I’ve spent the last ten years of my life in the East Village of Manhattan, movin’ on up Avenue B. Quite literally: I first lived at 4th and B, then briefly moved to 6th between B and C, ending up on 13th and B. I lived in a shoebox of an apartment—sans a single closet or cupboard, with a bedroom that, true to its name, was the size of a bed without an inch to spare, and a bathroom containing a toilet but no room for one’s knees. Despite the snug, sagging apartment, I’ve always enjoyed the quirky neighborhood, and specifically Avenue B.

My beautiful B!

Blasting bass from car stereos and drum beats in summer heat. Burning, baking streets. The blood and blossoms of Tompkins Square. Puerto Rican children bouncing through fire hydrants’ spray. Ancient Dominicans playing dominoes on stoops. Cubans, Haitians, Guatemalans, and Nicaraguans. Hipsters, mobsters, punk and grunge. Has-been artists and aspiring musicians. Babies in buggies, French bulldogs in boots. Buzzing B. Bars, bouncers and beer. The B-side, Rue B, Boxcar Lounge, Barbone, Back Forty and B-Cup. Mexican bakeries, crowded bus stops. Bagels and lox, cool coffee shops. Bridge and tunnel barhopping. Bicycles with boomboxes in baskets. Taking care of business, trading paper bags. Babby-daddies and hootchie mamas. Baggy pants, boxers and bling. Bums and beggers, hunks and hippies. Beloved B. Between A and C, B is brighter, B is breezier.

And for me, B was belonging.

I had absolutely no intentions of leaving the area. What force was it, then, that ripped me out of my cozy comfort zone and landed me way out west, on the opposite side of Manhattan, transplanting me from near the East River to an apartment just shy of the Hudson? A very blonde Swede named Niklas Andersson. When we decided to cohabitate after dating long-distance, moving from the East Village to the West Village was his suggestion, so we could explore our new world together. We’d both be moving west—him to a new continent and me to a new neighborhood. Though he’d be transporting himself 3,938 miles across an ocean, and I was moving only 1.8 miles away across eight Avenues, I wasn’t sure who’d be making the more dramatic change.

New Yorkers are extremely neighborhood-centric—perhaps since people are on top of each other, fighting for a space to call their own, then required to pay exorbitant rents for it—they force themselves to believe, and then force that belief on others, that their chosen area of residence is far better than anything surrounding it. The Brooklyn versus Manhattan debate has crept into conversation at least once at every single gathering and dinner party I’ve attended over the past decade. And within each borough, the neighborhoods themselves have to be defended, analyzed, and scrutinized until people begin to leave in a huff, not budging, holding on to their loyalties as they head toward home. So, around here, changing neighborhoods is not to be taken lightly.

I was pleasantly surprised when Niklas befriended me on Facebook—ten years after we initially hooked up while backpacking. Now both in our thirties, both relatively content with our lives but becoming a bit complacent, we were both ready for this new adventure and open to each other. I never expected last year, that this year, I would be standing at City Hall with him, this beautiful boy—my gorgeous groom—getting married on a Monday morning.

I never imagined we’d be taking a number to wait our turn to see the priest, or minister, or government employee—whatever he was, surrounded by other brides of all colors and ages, some wearing gaudy white gowns, others in trendy spring fashions. One woman sported a full-grown mustache, groomed in the same fashion as her husband’s; perhaps, we thought, it was planned in that matchy-matchy kind of way. Dressed to the nines, their bright, wide smiles under the stubble made them quite the dashing couple, facial hairstyle and all. After the nuptials, looking for an apartment seemed the next logical step.

Moving can be a change, and change can be incredibly moving. Though initially unsure about leaving Avenue B, I warmed to the notion—after all, the West Village is one of New York’s most historic neighborhoods, nicknamed Little Bohemia in the early 1900s, and has been a haven for writers, artists, poets, and musicians for two centuries. I liked the idea of getting lost on the same streets tread by Jack Kerouac, Mark Twain, Edgar Allen Poe, EE Cummings, Norman Mailer, and Bob Dylan.

Getting lost was highly likely as its streets are set at an angle to the others in Manhattan. The west side seen from above is a cracked mirror, a cluster of acute triangles and intersections made of apexes, mixed with bending lanes and meandering mews that end unexpectedly. These cobblestone streets were laid out long before the Commissioners' Plan of 1811, which created the main grid plan for the city, due to a yellow fever and cholera epidemic infesting the area. No one dared enter due to disease; I wondered whether I dare enter due to my bad sense of direction. Used to numbered streets and lettered avenues, I was afraid I’d be in a constant state of confusion with streets named Jane, Horatio, Charles, and Christopher—like a clique of prep school kids, they seemed hard to get to know. I was shocked to learn that Bleecker was only one block away from me; what the heck is it doing way up here? I thought to myself. Not a map person, I knew I’d be constantly disoriented, especially where West 4th Street crosses West 10th Street. That would never happen in the East Village.

Ironically, we found a charming railroad apartment on that very intersection, and my anticipation grew. But when telling an East Villager you’re moving to the West Village, don’t expect hugs and congratulatory smiles. Don’t tell them with too much enthusiasm; break it to them gently, let it soak in slowly. It’s like telling them you’re moving to live in a crater on the surface of the moon. Expect raised eyebrows. Shock. Confusion. Faked incomprehension. Even anger. Us and them accusations. Followed by an argumentative diatribe and lengthy closing statement explaining why it’s a bad idea.

