anguish on the ride home.

another curiously breezy August night in New York
City. i'm on my way home from a wine and cheese fete'
with some friends out near Corona. i had just gotten
off the E train and managed to catch the last Q83
before they stop going up the hill every 25 minutes.
as i get on with my ears full of a Ghostface Killah
mashup, i notice this one woman with her head down
on a huge black plastic storage container. her two
boys sat next to her, staring off into space. i move
to get a seat in the back since this bus usually gets
crowded.

the bus jerked slightly. the reason being that this
older woman in a red and white striped sundress that
would've gone over well in an MGM musical had darted
in front of the bus to try to get on. the driver hit
the gas and proceeded down Archer Avenue to the front
of the bus stop area. she ran as fast as she could
and managed to get on, gasping for air.

a few minutes later, i look up from my book and i see
that the other woman with the container and the kids
has her head up. and she's sobbing uncontrollably.
the tears gathered like rainwater under her eyes. she
was dressed in a sweater and black nylon pants. she
stared ahead, her lips not moving but her the rest of
her face was a mask of anguish. that is real pain. the
kind of despair that you don't give a rat's ass if
anyone sees. the kind of anguish that makes your heart
hurt with each gust of air into your lungs. it dawned
on me...she must be without a place to live. it would
make sense with the two boys next to her and the large
container. she must be going to the women's shelter
over by St.Pascal's church.

at that moment, the woman in the striped dress tapped
her on the shoulder. from where i was, i saw something
that i've seen so many times before in these New York
streets that other folks don't believe happens often
here. and sometimes, even i can forget it does. it was
compassion. as the mother cried, the lady in the striped
dress spoke with her. calmed her. hugged her and gave
her strength. these are the moments missed once you
plug into your iPod, or your phone or disappear into
the pages of a book or newspaper. i couldn't help but
stare at them.

as the bus reached the stop on 202nd Street and Murdock
Avenue by the church, the mother got off, edging her
kids in front of her. i saw that she also has a giant
red piece of luggage. my heart sank again. she must've
had to make a mad dash. who knows what - or who - she
left behind. and the two boys had this look on their
faces. it was a numb look, one that gives off the idea
that nothing in the world really could move you anymore.
the lady in the striped dress helped her with the black
storage container. as the bus pulled off, i saw them all
make their way down the block towards St.Pascal's and the
PAL shelter. and while it saddened me, i'm glad i was
able to see it. just so i can keep reminding myself not
to be oblivious to pain because i don't feel it.

that image stuck with me all of last night. it's only
now that i'm able to write about it without a heavy
sense of sadness. because today, this mother and her sons
have a new day to start over. they've got a shot. one
that other mothers and other kids in cities and towns
throughout this country...hell, the world...may not
have. someone said something in a lecture i heard years
ago at a video engineers' conference: "you beat the odds
just by showing up." and that's what they've done.

wild irish rose.

the barkeep glanced up briefly from the racing
form on the rich mahogany bartop to view a few
people rush towards the stairs to the subway above.
it was 3:30 in the afternoon, and aside from the
three or four patrons who sat inside and shrunk from
the light like B-movie vampires coming in from
the window, Abel Geraghty was the only one in
the place. but he would rather have been at the
track. he'd been tending bar here at Flannery's
for close to 30 years. he'd seen the neighborhood
change in tone from Irish brogue to southern drawl
to even a touch of Hindi and Spanish. but Boyd
Avenue still held the same charm. and for this
son of The Marble County, it was good enough.

Abel poured himself a pint of Guinness and peered
over at one soul who was slumped over onto a table.
"Hey!! You wanna sleep, go home!!" he bellowed.
The gentleman stirred, blinking eyes set deep
within pale skin as wrinkled as a lizard's feet.
He tugged at his jacket and rose slowly to his
feet. As he walked close to the bar on his way
out, he mumbled, 'No..no way to treat a body...'
pathetically shaking a bony fist. "Gwan home you
old salt miner." Abel countered, bringing laughs
from the other three at the table nearest to the
pool table. As the old drunk walked out into the
sunlight, a blur moved past him into the bar.
Abel caught wind of the person before they stopped.
He couldn't help it; their aroma was a mixture
between cheap wine and perfume. "Hiya Abel!! Set
me up a martini willya?!!" she yelled. A low
groan went out from the group at the table. Abel
sighed with all the wearniess his 50 years could
muster. "Rose, Rose..are ye daft? I'm not givin'
you any booze. You've probably got no more'n a
dollar to your name." he replied simply.

Rose was a neighborhood fixture. A broken one at
that. She had grown up a few blocks from the bar.
Half Italian, half Irish, and all wild. Whatever
beauty she had once was slowly dwindling away. Her
dark hair bounced around her shoulders with each
turn of her head. She had greenish eyes, not unlike
the color of copper exposed to water. She wore
a denim jacket over a thin gray sweater blouse
that matched her tight jeans. She swayed on high
heels that had been repaired twice over. "C'mon
man, I've got money." she said, pulling out a wad
of crumpled bills. "Here, money. Gimme my martini
you codfish!! HAHAHAHA!!" Abel sighed, and took the
bills into his pudgy, hairy hands. He counted until
he had about 5 dollars. "Y'know, I ougtha wash my
hands after this." he said bluntly. "Whaddya mean
by that? I WORKED for that. Don't TELL me it's dirty.
WHO d'ya think you ARE?!" Rose yelled as she stepped
closer to the bar. "All right, all right." Abel said
as he fixed the martini. Rose took the rest of the
money up as she sat down clumsily.

