Nica of the New Yorks

Home > Other > Nica of the New Yorks > Page 2
Nica of the New Yorks Page 2

by Sue Perry


  "Of course I know that. I did tell you straight, and I –"

  "I need to talk about something else."

  And so we did, and although hearing about the Frames annoyed her, our friendship was back on track, thanks to the prospect of separation for an unknown length of time.

  I considered driving her out to meet Hernandez, who had shared many of my Frames adventures. But he was in such a funk lately, I wasn't sure how that meeting would go.

  Maybe he'd act like a veteran with delayed P.T.S.D. Maybe that's what he was. Maybe all those tours in war zones had finally nailed him. Maybe the signs were there already: educated, skilled man working as a custodian, after all. Which made me feel disloyal to Hernandez.

  Another explanation for my summer adventures was psychotic break. Which made me feel disloyal to myself.

  No. Things happened like I said. That had to be the reality. I'm not a masochist. I wouldn't hallucinate the Frames then exclude myself from them.

  2. NEW YORK FOOL

  When I first detected that New York was my relocation destination, I ignored the evidence. I love New York but I've been there often. I wanted unknown and exotic. Nica of Shanghai sounded about right. But no one consulted me. Instead, my travel services emailed alerts about fabulously low airfares one way to New York. Every day there's a deal going somewhere, I sniffed. When I stopped for coffee, the sound system blasted Laura Nyro—New York Tendaberry. I hadn't heard that for decades. Leaving the coffee joint, I took a short cut through a parking lot and every car had a New York license plate. This was all before lunch. Come afternoon, the homeless guy who asked for change had a Brooklyn accent; public radio launched a series on vintage jazz, live from the Blue Note; and the top news story was the bomb scare near Wall Street.

  When I went to toss trash in the dumpster behind my building, the cinderblock wall grabbed my attention. Hummingbirds are my favorite bird and someone had spray–painted two giant lime green hummers in confrontation mode: beaks down, chests arched, wings back. I once had a yard with a faux honeysuckle and the hummers spent all day around it—seconds eating and hours confronting others who tried to eat. This drawing captured the essence, which had to be awfully hard to do with spray paint. Was this graffiti new? Surely I would have noticed it before. Then I discovered the lime green writing that gleamed atop older, basic black graffiti. I dropped my garbage bag, moved closer. The inscription smeared when I touched it. NEW YORK FOOL the blocky graffiti shouted. Tagger's signature or talking to me?

  I needed to find Hernandez. He was the only Neutral who'd shared the Frames with me and we'd spent many hours speculating about where I would be called to go next. Hernandez was due to start his custodial shift in my building, so I jogged to the parking garage to intercept him.

  "It's New York," I yelled as Hernandez pulled his battered red pickup into a parking space.

  "How long before you leave?" He slammed the truck door then patted it apologetically. He had not yet adjusted to the revelation that his truck was sentient.

  "A week at most, I figure."

  "No time to waste." He unlocked the custodial closet without looking at me. His daughters recently left for Spain to live with their mother, and people leaving him was an issue. In fact, from the moment his girls took off, he kept himself crazy busy, with a second custodial gig and hours of daily driving around southern California, doing reconnaissance for Anya and Anwyl.

  I trailed after Hernandez as he pushed the custodial cart into the elevator. He set to work as though I weren't there. I'm not into forcing friends to talk with me, so we did the adieu thing and I went to find the Henrietta's building manager.

  The building manager gets a gleam in his eye around me, because he has been led to believe that I'm doing police work and he lo–o–oves police work. I informed him that my case would take me to New York for an unknown stretch of time. I paid four months rent in advance and—jackpot!—he offered to set me up with a rental in the owner's property in Manhattan.

  I wanted to tell Hernandez but his truck was gone—he must have cut his shift short. I looked for Dizzy, but hadn't seen her since the night she vanished in the hall. I felt so disconnected from my life in L.A., I might as well already be gone.

  What with my scrambling to get out of town and his overbooked schedule, I didn't see Hernandez again before I headed for New York. Our last contact was an empty text exchange.

  :: At airport, boarding soon. Keep me posted on yr recon work.