Crime. That’s what I’ve heard, of all things. Watch yourself. Punks from Jersey hang out there. Please. This, coming from a neighborhood where tiny cocaine bags line the sidewalk where leaves should be. A neigborhood where people are shot for wearing the wrong expression. A neighborhood where there are thugs, and then there are the thugs’ thugs. A place where it’s not uncommon to overhear things like, I took that mother-fucker out and not in reference to a restaurant.

But now, after a twelve-hour move up a five-story walk up apartment, I’m in the West Village, and my more pressing concern is how I will fit in. I don’t know the culture here. Out west does one have to dress up and put on makeup just to go to the corner deli? In the E.V. a person can wear pajamas and army boots with curlers in a hot pink wig to the deli without so much as turning a head. Will the bars here be stuffy and the restaurants pretentious? In the E.V., I once saw a manly-looking man walk into an Irish bar wearing pink lipstick and a bra outside his clothes stuffed with two double-D water balloons and order a beer. I once saw a college student sitting at a bar French kissing his almost hairless parrot. I once saw a wild-haired man push a piano down the middle of the avenue into the park, where he proceeded to stand on it, using it as a pulpit to preach to the squirrels and rats. Oh, how I will miss, the wild, wild East.

With Niklas was back in Sweden wrapping things up for his big move, I was one in an apartment meant for two. Friends don’t return calls on moving day, I found out. I’ve never felt so alone as I did spending the first evening in a new apartment, which didn’t feel like home. Buried in boxes, after the exhaustion of days of packing along with the knowledge of the inevitable days of unpacking that would follow, I feared the “new” in every fiber of my sweat-soaked being. Weak with hunger and on the verge of tears, I wanted to call my new husband, but I couldn’t find my phone. I wanted to eat, but I couldn’t find a fork. Even if I could find the phone and the fork, I didn’t know who to call for take out. I didn’t even know the nearest deli and I most certainly didn’t know the cashier of that deli. I pictured the Pakistani at my deli on 13th and Avenue B and remembered him saying how sad he was that I was leaving in his sing-song voice. The tears came.

When I finally mustered the strength to venture to a corner store for a snack, I crossed the zig-zagging intersection, narrowly escaping a surge of honking cabs. Searching for landmarks like crumbs to find my way back, I stumbled into a dumpy deli. There I saw the Jersey crowd my old neighbors had warned me about, packed into the small space, yelling at the cashier and at each other, even out-blinging the boys on Avenue B. A tall, preppy over-dressed group spilled in to buy beer. I felt even more isolated in the crowd, which over-flowed onto the street.

Later that night I lay in bed, heavily fatigued. A steady stream of horns from Seventh Avenue created a most hateful harmony, blasting through my windows until dawn. As my mind raced along with the traffic—as congested as the streets—I understood that sleep wasn’t going to be an option. Perhaps marrying and finding an apartment within three weeks—in an area where I have only and exactly one friend—was a ridiculous idea. Feeling displaced and alone, I wanted nothing more than to be in my old room. There was something oddly comforting about the tightness of the walls, like a cave or cubbyhole. Or like a womb. I questioned the move, questioned the timing of the move, and above all, questioned the location of the move.

There is a place for change, and change takes you places. And that change, I soon realized, can allow you to stumble into something altogether more interesting. I’ve stumbled into a pile of horse poop, for example, because police here patrol on horseback instead of behind bullet-proof glass. I’ve blundered into bars boasting live jazz music that echoes in the street. I’ve found myself in flea markets and fallen upon enchanted church courtyards. I’ve bumped into boutiques and chanced upon fine chocolate shops. And I lost myself for hours last Sunday on a gorgeous grass-covered pier.

The West Village is wonderful, wonderment.

What better than the waiting and anticipating? Post-wedding; pre-life. The who to the what to the where to the when. The wanderlust! Our wonderland! An awakening! Walking aimlessly, whistling, wind in hair. Exploring the wilderness. A home, our world of warmth. A wink. Wanting. On a whim. Wherever, whenever. Whispering. Willing. His wife. Our west. Winged things. People-watching out our window. A drink at the White Horse Tavern, with my prince. A wish within a well. Near water—complete with waves. Waxing, widening, rising and swelling. Winding up in a whirlwind. Welcoming like a wrapped gift.

For me, the West Village is whispering, waiting.

Christie Grotheim is currently in the process of writing and publishing a series of humorous autobiographical essays. With a background of over fifteen years of creating award-winning graphic design and copywriting, she moved from Texas to Manhattan in the year 2000, where she runs her own graphic design studio in the West Village.

"Oh, that's Al Dorow, the quarterback for the New York Titans."

It was fall 1961, Dad and I were in Loftus Tavern after throwing the ball around outside on York Avenue. My two teams, the New York Giants, football, and the Yankees, baseball, were playing well, the Yankees won the World Series in October and the Giants were on their way to the NFL championship game. The Titans, in their second year in the new American Football League, were barely catching my attention at 7 yrs old. But Al Dorow was a professional football player, and he did talk to my Dad, so that made him important in my life.

"Dad, will you take me to a Titan game?"

