, who didn’t turn around. “Maybe sooner. Who knows? You going to be okay?”
Alex nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I was going to go to the movies today.”
“Movies? Who needs to go to the movies when you’re living here at Hotel Chelsea?”
Alex sat down in a chair, and as he did, he could smell the musty odor of the ashtray on the table near him. His father was silhouetted against the window. The sun was too bright for Alex to see anything outside the window. “I don’t know,” he said. “I like going outside sometimes, too.”
“Of course. I get that. But the movies aren’t outside. They’re inside. I used to love just sitting in Washington Square and people-watching.”
“I’ll probably pass through there,” he said. “But that place is getting filled with druggies.”
His father grunted and zipped his bag. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find something to keep you busy.” He hurried up to his son, curled an arm around his neck, and planted his lips on top of his head. “All right,” he said. “See you tonight.”
Alex waved and stared at the door after his father had closed it. His guts felt tied up in knots. His eyes watered. Things were never going to be the same. For some reason, he knew that. For every reason he was glad his father was gone. He’s vulnerable. If he stuck around today, he’d be in trouble. What’s coming today is no good. What’s coming today is the worst kind of trouble.
There was Pop, walking out the door to go to work. He’s always at work—never at home. That’s why Mom left him and we all split up. They’re living in Ocean City, New Jersey, her and my brother. I’m in the city with a father who’s never around. I feel like an orphan. I feel alone and underground, like a part of me has already died.
I dream of the big trees and the chorus of chirping birds where I could ride my bike around the neighborhood, along the sidewalks and in the streets. The cul-de-sac is still perfectly safe.
Back in Ocean City, the worst trouble came from the older neighborhood kids. He’d just turned thirteen, but they were eighteen. Not here, though. Not in this place that always smells of heat and motor oil and gas and crowds. The streets were nowhere near as crowded as they would become later in the afternoon.
New York ran faster and faster all the time, it seemed. People didn’t look up when they were hurrying along; they stared straight ahead at invisible pinpoints several blocks away. None of them even see me hovering among them, going to school, going out in search of food, going downtown to the record stores to look through the endless bins of cardboard and vinyl. Alex smelled the slightly burned pretzel smoke drifting across the street. It reminded him of the stories his father told him of how he first came to New York and attended the Institute Of Art and how he’d go up on the rooftop with the girls and kiss them. Whenever Alex passed the school he always stopped, looked up and tried to picture his father as a young man in his leather jacket and long hair, up there with some hippie chick gazing out over the nighttime New York skyline.
Sometimes he wandered inside the guitar stores on music row and thought he might pick one up and give it a try. One day. He’d use all the knowledge of records and Creem and Rolling Stone so that it’d all add up.
He passed 7th and made it to 6th without stopping. He knew he didn’t have far to go to make it over to the Village. His stomach rumbled but he forgot about it, even as he passed his favorite Italian place by Saint Mark’s. Maybe one day I’ll bring someone there, he thought. Maybe when I’m older and I’m in college or have my own money. That’ll be cool.
He passed the Bottom Line club, and remembered it from a few years back when his father and uncle had set lounge chairs on top of their garage, drank beer, and listened to a live broadcast from the club featuring Bruce Springsteen. He liked that the band sang some of the oldies his mother liked, but played them louder. Up until then he’d really just liked Kiss and the Partridge Family. Bruce changed that, and opened a door toward other artists like Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, and Neil Young. Walking past the club he smiled, remembering that night.
He was off to discover more diamonds amongst the stacks of LPs. Bleeker Street was the gateway. Crossing through Washington Square Park, he saw an old man strum an acoustic guitar. He was sloppy, and could barely play. Alex stared at the man and imagined what he’d look like younger. He fantasized that maybe one day he’d stumble upon some forgotten legend playing alone in just such a way, and that he would be friends with him and, well, he just better be ready for when that day came, because if he wasn’t ready he’d miss out.
