New York City Notes

Woodwind blew October’s early leaves, notes lifting the dead down the street.
There had been a multitude of deaths.  Embarrassment. Pride.  Nothing worthy of sorrow.

Michael Jeffrey Jenkins stared at the street sax.  The musician wailed on it as if no one was around.  There was a crowd, larger than the crowd around him a half day ago as MJ joggled weightless over the sidewalk.  MJ figured a larger crowd must have been the attitude as well as musicianship.

photo by Daniel Agee. all rights reserved.

New York City’s got it going.

He thought as his father drove them back home.  Home without mother.  There were plenty of talented musicians on the streets of New York.  He’d seen a few in the few years he had traversed cracked concrete.  Guitarists seemed to be the most populous.

They’re popular.

Son, they’re populous.  See the crowd around guitarists?

Not really.

You won’t.  There’re too many guitarists around.  Too many thins crowds.  It may be a popular thing to do among musicians, but too populous to catch a crowd.  Catch me?

Got it.

MJ surveyed the atmosphere, his eyes always latching onto musicians.  His father, Bruce Jenner Jenkins, was a jazz saxophonist.  Renowned for carrying a note further than a Times Square taxi carried a lottery-winning passenger, B-dot Jenkins, as he liked to be called, drew a crowd.

A well-paying crowd, son.  Street musicians can do well if they locate well, but it’s no life.  You work on the street to get noticed quick enough to get off the street.

Bruce Jenner Jenkins.  It was tradition in the Jenkins lineage to name the first born, daughter or son, after a famous athlete of the time.  Michael Jeffrey was named after Michael Jeffrey Jordan.  His older cousin, a girl, was named Althea Gibson Jenkins only because her parents couldn’t think of a more modern black female athlete worthy to name a Jenkins.

Naming kids was left to the male half of the parental duo. Women, according to his grandfather whose temples showed an entire vein river and tributaries, were too exhausted giving birth to make sensible name choices.  But at MJ’s young age, he already knew sensible was not a trait grandpa possessed.

Why Bruce Jenner?  Simple reason.  See these eyes? These eyes don’t see color.  They see talent.  He had more track talent than any other athlete in his time.

Better than Edwin Moses?

Edwin Moses?  Edwin Moses?  Some youngster’s been studying up.  Yes, because Bruce Jenner did the decathlon.  Know what that is?

Yes, sir.

Good boy.  He did ten events and did them well, understand?

Yes, sir.

So why question it?

Grandma told me she wanted to name daddy Edwin Moses, but you insisted any athlete that could do what Bruce Jenner did had to be black and that you never even saw him do anything until after the birth certificate was signed.

Grandpa Jenkins, Jesse Owens Jenkins, leaned back in his easy chair as MJ stood beside him, staring into his large eyes.  Grandpa rolled the eyes, tugged a bit at his short white beard.  The easy chair answered with as much creaky tonality as grandpa.

She did now did she?

Grandpa leaned forward.  Turning MJ’s head, he leaned into MJ’s left ear.

Your grandma?  My, she’s a good woman.  Real fine woman.  But she’s crazy, plain touched in the head.  Now go on now.  But stay away from her stories.

MJ walked out of the living room into grandma’s kitchen.  Staying away from grandma’s stories meant staying away from her cooking.  Wasn’t going to happen.

Ask him?

Yes, grandma.

Cookies smiled when grandma laughed.  Dough tasted sweeter, chocolate strung out bitter.  Today’s batch of semi-sweet chocolate chip had to be the best ever.

Your eyes are telling me he didn’t exactly confirm the truth.

She laughed again.  Her laugh resonated with MJ wherever he sat.  Front stoop.  School desk.  Dad’s car crawling down 5th street.  It must have been a good 3 minutes or so and the sax player was still in the same spot.  Dad’s faded red Buick Skylark hadn’t moved much more than a foot.

Still numb, MJ’s foot felt as if it was an add-on you could buy from a toy store like he was GI Joe and his left foot was a bazooka, a very heavy and fat bazooka.

He hurt it playing catch-up.  Wasn’t necessary.  He knew where they were going.  There was only one place to go to play 500.  One empty lot on this side of the borough was large enough he and the older boys were able to create a makeshift outfield.

Let’s go!

It’s all he heard.  Wasn’t so sure who said it, but they took off.  Seemed like they were dusting him, but he’d have none of that.  MJ sprinted a half-block, doing a three-quarter spin around the mother of twin boys with her green and blue double carriage.  He glanced off the front bumper just enough for the boys to open their eyes and her eyes to burn a hole though him. Lungs struggled to fill when he reached the bike.  Having run faster than what he could only imagine the best city sprinters could ever do, he waited a half-second for breathing to be smoother. Whipping the red Schwinn coaster around, MJ saddled it.  Older with more strength built up in their legs, the others were already two blocks ahead and turning out of sight.

