Page 40 -

Washington Heights, New York City
June, 1987
“How much?” comes from a Honda that’s slowed to my pace as I walk. Driver is a bald dude. Aviator shades. Jersey plates.
How much for what? Fashion advice? Instruction on the proper use of a comma? A handjob? Cocaine?
Jersey Plates continues to follow. Creeping me out. I pretend I’m not afraid.
The sky is an exaltation of light. Grass struggles up through sidewalk cracks. Broken windows. Dirty brick. There’s a smoky stink—it’s illegal to burn garbage in Manhattan; but my neighborhood, Wash- ington Heights, is packed with scarred souls for whom the incineration of hazardous waste is a minor distraction.
Sound of drumming from the Dominicos in the drum circle down by the Hudson. Swift fierce beats. Expert palms against taut, dried skins. Reminding me of something—
“Yo, I’m talking to ya—” Jersey Plates calls.
It is generally acknowledged that single women in New York City are searching for love, but may be amenable to that placeholder, sex. Does Jersey Plates think I’m for sale?
Bizarro because I’m currently wearing man-repellent: maxi skirt, a shapeless blouse, Reeboks. My hair’s in
a bun. Appropriate for dinner with my grandparents, which is where I’m headed. Afterwards I’m going downtown to spend Saturday night with Yolanda and her guy, Darryl, at the Nite Café. Yolanda’s also invited the new guy in our department, Volodya. I’m stoked— looking forward to transforming via the sexy near- nothings stashed in my bag.
I pick up my pace. Broadway’s just ahead. I hang a right. The Honda follows... and is immediately sur- rounded by a herd of lumbering diesel fume-spewing M100 buses.
Thank you, New York City traffic. 33
~
The Dominicos are pounding it bigtime. I align my steps with the drumbeat, try to align the thud of my heart. The sidewalks are packed. Folks escap- ing the hot still air in their apartments for Broad- way’s attempt at a breeze and the social vitamin that comes from being with friends. Circles of men, some with paper bags wet from the melting frost on the chilled beers inside. Circles of women whose fertility goddess curves are wrapped in bright hues. Haughty teens. Cuteness-overload kids. Each indi- vidual with his or her own distinctive emotional scrawl, something I can’t quite read—but the same questioning look: Are you friend or foe? Are we in the same tribe?
I know because I do the same thing. “Human tribal- ism,” Dr. King called it. Though we all breathe the same air. The same sweat crawls down our bodies.
~
Soon there’s the pleasant clicking of my grandpar- ents’ deadbolt tumblers as they fall into place. Their door swings open, tilting Nény off-balance. Grand- dad shuffles from behind her to greet me, his gaze through thick lenses like the Schneelicht, German for the light that is in snow.
Half-intensity hugs to protect the old bones.
I hand Nény a mango.
“Vhas ist das?”
“It’s a mango. You should taste one, they’re delicious.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Ve haf a visi- tor darling.” She takes my hand. Leads me into their living room—Photos of The Lost Ones. The Candle That Never Goes Out. A card table covered with blistering-white, ironed, starch-shining linen and
Joy and Sorrow Cake
sari ellen