  :: Safe flight! Will do.

  With that, I added Hernandez to the growing list of loved ones I didn't know when I would see again.

  3. ONLY CROSS AT RED LIGHTS

  I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt lonely, but I spent the first couple weeks in New York fighting a creeping nostalgia. Everything reminded me of something. Somebody. The absent and the dead. And I was irritable, as irritable as my second father–in–law's bowel syndrome. Here I was, already—moved, already—but nothing had changed. I was still excluded from all things Framesian. For all I knew, Maelstrom and the Cysts might be vanquished by now, without my involvement.

  When I wasn't sulking, I did believe that Anya and Anwyl would fetch me when it was time. I was unsure what to do with myself until then. I had developed confidence in my private eye abilities—I rarely turned to fictional detectives for advice nowadays. I could open up shop as a private detective, but hadn't decided how to attract clients and hated to leave a case unfinished if—correction, when—Anya and Anwyl appeared.

  My new abode was on the Upper West Side, just shy of Columbia University, in an as–is brownstone with a name etched over the front stoop: The Julian. Call it lovingly unrestored. The Julian had decayed with dignity intact. The front stairs, jagged with missing concrete chunks, rose to a magnificent lead crystal door that shimmered softly, day or night. The inner foyer was scuffed by so many feet that the parquet grain was plaid. Two lean mahogany staircases led to five stories of narrow apartments on separate, locked halls. Mine was second floor, west half. In the main room, floor to ceiling windows gave plenty of light to examine the peeling pastiche of wallpapers. I loved my apartment from the moment I stepped inside, sharing space with so many generations of tenants.

  And I loved roaming outside. At night, I killed hours and energy on zigzag walks during which I thought of nothing but the color of the next traffic light. My initial rule was keep moving so I crossed streets going whichever direction was green. Then Manhattan's pedestrian anarchy overtook me: lights don't matter. You cross the street if there is a lull in traffic, or if you suspect that oncoming driver is a wimp who will brake for you. With this realization, my rule became only cross at red lights. To follow that rule I had to pay attention, whatever the hour, which made brooding impossible.

  Each day, to become familiar with my new stomping ground, I rode a different subway line to its farthest terminus, then tracked back by a combination of walking and station–hopping. The regime gave me purpose; and reason to spend time on the subway.

  I glanced out today's train window and an express train with film–strip windows flashed by. The train paced mine briefly and in each window was a still life of unknown souls, then the windows shot ahead—and down! Did that train go down or did my train go up? How many levels were there in this underground universe?

  Was it any wonder I loved the subway? It was as close to Frame Travel as I would get for now.

  On one day's exploration, I passed a bookstore and my first impulse was to run. In other Frames, I'd witnessed books as mercenary soldiers who flew upside down, shedding razor–edged text that cut through anything—or anyone.

  This was my first bookstore visit since discovering the violent lives of books in other Frames, and I was relieved that being surrounded by books felt every bit as cozy, restorative, and enticing as it ever had. Books could not be inherently evil, their natures must have somehow been twisted. So far, this was the only way that my Frame seemed superior to other Frames: here, we appreciated
the true nature of books.

  The bookstore clerk flirted, "I bet you're a California girl. You've got a real even tan."

  "Okay," I said and escaped to the back aisles. I was overdue to dye my hair.

  I knew, because encounters like this were on the rise. My natural hair shade is beach bunny blonde. That—coupled with my skin's tendency to tan after the briefest sun exposure—is the bane of my existence. Yes, I would be a better person—stronger, healthier, yada yada—if I accepted my looks. But I barely made it to sweet 16 before I grew terminally sick of guys hitting on me because they suffered from blonde fetish. And so I dye my hair. When I was a teen, I went for a mottled print that suggested leopard skin. I have also enjoyed nuclear yellow hair, which makes me feel like a Marvel heroine. Nowadays I'm mostly a chestnut brunette, which keeps moron encounters to a minimum.

  The bookstore had a display of best sellers, including Lose Twenty Pounds of Worry in Twenty Days. Self–help hogwash that would never have come into my life, had Jenn not bought me a copy. In another Frame, a copy of Lose Twenty Pounds had died at my inadvertent command. As a memorial, I would buy a copy of Lose Twenty Pounds.

