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Written by Alan Chan
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It was a stupid day at the office. A Saturday. Busy in
Flushing with Chinese losers with their boring cases. "Can't
review the Prospectus, didn't come in yet." "No word yet
from immigration Mrs. Chong."
"No credit if the Contract doesn't go through, Mr. Wong."
Saturdays end early, 4 p.m., not 6 p.m., like Monday through
Friday. I close the one room office, after paying Angela in
cash. That $500 stings when it's slow, and it's slow.
Seems stupid at 50 years old, paying someone in cash.
Lots of things seem stupid now.
I wonder why my stand-up career didn't take off as I walk to my
car in the municipal lot. I'd surely be in L.A. by now if it
did, in a hot tub, who knows, maybe with some hot blondes? I
notice another scratch on the Highlander. Fuck'in bastards.
They park too close.
As I back out, I realize I've got nowhere to go. I can go
back to the apartment. But why? To a bottle of Cintron
and more college games I don't care about. Nope, not going
home. I'll go for drive.
As I cross the Whitestone bridge, I get an idea. Go back to
the old neighborhood. Haven't seen the South Bronx, now
newly named "SO-BRO," in a while. It's right there.
Just turn left on the Bruckner Expressway.
Yeah, haven't done that nostalgia trip since my last great
depression. Why is it when I'm alone I like to revisit the
past?
So I turn left onto the Bruckner, up the Deegan. Get off at
Grand Concourse. Drive past 161st Street, Yankee Stadium and
all that, but more important, past the park there where we'd walk
from our apartment on 170th when we couldn't afford a car.
Yeah, Ma, I was right, we all got cars, so we don't have to
walk anymore.
At 170th, I turn right, and go down the hill. But I get
disoriented. I can't believe it. I don't recognize
it.
Markers and monuments are missing. The movie house next to
the Concourse - where is it? Then I realize the marquee is
now a sign for a 99 cents store. Taft High School and the
running track and field are still there, but on the right, where
there was a giant apartment building with a pizza parlor and Jewish
Deli and a
Met Supermarket, there's an empty lot. I can see clear to
and beyond Morris Avenue as I go down 170th.
Even the Taft Annex is missing, which was white with two entrances
and no windows, now replaced by red brick urban renewal housing.
I used to wonder, why no windows? Reminds me of gay
bars, windows always covered or blackened so you can't see inside.
I look for #317 East 170th Street, where we lived on the third
floor. It's still there, across from Claremont Park's
entrance. But the apartment building next door, the one
with the synagogue on the curve of Teller Avenue, isn't there
either. I park next to the park on Teller, making sure I hear
my car lock go "beep-beep"
as I walk away. Had to lock the car doors when we lived here
almost 40 years ago. More so now.
I want to see the backyard. It wasn't really a backyard, it
was actually the back part of the row of three
family and one store houses. That's where the garages were.
It was all cement and pavement and a ramp down to reach the
garages and some additional outdoor parking. But it was a
backyard to us kids. It went a full block, and had another
ramp on the end back to another street I don't remember.
There we played punchball, softball, boxball, tag, blew
firecrackers, fought with each other, ran from gang kids, hid from
our parents when we had to, it was our playground and country club.
I reach the top of the ramp. Is it me, of has the cloud cover
got kind of thick? I begin walking down the ramp, and now it
gets strange. Cars that filled the backyard, abandoned and
under repair, as it seems it's become something of a
junkyard/repair area back there, start disappearing. Now this
is before my eyes, right as I'm walking down the ramp. The
clouds make it darker and darker, but I keep walking down, 'cause
something tells me don't turn around, keep going. I do.
I'm at the bottom. It's now bright and sunny, and feels
unusually hot. This is October, man, but feels like
June or July. All the cars are gone, and the backyard is like
I remembered it. I know I'm hallucinating, but
I want to believe what I'm seeing.
Chinese kids are running around playing a game of punchball.
