ALPHABET CITY

In 1993, just shy of 26, I moved to New York City. I found a place in Greenwich Village, on Thompson between Bleeker and Houston Streets. My roommate, Amelia, was insane, which was good. We screwed a few times after stumbling home drunk at sunrise, but in the harsh light of sobriety, always returned to the realization we were not remotely attracted to each other. She was involved with some fifty-year old artist anyway and they left town often.

Amelia liked to hang out in Alphabet City, a low-rent area sandwiched between the East Village, the East River, and the Lower East Side. One night, she took me to a tiny, cramped bar on Avenue B: hard faces and wild eyes inside, dark streets and crumbling buildings outside. The place had a sense of danger, which I liked. Over many shots of whiskey, Amelia told me Alphabet City was notorious and the avenue names "A, B, C, and D" stood for "Assault, Battery, Crime and Death." I liked that as well. But she said it too was changing, and soon all of Manhattan would be too gentrified and expensive for any one normal to live in.

"Muffin shops," she growled, slamming down her glass. "This whole area will soon be one big fucking muffin shop. Health clubs and Euro-trash garden bistros. It's what happened to SoHo. They'll suck the life out of this place, I tell you, out of all of the city... Why did you move here again?"

" I'm a writer."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh Jesus-God in heaven! That's the last thing this city needs! Another pretentious pen-freak. Killing more trees so they can blabber on and on about why they think the way they see the world is so important."

I grimaced. "Well, I wouldn't worry. I haven't written much, and I came to the realization not too long ago, that I have absolutely nothing to say."

She motioned with her fingers to the bartender. "Another round." I was quickly losing count. Amelia slid my shot of Bushmill's Irish whiskey over as she tossed hers back. "Where are you from again?"

"The South."

"Yee-haw! Spend all your time milking cows? Plucking chickens? Fucking your sister?"

"No farms for me, and I don't have a sister. Grew up in the generic suburbs of a generic town. Plain vanilla, all the way."

"No wonder you have nothing to say. At least fucking your sister would be something to write about."

I tossed my drink back, and had to force myself to swallow it. "Yep. About the most adventurous thing that ever happened to me was when I was 14, I skipped school one day to go play video games at the mall."

She shook her head. "Pathetic. And so you moved to New York looking for some excitement. For something bizarre and unusal. Something dangerous."

"You got it."

She motioned for another round. "A kind of Mean Streets/ Travis Bickle-Taxi Driver/Lou Reed – Take a Walk on the Wild Side kind of thing? Right?"

"Twenty-twenty," I said.

"Well you better hurry. A few years this city will look just like that shit suburb you came from. It's happening right now in Times Square. Walt Disney is buying up all the property there. Did you know that? Good-bye porn theaters. Good-bye peep shows and transvestite prostitutes. Soon everything will be an e-ticket ride. They'll destroy everything that made this city great. I don't know why you moved here. I'll be gone soon. Before I witness that cluster-fuck. Long gone, dude. Maybe in Africa. I advise you do the same" She ran outside and threw up on the sidewalk.

We helped each other stagger home. I swatted away Amelia's hand each time she lunged for my crotch. Walking toward our apartment down Bleeker Street, with its past aura of bohemians and hippies and smoky underground jazz clubs burned in my naïve mind, fresh scrubbed college kids and Bridge and Tunnel tourists (as Amelia called them) swarmed the sidewalks and roads, turning our neighborhood into spring break at the beach. Where were Charlie Parker and Dylan Thomas? Where were all the other famous artists whose ghosts I had come to stalk, hoping to lap up some of their paranormal residue?

Hanging outside the new Banana Republic store, drinking a fruit smoothie.

****

The next morning Amelia disappeared with her lover. For the following month, I had the whole apartment to myself, but nothing happened. I looked for jobs. I stared at Jeopardy and Cheers on TV. Ate out at restaurants by myself, and masturbated three times a day. And every evening at sunset, I stood on the roof of our building, with the teeming millions rushing past beneath me. Life rushed past beneath me, as I stood removed and detached from it all, breathing in only kickback fumes and hearing only echoes of other people's worlds.