  The clerk lost his flirty smile when I set my purchase on the counter. With a sucked–a–lemon look, he rang me up quickly. Interesting that Lose Twenty Pounds could be a bestseller yet sound a dork alert. Maybe I should carry a copy at all times—think of the blonde trouble that would avoid.

  I was kidding but within a block I felt an urge—a necessity—to return to the bookstore. I fought the feeling for another block then went back and bought the stock of Lose Twenty Pounds—four more hardcovers, two paperbacks. It made no sense but I had to. Maybe this was a sign from beyond my Frame.

  4. I'M YOUR MUSICIAN

  Or maybe it was a pointless whim. I spent the next several days interpreting all manner of pointless whims as messages from other Frames. Meanwhile, I traversed a different subway line each day, which helped me calculate how long I'd been waiting here for Anya and Anwyl to reconnect.

  On my eleventh day, I just missed a train at Columbus Circle station. Next train arrives in 9 minutes, the message board assured me.

  The train and its racket receded and that was when I heard it. Him. The slide guitarist, set up at the far end of the platform. He looked like a retired biker, with a shaved head and an anarchist's beard and thick coarse worn garments suitable for long trips on rough roads. He played a blues that was as beautiful as it was mournful. It took me back to the unparalleled glorious sunset on the day that Ick died.

  Next train in 4 minutes. Next train in 10 minutes. Next train in 13 minutes. It was impossible for me to leave that music. The longer I listened, the deeper it reached. It dragged my yearning and frustration to the surface, then shouldered them with me, then took them from me in a gentle catharsis.

  I sat on a bench, close enough to read the script in cracked lime green paint on the open guitar case: Kelly Joe. I only had a twenty–dollar bill so I dropped it in the case. If I'd only had a fifty I would have dropped that in. "I thank you for your kindness," Kelly Joe murmured without looking up from his strings. I bet he needed to concentrate. I play a lot of instruments a little bit, which was enough to recognize how difficult that passage was. He made it look as effortless as a pelican skimming waves.

  While he played, one leg tapped an erratic beat. He didn't sing but he hummed in a resonant baritone. Intricate drawings covered his forearms—tattoos that seemed to animate as he played.

  The next two days, I chose subway lines that went through Columbus Circle station and was thrilled to find him playing in the same spot. The day after that, he wasn't there and I spent most of the day checking back for him, in vain. I found him on the following day and I stayed for hours.

  I wasn't the only one who spent excess time in Columbus Circle station to hear to him play. Among the regulars was a young woman, Manhattan trim and savvy, who listened with tears flooding her cheeks. To give her privacy, I watched Kelly Joe's hands glide over the frets. I was frustrated at my powers of observation, or lack thereof, because his tattoos looked different than I remembered them. Today there were totem animals that I hadn't noticed before. When I looked up, I must have frowned and the young woman must have thought the frown was for her. She shoved the heels of her hands across her face to dry her tears.

  I reached a hand toward her, yanked it back. Not cool to touch a stranger. "Sometimes crying is all we can do," I said. Which set her to bawling again. A train came, she moved to board it. "See you tomorrow," I called, and when she braced herself to clutch a pole in the packed train car, she showed just a hint of smile.

  Right when I said 'See you', Kelly Joe's music paused then shifted melodies. As the train pulled that teary face away, the music spread through my bloodstream, changed my pulse. By the time the train disappeared into the tunnel, I relived every leave–taking that ever mattered to me. They no longer made me sad. I felt their inevitability, sensed our lives flowing in currents now parallel, now merged, now divergent.

  I moved closer to Kelly Joe. As always, the grace and strength in his hands entranced me. I wanted him to never stop playing.

  I grabbed his wrist and stopped him. "Hey!" I said. Among his forearm tattoos was a lime green hummingbird in confrontation mode. No way had I missed this tattoo previously. It had not been on his arm until now. "What the hell! What is this?"

  He got very still but did not pull away. He murmured, "My messages," which, I later learned, is what he calls his tattoos. He means messages to, not from, him.