Since we all moved out in the 70's, I know this just ain't
right. I don't believe in ghosts, and forget time warps, but
damn if I'm not back in 1969. I walk up to one kid at the
makeshift 1st base drawn in chalk on the cement. He looks
familiar. He's me at 13.
The kid just stares at me. I can tell it's me by the way
he's staring. A look of insecurity. But another look
is in those eyes, a bitter, rageous look, like a caged tiger.
"Hi Kid," I say, only slightly giving away to my hallucination that
I know this isn't real. Hey, if this is an illusion, I'm
gonna play it to the hilt. The kid just suspiciously nods his
head.
"Hey, Richie, throw the ball home." It's my brother, Ronald.
Always fat, always bossy. Richie throws the ball home.
"And stop talking and pay attention at first." Man, now
I remember why Ronnie and I don't get along.
Fuck it! I remember this day! I remember an old Chinese
Man, who spoke good English, came down to the backyard one day and
said some shit to me. It was like how do I get rid of this
guy? It's fuck'in me! But that guy was old and fat
and had liver spots on his face and didn't look cool. Yeah,
I guess to a 13 year old kid, that is me.
Now I'm faced with dilemma. Maybe this isn't a
hallucination, this is like a Star Trek black hole or time warp or
something. I'm not saying it's real, but suppose it is.
Could I change history. Oh man, another bite at the
apple! I could tell myself what to not do, what went
wrong...don't go to St. John's Law School, in fact, forget law
school altogether. Don't marry Nancy at 21. Don't
come back to NYC after Brockport State.
Most of all, don't open that fuck'in law office.
"Listen, Richie, let me give you some advice" I stammer out, a bit
too excited for fear this moment will pass without the message
getting out. "Watch out for rushing your childhood, don't
get married at 21, don't let your father force you out of the
house before you're ready, go for what you love, use your
performing talent,
give it all you got."
"OK" I hear Richie say. Not like he's considered what I
said. More like he's placating a homeless man who's talking
to himself. Well, what do you expect. He's 13, he's
"OLIVER" in the play "OLIVER,"
he's Vice-President of the 9th grade class, he's admitted to a
special music high school...he can't know how it will all play out
by getting played out.
"Listen, Mister, we all got to do what we all got to do, right?
So I got to play right now." I did say that to that old
man. And I remember thinking, who is this asshole telling me
some bullshit? Man, I had an attitude.
Still do. Only now, it's an attitude I share only with
myself.
I gaze around at the other kids. My other brother Donald, my
ex-friend Jimmy, other kids whose names I now don't remember...I
almost cry. We were young, enthusiatic, full of life and
hope...yet at the same time, full of rage at being poor, a minority
within an imporverished minority neighborhood, not knowing the
extent of the wrongs we were suffering in neglect, cruelty,
beatings, muggings...
The sky begins to darken. I can no longer speak to the
apparitions. I know what's happening. The cars
reappear, and the bright sunlight is gone. It's a cloudy day
again and colder. The children are gone. They don't
disappear. They're just not there anymore. I turn,
walk around the rematerialized cars, and go back up the ramp. To
say I feel morose is an understatement. Is there really a
God?
I get to the top of the ramp. Believe it or not, an old
Chinese Man is walking towards me. He looks about 80,
hobbled, bent, almost no hair, walking with a slow gait and a cane.
He doesn't stop as he passes me, but says "How's the backyard?"
"Not the same" I say.
"Never is" he says.
He starts walking down the ramp, and mutters out "Well, see you
soon."
I just nod my head. Whatever's his trip, I don't want to be
on it.
I get into the Highlander, start it, and then realize.
What the fuck did he mean by "see you soon?"
Oh no he won't. I drive down Teller Avenue, faster than I
should.
You know, people out there are getting crazier everday, I'll tell
you that. I gotta stop those trips down memory lane to the
Bronx.
It'll be a while before I take another...
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