The night of my 26th birthday I got off my ass and went to Times Square. I was now convinced what Amelia said was true, and wanted to experience old New York before it disappeared. At midnight I arrived at the corner of 8th Avenue and 42nd street. With a fresh pack of cigarettes, I planted myself against a wall, ready to soak up the sprawling neon slime. It was a hell of a scene: whores of all shapes and sizes paraded past me. Peep shows and strip clubs beckoned me to come inside. My cock stirred. I wanted to try them – I never had. But every time I thought about moving, my feet just didn't follow my command.

Around 2 AM, a thick, hairy man in a hot pink dress walked up to me. He called me "sugar lips" and flipped up his skirt to reveal his thick, hairy nub. Not my cup of tea, but I was flattered all the same. 4AM and a strange, greasy character named Icky approached me and said he thought I was a good looking guy and asked had I ever considered being a gigolo. I said I hadn't. Icky said he knew a guy who could set me up. He said I didn't have to suck dick if I didn't want to, because he knew lots of rich, bored housewives who were looking for young slabs of meat. He wrote his name and number on a cocktail napkin he pulled from his torn pants and told me to call him. Icky then asked for twenty bucks. I gave it to him and told him to leave me alone. At sunrise I went home, the napkin with his number crumpled up in my back pocket.

I tried to sleep but instead stared at the ceiling as the girl who lived above me screamed while her boyfriend drilled her. Got up and paced around my apartment all day long -- my main source of exercise. Later that night turned on the news. Big story was The Gap had bought property on St. Mark's street near Avenue A. They would soon be building a new store. The president of The Gap said he was sure other companies would soon follow his lead, and begin the revitalization of the Lower East Side...

I headed out toward Alphabet City.

Early spring and the night air had just a touch of winter chill left in it. I stopped at an ATM and loaded my wallet. Something had to happen, now. This was finally going to be the moment when I ripped out of my hesitant cocoon. Give me debauchery, or give me death! Give me something, give me anything, just don't give me what I had come to expect, which was nothing.

I arrived at the corner of 11th street and avenue A. Across the road, a very thin girl dressed in cut-off jean shorts and brown leather cowboy boots, stood next to a street sign, smoking a cigarette. She had long stringy hair and thick glasses, and she looked like she barely weighed 90 lbs. The street was empty and I could have crossed at anytime, but I teetered there trying to decide if this was what I really wanted. She was far from attractive, but that was part of the appeal.

She watched me walk up to her, her eyes growing wide behind her glasses.

"So, how much?" I asked.

"You're a fucking cop," she said. "Go away. I'm just standing here smoking a cigarette."

"No I'm not. How much?"

"Fuck you. You expect me to believe a clean-cut kid like you is out here just walking the streets looking for some action?"

"I'm only clean-cut on the outside. How much?"

She looked me over for a long time, studying my hair, my eyes, and my clothes. "Ok. I'll take my chance. Hand job is 20, blowjob 50. Anything else'll cost you 100 each squirt." She coughed deeply and violently. I thought her thin body would break in two. She was sick, probably a junkie, probably had AIDS, yet I couldn't stop myself. I was really turned on.

"Fine," I said.

"Follow me."

She coughed again and turned to lead me down East 12th street.

"Where we going?" I asked.

"My place. Up on Avenue C. It's not far."

Perfect. Heading deep into Alphabet City. Maybe I'd get shot.