And that wasn’t the half of it. Those were the kinds of thoughts that always seemed to race through Alex’s mind whenever he walked through the city. Thinking back to his childhood, he remembered how, growing up in the suburbs, he had been devoid of any such thoughts. Instead, he would think about building a ramp to jump with his bike, or how high he’d be able to climb a tree before it wouldn’t be able to support his weight. But there was something magnetic and inspiring to him about New York: The electricity he often heard mentioned by his older friends surged through him. That was what living in the heart of New York City gave Alex.
A plume of sweet, dry, toxic diesel smoke enveloped him and he covered his mouth with his hand. The sharp smell stayed high in his nose for several minutes and made his temples ache. Man, he thought. What kind of crap are we breathing in? Why don’t we just get rid of all the cars and make this city walking only? That’d be really cool. All the transportation moved underground, which it already was anyway. Science fiction, he thought, but if enough people stuck together, it could happen.
Rounding the corner he saw a familiar row of stores and coffee shops. I can never remember what all the streets are called. Maybe I will after a few more months of living here. Then he was struck by an image of his mother and brother standing with him in the same spot a year earlier, and her giving them both ten dollars. That was before they hated him, because he had chosen his father’s side in the fight.
“You would turn your back on your mother,” she’d said.
And his brother scowled from behind her, wouldn’t step forward. Nodding. Yes. Alex was the traitor. Wrong words were exchanged and a great divide carved between them.
But you cheated, mommy. You took the policeman home and we both heard what you were doing in there with him. We’re old enough now to know. And the look on Pop’s face when he came home early and put down his shoulder bag and went upstairs and I wanted to stop him so he wouldn’t be hurt but he had to know just what you were up to. I could have distracted him and showed him something outside so you could hear him and Georgie sweet Georgie the cop you called him could sneak out the back door where the dogs go out and do their business. Just like you had to do your business, right mommy? You had to do it! Something inside compelled you. An itch you had to scratch that pop couldn’t give you—wouldn’t give you.
And there Alex stood, looking for something in the music that might take him away and make him remember the good times and forget the awful things. He listened to promises, and believed the dream.
There were never the same people behind the counters at the record stores. It wasn’t that bad because he could be anonymous.
He went right to the middle of the stacks and flipped, stopping if he recognized a name or saw an intriguing album cover, especially if he spotted pretty girls, although he tried not to stop too long at those. He didn’t want anyone making fun of him, or catching him . He made it to the ‘S’ category and found a Springsteen record in a plastic sleeve. The cover looked to have been handmade on a copy machine. He withdrew it and couldn’t believe what he saw written on it: The Bottom Line 8/15/75. The same one he’d listened to with his father. He’d be able to relive that night forever. It was thirty dollars. He didn’t have anywhere near that, but he tucked th
e LPs under his arm. How would he be able to get it? He didn’t bring the emergency MasterCard his father gave him, either, because he was too scared he’d lose it.
“Hey, Buddy? Any way you hold things for people?”
The fellow behind the counter looked at Alex for a second before checking the store for other customers. “Depends what you want held,” he said. “Let me see what you’ve got.” He nodded once.
Alex produced the bootleg and the fellow’s left cheek twinged. Alex didn’t think the guy would approve. He had a safety pin stuck in his leather jacket, which probably meant he was a fashion punk. The nametag sewn into his shirt said his name was Phil.
“Aw, come on. Really? You’re into that guy, too? What’s everyone see in him?” asked Phil the Punk. Alex didn’t understand why he was still wearing his Getty gas station shirt if he worked in the record store. Maybe he had two jobs.
“He’s cool. And I heard this on the radio with my dad.”
“You think your dad’s cool?”
Alex hesitated. “Yeah. I do. He’s a painter. Does movie posters and stuff.”
“My Dad’s an asshole.” Phil looked away. “Why do you want me to hold it? Why don’t you just buy it? Doesn’t your dad give you dough?”