Busting out faster than the bull he saw at the MSG rodeo his elementary school went to on a field trip this past winter for, as his teacher incorrectly put it

You city kids to see where your McDonald’s comes from

MJ broke out of his gate down the street.  He knew he could catch up.  Knew it.  All it took was some quick pedaling and expert maneuvering.  MJ grew up in this neighborhood.  He knew where the vendors placed their stuff, what time each hosed down their sidewalks, how much trash Wong’s Deli put out versus how many cardboard boxes laid out by Sal’s Mart, flattened and whole.  The carriages, runners, professional dog walkers, street carts loaded with churros, salted corn, ice cream and whatever else for any particular season or reason.

He knew the quickest route to the lot, the easiest obstacles to avoid. The lot was a large swamp oak tree shade over nine blocks away.  Four blocks out, he was one behind.  They looked back smiling, thinking he wasn’t capable of catching them.  They played ball with him.  They knew how he could run down a fly ball better than Bernie Williams.  He had quick feet and quicker thinking.  No reason to think it didn’t extend to his Schwinn.

You can hear me coming!

Who’s that talking?  Anyone hear anything?

I’m right on you!

Three blocks left.  MJ was at three-and-a-half.  The BBQ joint, aptly called The BBQ Joint, was running a special today – full rack with sweet potato salad $14.95.  MJ passed the sign first.  Place was packed.  A few future pullers of pork were waiting in line outside.

Businessmen goofing off was not generally on MJ’s neighborhood radar.  One pushed another right into his path.  Like the bicycle expert he had become at his tender age, he deftly swung and skidded the rear tire left, avoiding the collision.   He turned his head, yelling

Not even you can stop me!

No person could stop him.  No one did.  A planter, shifted by a member of the wait staff from inside sidewalk to outside toggled along the curb before weebling over right in front of the boy.

Ass over teakettle.

Was how mother described the crash.  She didn’t see a thing but the aftermath, but could see MJ had taken his red Schwinn over the cement planter with him.  After landing, MJ dusted himself off.  He felt woozy, but fine.  MJ picked up the bike.  It was in no shape to ride, so he walked it.  His jeans were a bit torn, but not enough to prevent playing ball.

Big Jim watched him take a few steps.  The BBQ Joint proprietor prided himself in being more than a business owner.  He loved being an integral part of the community.  Here it was, a maroon red opportunity to pitch in right in front of him.

Every time MJ lifted up his left foot he left a Kennedy half dollar dark red splotch of blood on the sidewalk.

Big Jim ran to him, picked him up and took off sprinting.  Stained barbecue apron flew at his sides.  Big Barbecue, Superhero, blazing hotter than a 5000 BTU grill.  What little crowd was around the sax player turned to gape.

Don’t remember much do you?

MJ woke up lying on his right side, trapped by bright lights and frantically worn parents.  Furled brows and swollen red circles around mother’s eyes begged questions.

You’re in St. Luke’s.  The hospital.  Emergency room.

Mother stayed uncharacteristically silent.  Dad, normally the reserved one, kept on.

Big Jim.  Know him?  The barbecue man.  Rib tips no man on this coast or any coast can match.  Lordy.  Charcoal fired, sauce sugared just right.  Ruddy brown crisp.  Mmm MMMMM mm mm.

Bruce…

The man scooped you up like you were a fumble, carried you three blocks to paydirt.

Dad leaned over.  Whatever it was he had to say had to be

Bike’s fine.  I think the kickstand tried to ginsu you.

That’s it? MJ thought to himself.  Bike’s fine?

Mother looked at Dad.

The bike?  Jesus, Bruce.  Honey, your left foot…

It’s gone?!  My foot’s…?!

No.  Deep cut.  They’re coming to numb it and stitch you right up.  You’ll be good in no time.  No time at all.

Mother and Dad’s attire, jeans with lighter brown jackets, looked positively out of place in the wave of seafoam green gowns every nurse and doctor had been required to wear.

Dr. Higgins, name tag set askew as if absentmindedly stuck on with no forethought, held a clipboard.

Raised it, taped enough gauze on it to make a decent mummy costume.  Bleeding has stopped.  Got to stitch it up.

Dr. Higgins set down the clipboard.  The single sheet of paper clipped on had no instructions, no form.  Blank with the exception of a Bic drawing.  A cartoon foot with exaggerated toes, each toe having a different facial expression.  The big toe’s face, mostly teeth, looked to be eating the second toe.  Angrily.

I call it Tarsal Terror.

Dr. Higgins shrugged as he grabbed what looked to be a giant lip balm.