We walked for what seemed like forever, turning down alleyways, scouring in back lots of buildings. In the darkness that surrounded us, a car radio boomed, a woman shouted, and someone smashed a bottle to the ground. The girl didn't speak except to look back and tell me to "C'mon" after which each time she coughed again. We finally reached a shaky looking six-story building, and she led me along the side alley past overflowing garbage cans, and through piles of trash that were being rummaged through by dogs. A cracked glass door led into a basement, and once we reached the first floor, she stopped and scanned the hallway carefully. She waved me forward and we kept climbing. The smells in the stairwell were pungent, like stale piss, and the walls were cracked and covered in filth. At one spot on the second floor landing someone had smashed a bottle of ketchup on the ground and left it there. The contents had splattered everywhere and when I grabbed the guardrail, the sticky red mess covered my hand. She coughed deeply and at last came to rest in front of a door painted half brown and green.

Immediately upon entering I had to gasp for breath at the overpowering and completely nauseating smell of sour milk. Like a wall it was so strong, and my eyes watered. Once I steadied myself, I stood in a tiny kitchen strewn with the same amount of garbage as I had seen outside on the ground. Half-eaten food littered the floors, and in the corner, ants devoured a chicken wing. Spaghetti noodles covered the walls, and sitting at a table was a short, heavy-set Hispanic man smoking a crack pipe. A small black and white TV sat on a chair playing an old re-run of Cheers at full volume, though the picture was doubled and fuzzy.

The man had his eyes closed and he inhaled deeply. A handgun sat on the table in front of him, and as he exhaled he saw me.

"Who da fuck is this?" he asked the girl. "You bring a fucking cop back here?" He picked up the gun and tried to point it at me, but was so dizzy he almost fell out of his chair.

"He ain't no cop," she said. "He's a customer." She coughed again as she lit another cigarette.

The man steadied himself, and a wide, drugged-out smile crept over his face. With his eyes half open he raised the gun again and pointed it at me. "Hey FBI," he said. "Don't try to take me to jail."

"I'm not FBI," I said. The gun swayed in little circles in the air. I began to think I had made a very big mistake.

"Don't worry about him. He ain't even got any bullets for that thing. C'mon." The girl grabbed me by the hand.

"Hey! How do you know that? Maybe I bought the bullets today? Huh? Skank bitch. `Bout time you brought someone home."

"Fuck you, you prick," the girl said.

"Fuck me? Hey FBI, make sure she swallows you! She don't swallow you, you let me know, and I come shoot her for you. Then you won't have to take me to jail! Cause I made her swallow you!" He tilted his head back and exploded in a high-pitched cackle.

The girl led me through a tiny cramped living room where more food littered the floors, along with newspapers and clothes. I could still barely tolerate the suffocating smell of the sour milk, and I could not see how they could ignore it. She opened a small back room, and then the two of us were standing next to large pile of rags. A dim bulb attached with masking tape hung from the ceiling. Below it laid a mattress that was ripped and covered in horrible looking stains of every color imaginable.

"So lets see the money," she said.

I was in a daze. I took out the cash from my wallet and handed it to her.

"This'll get you one squirt, so I'd advise you to take it slow. Here's a condom."

A square piece of foil floated in front of me, but my arms didn't move.

"So you want me to fix you up? Fine. So lets go then." She took off her clothes and stood before me. She was so fucking thin. She coughed again, and the purple traces of her veins bulged under her skin. Track marks and bruises covered her arms and her ankles.

"Well come on," she said. "Take off your clothes.

As I started to loosen my belt, a baby began to cry. Loud squawking came from within the room, but there was nothing except the pile of rags and a couple of cardboard boxes beneath the window.

"Shit," she said, and walked over to one of the boxes. She reached in and pulled out a naked baby boy wrapped in an old, ripped tablecloth. "Sorry. He's wet himself."

The child looked horrible, all shriveled, and the color of its skin was not normal. A sickly greenish tint, there were also dark brown streaks along his legs -- its own dried feces.

"Let me go get his bottle," she said.

The smell of sour milk covered my face again at those words, and I stopped her. "I've got to go."

"What the fuck do you mean?" She coughed again. The baby cried louder.

"Nothing. Keep the money. Really. I just shouldn't be here."

She shrugged. "Whatever. It's your dough. This isn't the part where you pull out your badge and take me and my baby to jail is it?"