Her lips kept forming a half-smile. Rose had about
6 pills of Valium in her breast pocket. She had
downed 3 prior to coming into Flannery's. After
this she was off to go earn money at a video store
peep show in Brooklyn. it was a desperate but viable
hustle for a woman down on her luck with no real
skills. she felt her stomach bubble, but paid it
no real mind. Abel walked over, all 6 feet 3 inches
of him. "Here," he said as he nudged the martini
over to her. Rose grabbed the glass and took a sip.
"AHHHHHH...' she exhaled loudly. "Do you KNOW how
long I've been WAITING for that?! THREE HOURS!"
Abel said nothing and leaned back against the shelf
near the register. "You know, I need a new gig. This
one is too much for too little...I mean I SHOW my
TITS for CRUMBS..." Rose began, and she rambled on
for a couple of minutes, her loud voice rising on
every third word as she drank the martini. All the
while, Abel nodded. and Rose kept talking. but as
she talked, the bubbling in her stomach kept getting
worse. she began to belch, and Abel stood in shock.
without a word, he ran around the bar towards Rose
in a hurry.

just as he reached Rose, she began to vomit. she
lurched forward and the waste spewed onto the bar.
it was as if she spat up watery cornmeal. "FOR
CHRISSAKES!!!" Abel yelled. Rose simply wiped the
front of her face and sat back down. "Lemme get
another drink, hic, and an olive." Rose said in a
calmer voice. "GET UP FROM THERE!!!" Abel yelled,
and grabbed her by the arm. She had managed to not
get any vomit on her clothes, but it had hit the
bar and dropped onto the floor. "Wait - what about-
waitasecond-" Rose said as Abel brusquely guided
her to the door. In one swift motion, he opened
the door and flung her out onto the sidewalk. "AND
THIS TIME STAY THE HELL OUT!!!!" he bellowed before
slamming it shut. The other patrons, who were up
in arms laughing before, had gotten silent quick as
Abel stomped back inside. Rose could be heard crying
outside. "You sonuvabitch!! You dirty, potato-fucking
sonuvabitch!!!" she yelled. Abel went to the back to
grab the bucket and mop.

One of the group shook his head. "Wild Irish Rose, that
one is." he said before taking a swig of Glenfidditch.
The other two nodded as they sipped from their mugs.

stumbling romance by the pool table.

it was a chilly evening in november, the kind that
lets you know winter's coming to collect on all that
fun you had in the summertime. i was in Europa bar
once again, waiting on my boy Rah once again(this
was kind of a running gag somewhat; Rah lived all
the way down by August Martin High School, yet would
always tell me "yo i'll be there in 15 minutes" yet
wouldn't show for an hour or more). Europa Bar on
Sutphin Boulevard was one of those places where women
young and old danced for dollar bills in lingerie.
this night, i sat and drank with Tatiana, a lusty
Dominican lady and watched the clock and my drink.
all of a sudden, behind me, loud voices erupt.

"don't come near me!!" that came from one of the
dancers over in the corner where coats would be
hung up. i had seen her once or twice before. her
eyes were coated in bluish eyeshadow, which did
nothing to take away from the sheen on her face
brought on by ten minute sets and about $20 worth
of Cuervo. she was Brazilian, pale-skinned with
blonde hair that could do with a Grand Concourse
wash and set. she wore a one piece outfit that was
a cross between a polo shirt and skirt, and would
have done her well 10 years and one beer belly ago.
at the moment, she was trying to fend off this guy
who was hammered. he had the look of a construction
worker, dusty boots and all. he looked to be from
Mexico at first guess, and the moustache added to
it. he stumbled towards her as if to grab her up
in his arms. henrique, the owner came from behind
the bar and in one motion put himself between the
dancer and the drunkard and steered him out the
double doors. as a final motion, he got the guy's
coat and lightly tossed it out. after about a minute
or so of laughter, i finished my drink and got out
of dodge. i know a cue when i see one.

the kid and the Big C.

as if the New York Mets and their fans didn't have
enough to worry about this season.

Gary Carter, better known as 'The Kid', a catcher
who was one of the more popular members of that
1986 World Series team the Mets had, found out this
past weekend that he not only had four brain tumors
in his head, but that surgery was not an option. for
me, Carter was as much a cool customer as Doc Gooden
or Daryl Strawberry was. when i started following
baseball, i noticed that i didn't root for a team,
but i was behind certain players all the way. and
Gary Carter was one guy who i liked to watch as a
catcher back then. even as i wound up being a Yankees
fan in the early '90s, i had a special place in my
heart for those '86 Mets 'cause they were what the
city missed since the Bombers' last title: winning
with grit and style. i hope he beats the big C just
like he did against opposing base-runners in his
Hall Of Fame Career.