“Not since we moved out from Mom.”
“Oh. Got it. How much do you have?”
“Ten bucks.”
Phil flipped the bootleg around. “Says it’s thirty bucks.” He reached under the counter and stole a sip on a Coca Cola.
“I can give you a deposit.”
Shaking his head, Phil said. “I can’t. Sorry. We don’t do that here.” Alex felt crestfallen as Phil looked away. Without looking, he said. “Just give me the ten and take it.” He slipped it inside a brown bag and faced Alex. He pointed a finger right at his nose and lowered his voice. “But don’t hang around. I don’t want Bob seeing you leave with this.”
Alex slipped the money from his pocket as fast as he could, slipping it on the table. “Here.”
Phil handed him the bootleg. “Enjoy. And go have some fun.” He stood and shook his hand. As he did Alex noticed him putting the ten into his own pocket. “What?” he asked,
“Nothing.”
“Damn right it’s nothing,” Phil said. “We got to do what we got to do, right? Cheap old Bob could afford to pay me a lot more anyway.”
Alex felt simultaneously flush and pale. Was he stealing? If this Bob guy showed up, would he be caught and get in trouble?
“Okay,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“Whatever.” Phil turned away and Alex scurried out of the record store into the warm October air. His stomach hurt from both being hungry and nervous. He’d spent his last dollar on the record.
It was getting dark out much earlier and Alex really wanted to be done with everything he had to do before night fell. Not only that, but being able to beat his father home would be perfect. He pictured himself plopping the first side of the bootleg record on his little portable battery-operated player. His father would come home, open the door, and would hopefully enjoy the music once again. But first, he spotted a smallish box of LPs near the front door of a record store across the street. Someone had written ‘FREE’ in magic marker on a piece of cardboard and laid it on top of the records.
Kneeling in front of the box with the bootleg resting against him, Alex flipped through the discs. Most of them were educational, or sound effects, or in foreign languages. But near the back he discovered a Sinatra LP so worn that the black cover looked gray. Instinctively, Alex slipped the vinyl from the cardboard. There was no sleeve, but the vinyl seemed to be in decent shape. Probably very playable, he thought. He returned it to its cover and stood, looking around for a moment. He was sure there had to be some catch to it. After several seconds of no one chasing him away, or even looking twice his way, Alex walked away with his free record. He’d scored well and didn’t want to push his luck. His head did hurt though, and he knew he needed food. Luckily for him, when he straightened his legs he felt the unmistakable poke of loose change in his pocket. He couldn’t figure out why he’d gotten so lucky, but he bought a Reggie bar and a Coke and made it all the way home.
When Alex walked through the lobby he felt a chill in his gut. The baby hairs on his forearms stood up and his eyes watered. There was nothing he could see, and the room was empty. Regardless, he had to wipe tears from face. From the edges of the room, he imagined unseen things sizing him up. Something bad, he thought. Some kind of sticky darkness painted the room. Dangerous vibes stopped him cold.
Follow your gut. If something seems wrong, than it probably is. That was his father’s advice he heard in his head.
But where else could I go?
He stepped closer to the front stairway. His stomach tightened and his ears warmed up. Another set of voices echoed downward.
“You can’t possibly need more,” someone said. “I’ve been here four times in the past two days and it’s just the two of you.” The new voice sounded hyper—angry. This was not a person Alex wanted to know.
Don’t go up there. Stay away. Come back later. There’s bad stuff going down.
Despite himself, Alex approached the top landing of the stairs. The group spoke loudly. At first he couldn’t place the accents, but soon recognized one of the men as Russian. Alex slinked down and Alex did his best to stay out of their line of sight
A second voice, this time, a high-pitched woman. “Don’t say that, Rocket. We lost a whole bit of it when Stevie came by. He took a lot of it.”
“Forget it, Nancy,” Rocket said. “There’s no way I’m going to have either of you two bringing me down with you. See you later.”