The next Saturday, Dad took me to the Polo Grounds where we saw the Titans beat the Oakland Raiders. That was my first time at the Polo Grounds, the Natural History Museum of ballparks compared to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Yankee Stadium. Even at 7, I recognized I was in a place like no other, and it was going to go away forever, you could see it, smell it, hear it, feel it. Being small, only emphasized how outsized the space was, first time I saw a picture of St. Peter's Basilica I thought of the Polo Grounds.

The next year, 1962, was the Mets first year. I punished my father for not taking me to New York Giants football games, so he made it up to me by taking me to many, many baseball games. When the Yankees were out of town it was only natural that he would take me up to the Polo Grounds for a Met game and he picked a beaut for our first outing.

Friday night, June 1, 1962, the New York Mets versus the San Francisco Giants. The first New York appearance by the Giants since they ran away from home with the Brooklyn Dodgers after the 1957 season.

Even though there were nearly 45,000 people there, Dad found us two seats high up in the grandstands right behind home plate in Section 1. The crowd's energy felt like they just left Circus Maximus, saw too few Christians die and wanted blood, now!

Dad did a score card in pencil, and I remember getting excited about three names, Paul Pryor, the third base umpire had the same last name as mine; Augie Donatelli, the head umpire behind the plate had the greatest sounding umpire's name I ever heard; and Willie Mays, in my mind Mickey Mantle's arch rival, was starting in centerfield for the Giants.

By the time the game started, there were two ejections in the section next to us. By the third inning, Dad threatened the guy behind us, "If one more drop of beer touches my kid's head, you and I have a problem." The guy said nothing. I stayed dry. In the top of the fifth, Willie Mays hit a homer, the only homer I would ever see Willie hit live. The homer triggered fights on top of us, below us and to each of our sides. I spent the sixth inning under my father's seat watching the game from between his legs. Dad pressed me to leave and I agreed when the Giants went up 9-1 in the top of the 7th inning.

I held Dad's hand walking to the subway. I knew he liked that.

Thomas Pryor’s work has appeared in The New York Times, Mr. Beller's Neighborhood, A Prairie Home Companion, New York Press, Underground Voices Magazine, Ducts, Opium Online and Our Town. His blog is listed in The New York Times Blog roll. Find Pryor at: http://yorkvillestoopstonuts.blogspot.com.
 

As we got older, Mirna would share more "Cuban" secrets with us, detailing some easy-to-use brujeria (witchcraft) that could be used for personal gain or to thwart the attempts of enemies.

Marly thought her mother was nuts, but I was fascinated. One day I went over and there were three platanos (green bananas) on her welcome mat. Upon entering I asked Mirna why she put them there. She said that they were there in the morning when she woke up and suspected that a neighbor left them there to put an evil spell on her. No matter, Mirna, explained. She knew how to combat that magic.

Marly sat on the couch rolling her eyes.

"Why not just pick them up and throw them away?" I asked, naively.

"Get this," Marly warned, before Mirna went on to explain.

Mirna said to diffuse the spell the neighbor had set to cast on her it required one to urinate on the neighbor’s doormat.

"Wait! You squatted on her doormat this morning?" I asked, incredulous.

"No, mi Niña," she replied. "I peed in a cup and then poured it there.

Well, of course.

This should have probably been enough about brujeria to last me a lifetime, but I was intrigued.

Mirna would often go to tarot card readers, and "seers."

One in particular stood out.

Marly was going through a divorce and had moved back to New Jersey to stay with her mom while she was getting back on her feet. Her mother wanted to help her get out of her funk and knew of just the person who could: A psychic named Umberto! He’d tell her what to do to make things better!

She said it takes at least six months to get an appointment, but she called in some favors so she was taking Marly next Saturday. I asked her if I was willing to pay the $60 for a reading, if Umberto would fit me in.

"Claro," Mirna said, the plan set.

Umberto lived in East Harlem so after getting café con leches for the road, we huddled into the car for the long ride.

We finally pulled up to a generic apartment building in an urban area. Kids screamed and played in the street and as we entered, the smell of mojito and lechon permeated the building.

Mirna walked through the open apartment door and quietly sat on a couch as if entering a church. Marly and I followed, squishing in together to fit. There were two other older Hispanic women–viejas–sitting on chairs across from us, one holding a huge box that appeared to move on it’s own. It’d inch it’s way a few inches to the left and the woman would kick it back.

Beyond that, there was a lot to take in.

There was a huge parrot, sitting cageless in the middle of the room, shitting on everything. The couch was covered in birdshit and the smell in the place nauseated me.

The worst part were the hundreds of roaches crawling everywhere. A huge one scurried up the back wall behind the sofa. A few smaller ones scuttled past the parrot who cawed loudly. I kept my purse in my lap and my flip flopped feet off the floor as much as I could.

"What the fuck?" I whispered to Marly.

"You wanted to come…" she replied.

Mirna acted like nothing was wrong. The smell of death, urine and garbage didn’t affect her at all, and I was mortified.

It would be a long wait, Mirna explained, the older women were next and were there for a very serious matter. So serious, they were required to bring a live chicken–that was clearly not happy to be in that box–to sacrifice.

"You have to be kidding me?" I asked.

Marly just shook her head, welcoming me to her world.

I could see Umberto, turbaned, wearing a dirty wife beater and boxer shorts, sitting at a table in the kitchen. Umberto was gesticulating frantically and it was apparent he was a very flamboyant gay man. (Mirna explained later he only dated overweight white men.)