Clipboard only confirms I am a doctor.  Diploma does too, I guess.

He grabbed MJs foot.  Strange. MJ thought he should feel pain, any pain, but it was nearly nothing.  The doctor…

Full-fledged doctor?

Dad had to slow him down.  Jesus.

Yes, sir.  Want to see the diploma?  I have a copy somewhere.  My parents have the original.  They paid well for it.  Framed it like their own Picasso.  Gilded edged frame.  Real pretty.

Shaved yet?

Ah.  Yes.  Gotcha.  I have in fact.  A few times.  My whiskers aren’t coming in as thick as yours.  Looks like you have little grains of wild rice popping out your pores.  Mostly white.

Dad stood up.  Arms crossed, he was about to go on about something MJ was sure had to be of vital importance, but the good doctor had only paused to draw in a breath.

Sorry.  I get that all the time.  Yes, I am an intern.  Lucky for you I am only on hour nine of my thirty-six hour shift.  Still lucid and zero coffee.  Now you may want to exit until I am done.

We’ll stay.

OK.  But what’s happened here is he’s sliced right through nerve endings.  There’s no spot to numb with a needle, so what I have to do is stick this Chapstick looking bar…  I suggest you go.

Staying.

Mother turned to exit, but dad grabbed her by the arm.  She wasn’t strong enough to pull out of his grasp.

Dr. Higgins moved the bar to MJ’s foot.  He stuck the numbing bar into the ravine-split wound, rubbing it around like a young girl’s first attempt applying lipstick.  MJ couldn’t feel shooting pain, but he could feel the oversize Chapstick dirty dancing with his bones.

45 minutes later, Dr. Higgins told MJ his high-pitched scream was loud enough morticians in the basement had to slide the dead back into their lockers for fear they’d awaken.

Did I say your scream?  No, that was my scream.  Yours?  Dogs in Brooklyn were howling.

Dad had done his job holding onto mother’s hand tightly.  He still had it when mother passed out, cracked her head on a nearby gurney and rag-dolled to the floor.

MJ must have played “I Spy” with Dr. Higgins for a good hour as Dad read last year’s Sport Illustrated Swimsuit Edition before the x-ray technician came out holding a negative.

Oh, look.  Your mother’s skull.  There’s her brain, probably larger than dad’s.  The line that looks like the path of a 3am drunk navigating a sidewalk? A small fracture.

It’s a bolt of lightning to me.

I’m sure that’s what your mom saw when she hit the floor.  Mr. Jenkins?

Dad looked up.  MJ couldn’t tell if he was mad at mother or being interrupted from staring at Babes of Barbados.

She’ll need to stay over for observation.  You and MJ can go home now.  Has to go out by wheelchair.

Left foot propped up as if it was going to be used for a battering ram to escape the emergency room through the wall instead of the automatic door, Bruce started wheeling MJ out.  Dr. Higgins, bored with zero action, walked alongside.

You brought excitement to a slow afternoon, MJ.

Door stubbornly began shutting quickly.  Dr. Higgins stepped up and held it open for the two to go pass the threshold.

Closes faster than your father’s judgment.  So were you named after Michael Jordan?

MJ beamed.  He loved it when people took notice.

Yep.  All of us are named after famous black athletes.

Is that so?  Huh.  So Bruce…

Long story.

Grandpa said…

Too long a story.

MJ’s eyelids were the most tired part of his body, left foot snoring on the floorboard being the notable exception.  Traffic moving along no quicker than a rat in an unsanitary 24-hour diner, he couldn’t stay awake much longer.

Sax was drawing slow notes again.  5th Street fell into a lush movie with a soundtrack an orchestra of one.  Notes pained.  Dogs stopped, coking ears to one side.  Women looked to the sky as if hearing a different calling.  The musician held one note a significantly long time, nearly through an entire sequence of the traffic light three-quarters a block away.  Dad closed his eyes and smiled.

He’s no Saxophony, MJ.  No woodwind poser.  Be off the street in no time, if he isn’t set up already.

Traffic was at a standstill.  Didn’t matter much.  MJ had nowhere to go.  Soon as he got home he’d be lying on the couch, foot propped up, a trumpet in his hand.  He’d have plenty of time to play in the near future.  Dr. Higgins claimed the hospital, due to budget cuts, were short on thread.  Seven black stitches held together two inches of skin, closing his ravine.

Tags: Bernie Williams, Brooklyn, bruce jenner, Buick Skylark, Chapstick, cookies, edwin moses, foot, GI Joe, guitar, hospital, intern, McDonald's, michael jordan, new york city, Picasso, saxophone, Schwinn, Sports Illistrated Swimsuit Edition, toes
Posted in stories. Permalink for this post: permalink. If you are a Digg user, please  Digg this post.