"I told you, I'm not a cop. I just need to go."

I walked toward the kitchen to get the hell out of there.

"Hey FBI!" said the man at the table. "That sure was quick! Did she swallow you? If she didn't, jus' let me know. I shoot her for you!" He pointed toward the gun that lay on the table with the chamber now open. Inside, it was packed with bullets.

The door was bolted and the knob was jammed as I tried to leave. I shook it hard trying to loosen it. The man slammed his body against the door. He took a drink from a bottle of beer and leaned in close to me.

"Yo, where you going so fast? You don't like my girl?" he said. Sweat poured from his face and his black eyes were dilated and wild.

"She's fine. I just made a mistake."

"You made a mistake? Well, you still got to pay."

"I did. I gave her the money. I just want to go."

With a loud crack, his hand slapped my face, hard, knocking my head against the door. "How much you pay her? Huh?" He slapped me again.

"What the fuck?" I said and tried to cover my head. But before I could, he swung the bottle in his hand and smashed it against my temple. Glass slashed into my skin, and beer burned and stung my eyes. Blood followed. I dropped to the floor.

"Fucking FBI!" he said as he stood above me. He kicked me in the back. "You show some respect when you in my house!"

"I'm not FBI..." I said with half a breath.

The girl ran into the kitchen. "Caesar! What the fuck are you doing?"

"This guy pay you?" he said.

"Yes he paid me! What the fuck are you doing, you prick? Let him go!" She picked up another bottle off the table and threw it at him. It missed his head and shattered against the wall.

"Bitch! You skank junkie bitch!" He lunged toward her.

She ran to the other side of the table and picked up the gun. She tried to shut the chamber, but he came after her, so she turned it around and swung the butt of the pistol against his head. The bullets flew across the room. She swung at him again, with all the force her 90 lb. body could muster, and struck him right in the eye. "I'm so sick of your fucking bullshit!" she screamed, and hit him again.

He crumpled to the floor. A puddle of blood spread from under his face and across the floor. "My eye," he moaned. "You fucked my eye."

"Good!! I'll fuck up the other one too, you prick!" She looked over to me. "Go on. Get out."

I pulled myself up. "You ok? You want me to call the cops?"

"NO! Just go! I got someone I can call."

I fumbled with the lock again, as I wiped blood from my forehead on the back of my hand.

"Up and to the left!" she said. She coughed deeply, and spit a red glob on the floor. The baby screamed in the other room.

I scurried away from the dark streets of Alphabet City, my chest heaving up and down like a junkyard press, as I pulled pieces of glass from my face. I took off my jacket and held it to my cheek. The smell of sour milk from the apartment was all over my clothes. Near Broadway and 8th St., the pink and orange letters from a Dunkin Donuts sign stood out from all the other dark and shuttered storefronts. I went inside, where everything shimmered very clean and bright, and hid my face from the lone cashier on duty as I made a quick dive into the men's room. In the mirror, my face looked bad, but not as bad as I thought: a couple of gashes on my forehead and cheek. Probably needed stitches, but I had no health insurance so I'd have to figure that out later.

I washed them out with soap and water, and sat down on the toilet and lit a cigarette. The image of the girl pulling that shriveled, filthy baby out of the cardboard box kept coming back to me. Half of me wished I had never seen it.

The lady cashier stared at me as I came out of the bathroom. "Wow. You Ok?"

"Fine. Not as bad as it looks," I said.

"You should see a doctor."

"Eventually. Can I get a coffee? Black with sugar."

She nodded and behind her a wide glass case displayed an array of pastries. All the different colors looked bright and warm.

"And let me have a muffin," I said. "Blueberry. Toasted with butter."

"You want it to go?"

I didn't answer. Except for a tiny drop of my own blood, the checkerboard floor I stood on was spotless.

"Excuse me, you want it to stay, or to go?"

"If it's ok with you, I'd rather just eat it here."

HOME