A woman sat across from him. He laid tarot cards on the table and spoke to her in hushed tones. I could see roaches crawling all over the kitchen floor and over the woman’s shoe.

I started scratching and getting some hives from panic. I could not sit here amidst bugs and chicken killing.

Mirna started speaking in Spanish to the two old women and they explained that she was next for her reading and that they were to kill the chicken in the bathtub after we leave.

It was kind of a relief knowing I wouldn’t have to be around for the slaughter and that I’d get my fortune read quicker than I expected, but still, the roaches were crawling way too close for comfort–one got on the couch and burrowed under the cushions we were sitting on—and I jumped up and decided pacing was a better use of my time.

Mirna gave besitos (kisses) to Umberto and listened to him list all his problems before they settled down to the reading. He wouldn’t allow us to sit in the kitchen with her, so Marly and I paced in the living room trying to avoid the hundreds of roaches (and other assorted bugs) in the room.

I really had to use the bathroom and so did Marly. It had been a long ride and those cafe con leches were grande. We walked through the living room, the parrot chasing after us screeching, and discovered the bathroom had no door!

The bigger problem was that there were roaches on the ceiling that kept falling down. There was no way either of us were going to drop our pants in front of everyone else in the apartment and risk having roaches land on us. Still, nature was calling and was just getting louder and louder.

Finally Marly told her mother she was going out for a few minutes to smoke a cigarette. We went into the alley adjacent to the building and Marly asked me to be the lookout so she could pee.

Normally I’d be appalled, but I did so gladly, knowing she’d do the same for me in a few minutes.

I couldn’t believe I was about to take my pants down in broad daylight with playing children just a few feet away. On top of that, the building that faced the alley had open, mainly curtain less windows.

I finally squatted, bare-assed and let loose. The urine got on my flip flopped feet, but I knew there was no way I could go back into that bathroom.

By the time we got back into the apartment it was Marly’s turn to go. She laid her $60 down and Umberto started chanting.

Mirna plopped back on the sofa, no doubt killing a few hundred roaches that had set up camp there, and told me about how Umberto was known to speak in tongues.

At this point I was beyond traumatized. The chicken in the box was unrelenting and was trying to peck its way out.

There were little holes in the cardboard now, and every now and then I’d see a beak. The parrot was also pecking feverishly at the outside of the box trying to get in, in what was either a show of solidarity with the other bird or a way to add insult to injury to it.

Mirna went on to tell me that Umberto was always very special and always had visions.

I asked her about the roaches and she said he has his eyes trained on the future and not the present. That mundane tasks like cleaning and bug-killing were not of any concern.

I couldn’t believe I was trapped here and wanted to leave more than anything, but I had tagged along and it would have been rude of me to insist we leave, when Mirna had so graciously allowed me to join.

Meanwhile, it was clear Marly was moved by what Umberto was telling her. She had tears in her eyes as she flipped cards over. He started shouting and even though I speak Spanish, I couldn’t understand.

Mirna explained he was warding off a spirit that was threatening to take over his body.

Finally Marly’s reading was over and before she could tell me what she was told, I was summoned. In broken English Umberto commanded me to cut the cards. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to tell him the reason I was there or explain what exactly I was hoping to know about my future, but Umberto didn’t seem to want to know.

As he began laying down cards, eyebrows raised, roaches crawled on the table and over them. I stood up and started screaming and he looked at me like I was crazy. He flicked them off the table—mere inches away from me–and told me to sit and stop being silly. That they were there to protect us.

"The parrot too?" I asked.

"No, she is the Devil, but we must know the Devil in order to recognize God."

Deep!

As he turned over cards he explained to me that the big problem was my mother. That a darkness had overtaken her.

He had no idea who I was or anything about my family. Yet I was pretty surprised when he explained my mother’s schizophrenia very accurately.

He went on to tell me that when women become pregnant they are very vulnerable because they open in a way to allow another soul to infiltrate them. And while my soul was good and normal, another evil soul also entered my mother and from the time she became pregnant she began to be what doctors would describe as mentally ill.

He said that was the ignorant’s explanation, but in reality she was overtaken by a demon and would have that demon in her for life. No amount of sacrificed animals would release her from its grasp, but that I could cleanse myself of the effects if I wanted to.

I was very surprised at how spot on he was in his assessment, especially because there was no way he could have known anything about my upbringing.

He said I was prone to dark moods, not because of a spell or bad spirits, but because of empathy from seeing my mother overcome by the evil one.

Sounded right to me.

He said I should get a big raw steak and wash myself from head to toe making sure there was blood touching every bit of me. He said to stand like this until the blood dried on my skin and into my hair.

I asked if there was another way. The thought of raw meat and blood touching me was nauseating.

He gave me a firm no, took my $60 and told me it’d be a hard life if I didn’t. Further, he said that if I didn’t do it now, the sadness would be forever ingrained in me.

Shaken from his words, the filth and smell, I nearly collapsed, drained, into the back seat of the car as we made our way home.

Marly explained that Umberto was on the mark about a pregnancy she had had and terminated years before and it made her very sad. He said the spirit was now still amongst us on Earth but tortured.

He told her in order to release it she must bring a chicken and be prepared to slit it’s throat in his bathroom and smear its blood on herself.