A man’s voice, British, each word slow and slurred. “Shut up! You’re a wanker! You’ll be back!” He nearly spit the last word.
The people sounded like they were on his floor. Just what he was trying to avoid. Alex ascended the staircase. Maybe if I hurry they won’t see me and I can . . .
“Hey, kid! You’re here just in time to meet your new neighbors.”
Alex couldn’t believe his bad luck. Jack waved him closer. For a second Alex wished he could turn around and run out of the Hotel Chelsea, unseen.
“You’re going to love these two.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He gestured to Alex. “This kid knows more about music than I do for cryin’ out loud.”
Alex finally got to see who was speaking when a lanky pale fellow with spiked black hair leaned out from a doorway. His eyes were bloodshot, but kind. Cigarette smoke poured out of the bedroom behind him.
“Hey Sid? Who’s the kid?”
Sid looked back into the room then to Alex. “What’s your name, Mate?”
Alex told him, and gave him a good firm shake.
Sid pulled his hand back. “Ah man, come on. Imagine I’m going to need that now, aren’t I?”
Clutching his albums close to his chest, all Alex could think of was lifting the lid on his record player and listening to his new music.
“What you got with you there? That what I think it is. Um. No. Probably not. Can’t be.”
Sid reached out and grabbed the records. He glanced over the Sinatra record, even turning it around to read the songs.
He studied the Springsteen bootleg for a few moments.
“What are you doing? Sid? What’re you looking at?” Nancy asked.
“This is a strange record.”
“Yup.”
“Why don’t you all come inside here? I’m lonely.”
Something was wrong. Alex sensed it in Nancy’s voice. She sounded like she’d been hurt or injured. Without even seeing her, Alex pictured her thin and tired face.
“This is some ancient music for a little guy to be listening to.”
“I don’t know,” Alex said. “A good song’s a good song. Don’t matter who sings it.”
“Sid?”
He looked at Alex a minute, seemed as though he were really pondering wh
at he’d heard. “Maybe. But once in a while things are about a lot more than just the song.”
Then it was Alex’s turn to stare. Sid toyed with what looked like a dog collar around his neck, clamped shut with a small padlock.
What does that mean? Alex thought. Is he like a dog? An animal that needs to be leashed? He doesn’t look strong. He doesn’t care if he gets hurt. Doesn’t care if he bleeds. Likes pain. Enjoys bleeding.
Alex nodded. “Yeah, I get it.”
“Sid? Sid? Sid?”
His smiled slid from the center of his mouth to one corner, folding his face in a snarl. Can I borrow this? He showed Alex the Sinatra LP.
“Okay.” Alex didn’t think he’d ever see it again.
Sid nodded and crept around.
“Sid?”
“We got some music to listen to.”
Alex kept still. He didn’t want to turn his back to them and Sid had gone inside his apartment without shutting the door.
“How are we going to listen to that? We don’t even have a record player.”
“Ah, whatever. Well borrow one.” Alex heard kissing sounds and groans. Before he got any more involved he rushed away to his room.
Blood dribbles from her mouth. A bloom of orange light descends inside the building. The Angel Gabriel calls, just like his mother used to warn him. Angel Gabriel comes for everyone when it’s your turn to go to the Promised Land. Tonight he travels through the rooms and the halls following the scent of spilled whiskey and thinned bowels, of empty, hungry souls. Blood rolls across fingers. Sticky, watery, tainted yellow. Fingers that once caressed and made a heart open where it was once closed, the orange light pilots them to open her with the pocket knife.
She won’t feel it. She can’t feel anything, anyway. He hears the whispers. It’s not you. Nancy needs this. Start things over for her. Wish Baby. Someone’s little girl grown too fast like a bundle of ripe grapes too early in the season. Be the sun that dries them and lets them fall. There will be unthinkable pain to come if you don’t and you wouldn’t want that, would you?