  He looked up from his frets. I saw his eyes and dropped his wrist. "Who are you?" I whispered. His eyes were a deep shifting blend of grays and blues like unpolished silver. Like Anya's eyes. They looked at me, into me, beyond me. He gathered the change people had tossed in his case, packed his guitar, and stood.

  "I'm your musician," he replied. "Tomorrow your lessons begin. Have an enlightened evening, Nica."

  A train arrived and commuters flowed around Kelly Joe, the only one not in a hurry. He tucked his earnings into the clenched hands of an old man, sleeping or passed out below the escalator. Then the rush–hour crowd absorbed them.

  5. TATTOO ON MY HEART

  On that same day, I met the cat, Leon. Stray cats are a fixture back home in Los Angeles and in many cities I've visited, but I'd never seen one in New York. Or maybe I did but mistook it for a smaller–than–average rat. The cat sat on the stoop of my building. He was an orange tabby with long fur or short dreads. He looked like he had rolled in glue. I sat at the other end of the steps, hoping to make friends with him. As soon as I sat, he jumped down to the sidewalk. He was small for a pony but the largest cat I had ever seen, and a graceful jumper, floating from the stoop to the sidewalk with a ripple of spine. Below me, he rolled on the cement. His fur was so matted that when he rose, his coat had sprouted cigarette butts.

  His thinking was equally unkempt. When a big dog went by on its evening walk, the cat held his ground. However, when I stepped to the door—away from him—the cat fled.

  Inside my apartment, I allowed myself one comprehensive recollection of my encounter with Kelly Joe, my musician. At last things were moving in a promising direction! However, with nothing but time on my hands, it was too easy to wander too far inside my own head, so after the single recollection I washed my face at the bathroom sink. I stared into the mirror, pondering which subway route to—gak! A face appeared behind my shoulder in the mirror.

  Outside the bathroom window, the unkempt cat clung to the fire escape railing in a balancing act better suited to a bird.

  All that evening, the cat wouldn't come inside and he wouldn't go away. He was on the stoop when I went out to get some dinner, across the street from the pharmacy as I shopped, and back at the window when I prepped for bed. My bathroom window has bars so I was comfortable keeping it open that night as an invitation to him.

  By morning, the cat was perched on my chair. I shut the window and corralled him in the bath
room, where he pinged like a tennis ball on the space station. I stayed with him until he accepted or forgot he was trapped, and meanwhile read all seven languages' instructions for the hair clippers I bought at the pharmacy. While he watched, I clipped myself first, converting tresses to dense velvety fuzz. I hadn't had a clip for years and the liberation was immediate. I petted my head and sighed.

  "It feels great, you'll be glad you did it. Think of the savings in furballs!" I held him in the sink and he didn't resist near as much as I expected. He so needed to be touched, he didn't care what I did to him. I'd known times like that and perhaps he felt my sympathy.

  After I clipped the cat, I opened the window. He shot out like horizontal lightning, but then stopped on the fire escape and watched me bag his nasty clumps of fur. I went out for breakfast brew and by the time I returned, he was asleep across the back of my couch.

  Without fur, he was nothing but bones. And scars, which looked like knife cuts. Across his skull was a jagged homemade tattoo that said Leo, with an o like a diamond. It was probably his name—he had the long nose, hint of crossed eyes, and lion markings if you squinted while drunk, which his mutilator probably had been. But in case Leo was his mutilator, I dubbed the cat Leon. "Why did you let anybody do that to you, Leon? What are you, part dog?" I knew the answer. He was too sweet to fight. A terrible trait for a street cat, whatever your size. I scritched his head and he broke into a purr that rumbled the dishes and made me nostalgic for earthquakes, confirming my homesickness.

  From that instant, I had a Leon tattoo on my heart. He kept falling over while I petted him, because he would lean into my hand with such gusto that he lost balance. I hadn't laughed like this in weeks. Hell, this was the longest I'd spent with another being in weeks. Lesson there. I moved to New York because I was so eager to be part of something special with Anya and Anwyl; instead, here I was, cut off and alone.

 

‹ Prev