A vegetarian, she knew she couldn’t do this.

Mirna said she had to pee again on the neighbor’s welcome mat to offensively block any other displays of aggression the neighbor might be contemplating.

I never did rub that raw steak on myself, and on days of tears and ennui, I often wonder if my life would be different if I had.

Kelly Kreth is best known for being fired quite publicly for keeping a *gasp* blog. She chronicles the mishaps and woes of a single woman trying to get and keep the Big Three in NYC: a job, an apartment and a relationship. Kreth has also written a Sex/Relationship column for the New York Press aptly called, "Outside the Box." She is a frequent guest blogger at www.mikealvear.com. She was a 2009 Moth GrandSlam Storytelling competition finalist and often feels trapped in a Seinfeldian Hell.

The disembodied voice of the dispatcher booms from loudspeakers throughout the firehouse, “Attention the following units…Engines 83, 60, 41-1 Ladders 29, 17-2 Battalion 14…Respond to…”

The box number and address are given, and then the dispatcher adds, “We are receiving numerous phone calls about a fire on the fourth floor of a five story multiple dwelling reporting people trapped. Be advised, you are responding in to a working fire in an occupied multiple dwelling.”

Our rig is roaring down the street playing “fire music”—the combined sounds of diesel engine, air horn and siren. The old timer sitting across from me starts buckling his coat and pulling up his boots. He says, “Do you smell that… we got us a job, kid.” Moments later, we turn onto the block. He is right. Neighborhood residents pack the street, watching in horror as the terrified occupants of the flaming building swarm down the fire escape, fleeing the eruption of this urban volcano.

The engine pulls up to the front of the building, as we un-ass the rig, grab our tools, and run towards the fire, I realize all my senses are under attack. Sight, sound, and smell are already approaching overload. Additionally, I can taste the primal dread of fire in the back of my throat and a cold fear is clutching my guts. I’m scared! Everyone in that building is running away and we’re going inside, no fucking way!

There are times in life when decisions must be made. These decisions define who you are and shape what you will become. Now was one of my times. Balls calling brains, you are hereby relieved of command; I’m taking over now. And here was my decision, I will fucking die right here and right now before I let these guys down!

The Lieutenant leads the forcible entry man and me to the rear of the building. Back here, the drop ladder has not been lowered and as a result, the fire escape is crammed with people unable to reach the ground.

I follow the boss’s order to lower the drop ladder, and in moments enough people have climbed down off the escape that there is room for us to advance upward.

Between the second and third floors, we encounter a man carrying a console TV. He looks me right in the eyes and says, “Hey fireman grab my kid,” and with a twist of his head indicates a young child maybe 10 years old following behind him.

I look to the Lieutenant for guidance and he says, “Keep moving.” As we reach the fourth floor, the window of the apartment on fire slides upward, releasing a thick, rolling mass of dirty brown smoke. From inside the lethal cloud emerges an unconscious teenaged girl cradled in the arms of the Truckie from L-29 who found her during his search.

He hands her out to the Lieutenant and me as he climbs out of the apartment and onto the fire escape. Holding her limp form between us, I think how peaceful and pretty she looks despite the soot and snot that surrounds her nose and mouth.

Unexpectedly a cascade of broken glass showers down on, us and half a heartbeat later, a Halligan Tool drops from the sky. It smashes into and bounces off the forehead of our young victim producing a large profusely bleeding gash. She ain’t pretty any more.

So many horrific events are occurring so rapidly that my mind screams “enough”. I am on the verge of uselessness.

The Lieutenant hands the girl off to our forcible entry man and the truckie who found her and grabs a handful of my coat, pulling me so close to him that I can see the fillings in his teeth. “Go,” he bellows.

Instantly, I am snapped out of my trance. I follow him as he pushes past me and climbs up the fire escape to the top floor.

Ladder 29’s “above the fire team” is searching the top floor apartment directly above the fire, which is the most dangerous assignment there is in an occupation filled with dangerous assignments. One team member reached the fire escape window only to find a padlocked gate across it preventing his exit.

Unable to escape the apartment or open the window, and with nothing to breath but smoke, he took out the glass by shoving his Halligan through it just as he was overcome by smoke inhalation. That solved the mystery of the flying Halligan. Arriving at the top floor we see a gloved hand sticking out of the apartment through the gate and the hole poked in the glass. In the excitement, I had left my hook on the floor below, so without a tool to use the Lieutenant grabs the gloved hand, pushes it back into the apartment, and starts kicking the remainder of the glass from the window. I catch on quickly, and together we kick in the gate and pull out the fireman.

At this point, time seemingly stopped. I remember nothing more of the fire or the rest of the tour. This was a phenomenon that repeated itself several times during my career. Somewhere there are about three hours missing from my life.

The next morning reporting in for work I am anxious about the reception awaiting me, just how badly did I fuck up? Approaching the house watch booth, who’s sitting there but the old timer with the good sense of smell. He’s smiling. Is it a smile of acceptance or that of a shark about to have lunch? I am more scared now than I was on that fire escape yesterday afternoon, when my trail by fire took place.

Last night around the firehouse kitchen table, I was tried in “absentia” and a verdict had been reached. In our world justice is swift. Have I been forever marked as a useless piece of shit, or oh god please, have I been accepted into this brotherhood of “Nobles Oblige”?

He speaks, “Way to go kid, ya had ya cherry popped first day, welcome aboard.”

He was a thin man, Hispanic, balding; he looked to be in his sixties. I sipped my coffee and watched him smoke a cigarette and pull another from his pack as he watched Kelly’s men fix a flat tire on a Buick. A Puerto Rican woman dragging a cart of laundry waved to him as she passed and he gave her a nod.

I had previously been a “never-go-above-14th Street” New Yorker, but I had insisted on moving uptown because I wanted a year without distractions. In Spanish Harlem there was nothing remotely interesting to buy for thirteen blocks – the distance to the nearest Starbucks. In my new neighborhood, there would be no window-shopping and no compulsive coffee buying. There was hardly a reason to leave the apartment, and that was exactly what I wanted—to bore my material impulses until they atrophied. I needed a year to do work without interruption, no friends stopping by; just a two bedroom, two bath, newly renovated and vermin-free place with Alex, my live-in boyfriend, who cooked dinner every night.

I commuted to school in Bronxville twice a week. I was in my last year of college and was only taking writing courses. The year was for my writing, and so there I was with a blank journal and an assortment of pens lying on a new desk while I stared out the window and spied on the man in the window, waiting for him to do something extraordinary.

After Alex left for work every morning, I set myself up at his desk by the window, where I could see the man. I didn’t like the second bedroom that was my study – there was something off about the light in it. I stored my clothes and books in it like it was a big, $500-a-month walk-in closet. Out in the living room I drank my coffee and sat at Alex’s desk with my new kitten watching the street below. I followed the people; the kitten kept track of the pigeons.

The man in the window had white shirts and brown shirts, or maybe just two – one of each color that he alternated, and an old tan leather jacket that made me think he was once a cattle rancher in Patagonia. He smoked approximately three packs of Marlboros a day. At first I thought he couldn’t walk and that was why he sat there all day, but then I saw him get up and disappear into his apartment and return a minute later. He seemed perfectly agile, almost athletic.

Sometimes people brought him things. He handed something to one of Kelly’s Flat Fix guys, maybe Kelly himself, and he went to the mid-block bodega, El Chile, and returned a few minutes later with a small paper bag and what appeared to be change. Another day a woman handed him something and he handed her something which she put in her purse, and then they chatted for fifteen minutes, smoking cigarettes, words punctuated with nods and long silences. On sunny afternoons, when the sun glared down on his side of the block, he closed his window and pulled down the shade until the sun set. There was a small wooden cross ornament that hung from the window latch. In the evening he pulled up the blinds and opened the window and people stopped by on their way home from work to talk.

When I told other people about the man, they said he must be a bookie. They said off-track betting, but the man was never on the phone. There was no computer in sight. All he had in front of him was the window looking out. Some people told me he had to be a drug dealer, but he was too old, and the only people he talked to were middle age family types. Teenagers walked by and never seemed to acknowledge his presence.

I tried to convince my college friends to visit me and see him for themselves, but they declined. They were afraid of my neighborhood, with its lack of shop windows and terrace restaurants. One friend said she was pretty sure she’d get raped on the three-block walk from the subway. I don’t talk to that friend anymore.

“Maybe he’s a poet,” I said one evening, staring out the window.

“Old men sit in windows all over this city,” Alex said, staring down a manuscript he brought home from work. “Did you write anything good today?”

I liked to think that the man in the window was an exiled poet even though I never saw him writing or reading or anything, not even a newspaper. I pretended he had escaped the military dictatorship in Argentina and when the country recovered, people had forgotten him and he’d been waiting to be invited back ever since. Or maybe, since the neighborhood was mostly Caribbean, he was Dominican. Perhaps he had known Trujillo and they’d had a terrible falling out. I searched for his face in a pictoral history of Spanish Harlem that a friend gave me but I found no trace of him. Some country has forgotten their poet, I thought. The man is famous and no one remembered. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them who you are,” I said to him one day, standing at my window looking down at him as he lit another cigarette. Then I tried to remember the last time I left the apartment.

I was waiting for a great story to unfold down on the street. After a few months, the cast of characters grew at the little commercial strip across the way. The owner of La Fonda Boricua paced outside his restaurant smoking in the late morning. He wore steel-toed cowboy boots, beige Armani suits and a very expensive ten-gallon that seemed precariously perched on his small head. Some days he wore bling, other days, bolo ties. I called him the Restaurateur. He normally shot the breeze with the West African man who ran a hole in the wall junk shop that sold sunglasses and fake leather purses. The Restaurateur and the man in the window never talked, but I was waiting for a showdown, pen poised above paper, ready to write it all down and send it to The New Yorker.

One day I was in my study, which I had finally set up, when I heard the most unnatural yelling. I ran to the window thinking This is it. This is when the man will finally do something. Maybe he’ll get up and leave his apartment; maybe he’ll confront the Restaurateur! I had imagined how their feud began: how the Restaurateur had taken everything the man had – a bet gone wrong – and started La Fonda, the most successful restaurant in town. I peeked out the window, hiding from view in case things got rough.

The sidewalk was empty except for the man who was standing, leaning half his body out the window. He was squawking, yelling from deep in his throat as if it was the first time in years that he’d spoken. I couldn’t make sense of the sounds he made, aside from that he was very angry. He carried on for five minutes and I kept my eye on the dark door of La Fonda, waiting for the Restaurateur to emerge. The West African man sat in his folding chair calmly, as if he didn’t even hear the yelling.

A man from Kelly’s Flat Fix came out, stuffing a greasy rag into his back pocket and raising his arms palms upward in a questioning gesture as he walked to the man’s window. He grabbed some bills the man held out and walked next door to the bodega. A minute later he returned and tossed the man a pack of Marlboros. The man in the window had been out of cigarettes, that was all.

“The movie was mad nice,” said Anissa.

“That movie was the dumbest movie I ever seen,” Brian answered. “It was a waste of money. I thought that Event Horizon would be the scariest movie of the month, but turns out it was just another dumb movie.”

Anissa answered, “The only reason you think it’s dumb is because you’re dumb and you didn’t understand it like all the rest of the movies we see all the time.”

It was the hottest day of the summer and it was school vacation so no one had a curfew. Me and my two friends Anissa and Brian had decided that a week before the movie Event Horizon comes out we would see the premiere.

The day before, Brian and Anissa had gone shopping and Brian bought a baby blue shirt to wear to the movies. He asked Anissa if she could lend him her baby blue Jordans that just came out in order to match his new shirt. Anissa and Brian wear the same size and it wasn’t the first time they shared sneakers. Anyway, the three of us decided to go to the movies on 86 Street and Third Avenue since it was least crowded. It was around 7:30 p.m. and the movie had just finished. We decided to go hang out at Brian’s house for a while since his mother was away.

Brian lives on 114th and First Avenue, so we started to walk towards First Avenue from 86th Street to 114th Street. As soon as we reached 106th Street, Anissa, who always has an opinion for everything, said “That movie was so scary, in order to understand it you got to keep on with it.”

“No, see, that movie is stupid,” said Brian. “I thought it was going to be a lot scarier but I hardly was able to keep up with it. One minute one guy is dead and then five minutes later the guy is alive.”

Anissa said, “Actually, the problem is you’re just so dumb that you don’t know what’s going on so it don’t matter what you think.”

I’m just standing there laughing because by now we’re standing on 106th not moving, just standing there while both are arguing back and forth. Brian really hates it when Anissa calls him dumb because he feels that’s disrespect to him. The last argument they had was because she had called him dumb, and he had told her already about how he felt but Anissa had forgotten.

Well, one thing led to another and Anissa said, “I’m not going to step down to your level and argue about some stupid movie and plus I don’t want nobody to see me arguing with a DUMB person, so I’m going home because right now you’re not my favorite person.”

Brian then opens his big mouth and yells, “That’s the best thing you have said the whole day.”

Anissa by now was heading to 105th Street and then she turns back with quickness and says, ”You know what? Take off my sneakers and walk your ass home, you dumb retard.”

I stood there trying to tal Friday 2:21:06 PM 7/30/2004k to her, telling her not to do that, and I also told her she was real immature. I told her that if she liked I would walk him home and once he takes off the sneakers, I’ll walk back and give her the sneakers.

While I was trying to talk to her, Brian already had untied the sneakers and just handed them to her. Brian said, “ Take your sneakers, you dumb idiot.”

Brian and Anissa both started walking off in different directions. Everyone was just looking at what just happened and other people were looking at Brian walking home with socks only.

There was this guy that offered to give Brian a lift home so that he don’t walk on his socks.

“Actually you know what you could do for me?” said Bryan. “Why don’t you mind your business and be on your merry way.”

The guy then said, “That’s why that girl made you walk home on your socks, cause you have a nasty attitude. And you know what, that’s good for you.”

After that incident, they don’t talk any more and it’s been over a year. One time I asked Anissa is she feels bad about not talking to Brian because of what happened. She told me that she feels bad because of what she did and that if it was to happen again she wouldn’t have done it.

**

This essay was written as a part of a HREF=”http://www.Mapsites.net” TARGET=”_new”>Mapsites.net workshop.

When I got to her house I started to write a list of what she wanted from the supermarket. I took a drink with me because I knew that I would be thirsty. As I got ready to leave I looked at the clock and it said 12:15 p.m. I got the shopping cart and left. As I stepped outside the sun was shining bright in my face. While I was walking across the street I see these little kids running across the street into the supermarket. I could not make out the faces; all I seen was five kids. As I waited for the light to change, I listened to the music from the record store. Jay-Z just went off as the light changed; Excuse me what’s your name ohhhho.

When I got to the supermarket I went to go put my shopping cart away to the side, and I looked in the booth and saw this little boy crying. He was crying like he just got a beaten. I knew the little boy but I did not ask what was wrong. I was just worried because my cousin hangs out with the boy.
“I’m calling police,” the guy said with his Spanish accent. I stopped and said I hope my little cousin is not with them. I ran out the supermarket to check. I tried to hurry because the man from the supermarket was going out too and he was very angry and his face was as red as an apple. That’s just how heated he was.

As I walked out the supermarket the sun was directly in my face. I seen the kids and I told them to go back to the block because that man is calling the police. Thank the lord my cousin was not with them. I looked out for them because they are from my hood. They dropped the Drano and ran as fast as they could they were gone with the wind. The man picked the Drano up from the ground and went back into the store. I walked back in the store hoping the man did not see me telling the little boys to run. The man told the other little boy that was in the store that he could leave and that he should never return again. After he left I felt relieved that my cousin was not with them and that they let the little boy go without any problem. I continued shopping and went about my business as if nothing had happened.

**

This essay was written as a part of a HREF=”http://www.Mapsites.net” TARGET=”_new”>Mapsites.net workshop.

“Awe man, I’ I’ll go to the store to get some more,” I said. “OK, here is three dollars, get the decorations, and buy yourself something,” said Cooklyn. “OK ’I’ll be right back,” I said.

And that’s exactly how we were. My aunt was one of the coolest people that once lived on earth. I remember one time I asked her for a piece of candy, although my grandmother told me that I couldn’t have any, Aunt Cooklyn still gave me the candy. I loved her for that. Two days later, after we decorated the Christmas tree, my aunt was rushed to the hospital. My family and I didn’t think any thing of it, because this was becoming a normal routine. Whenever Cooklyn got real sick, we called the ambulance, and she was rushed to the hospital. But this time when she was rushed to the hospital we were in for the shock of our lives, because this time she wasn’t coming home with us, (her family) she was going to heaven. As hard as it is to admit, she is in a much better place. Aunt Cooklyn had contracted H.I.V ten years ago, which later turned into A.I.D.S.

The first time my family and I had discovered that Cooklyn was sick was when she was laying on the couch, she was crying that her stomach was hurting. She went to the doctor’s office, and the doctor had told her that she had been infected with H.I.V for ten years. When Cooklyn returned from the doctor, she was living with her mother at the time, (which is my grandmother), and she told my grandmother the news she had gathered. At this point, everyone that was living inside of the household began to act funny toward Cooklyn. Inside my grandmother’s household lived my cousin Tyreka (20 years old), her son Tysheem (3yrs old), my grandmother and aunt Cooklyn. My grandmother (Dama) began treating Cooklyn different, because she did not know anything about the disease. Tyreka treated Cooklyn different, because she was young, uneducated, and very cruel. Tyreka did not want her son Tysheem around Cooklyn; she was scared that he might contract the disease. Tyreka did not want to use the bathroom behind Cooklyn, because she feared catching the disease in any way. As Cooklyn realized the treatment she was receiving from her family, she began to express the way she felt toward them. Things had gotten a little better when Tyreka moved out and got her own apartment. This left Aunt Cooklyn and Dama alone together. My cousin Kejo moved in to assist Dama with Cooklyn.

Cooklyn was becoming very sick as time went on. The family could do nothing but prey. One more thing, Cooklyn has a child, Nudy. He is incarcerated, and someone in the family had to break the news to Nudy, telling him that his mother was dying. Finally Dama wrote Nudy a letter informing him of his mother’s health. Meanwhile Nudy did not think that his mother’s health was as serious as it was.

On exactly December 24, 2001 at around 12:00 a.m, Cooklyn was rushed to the hospital; about 12 hours later at 12:53 p.m., Cooklyn was pronounced dead. At the hospital it smelt like death and I was scared. No more Cooklyn, just memories are all I have of my wonderful aunt.

R.I.P. Aunt Cooklyn, Christmas Eve (December 24, 2001)

**

This essay was written as a part of a HREF=”http://www.Mapsites.net” TARGET=”_new”>Mapsites.net workshop.

“Damn, I spilled ketchup on my shirt.” So I, as her older sister, was in shock, because she does not normally curse. Another reason why I was in shock was because if was to I tell her to curse, she would say, “No, mommy told me not to say those words.” The first thing I did was laugh. Then I asked Maya, “What did you say?” She says, “I said, damn I spilled ketchup on my shirt,”

“Maya do you know you just cursed?” I said.
“No, I did not,” she said. “Yes, you did and I am telling mommy.” Well if you don’t tell her she won’t know.” she said. I know it’s not good to let little kids curse and I should not have laughed, but it was funny.

**

This essay was written as a part of a HREF=”http://www.Mapsites.net” TARGET=”_new”>Mapsites.net workshop.

When I was in Flatbush, Brooklyn, at my aunt’s house, we stayed to see the parade. It was the West Indian Parade and everyone was outside. There were dancers hyping the crowd doing unique dances. They had on short mini-skirts and short belly shirts with glitter all over their faces and bodies. Their outfits were colorful and bright. The dancers were sweating because it was 100 degrees outside. There were a lot of people on stage, dancing, singing, and making the crowd sing along. The sidewalks were crowded, and the people were swinging their Jamaican flags side to side, and having a good time.
The people who didn’t come out to the parade were looking out their windows, enjoying the music from the big speakers. The speakers were so big that you could hear the music three blocks away. Although it was raining, the parade continued. The people still came outside to watch the parade. Everyone was out dancing to reggae music, eating soul food, drinking water, and even walking around with a wet cloth to keep themselves cool. This made me love parades even more, because everyone is together enjoying themselves.

I can’t speak for everyone else, but I can’t wait until the next summer, because that was my first parade. ‘I’m coming to your house next summer so I can watch the parade.’ ‘Don’t try to use me for the parade,’ she said. ‘Ha, you know that’s all you good for. Any way see you next summer.’ ‘ Alright see you next summer Drea.’

**

This essay was written as a part of a HREF=”http://www.Mapsites.net” TARGET=”_new”>Mapsites.net workshop.