by Gary Beck
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kiesha and Hector had drifted into the hall and were standing close to each other, intently talking. Beth had noticed that they seemed to be developing an attraction to each other, but she would never mention it unless they brought it up first. They greeted each other and babbled a bit about how nice the rooms were, after the E.A.U. They all agreed that they were lucky to be there, instead of at a horrible motel. Peter remarked that the rooms were incredibly filthy and wondered if anyone had been living in them. Various opinions were offered, without reaching any conclusions other than they had probably been unoccupied. Peter remembered what Hector had said to the desk clerk about how much the government paid for the room and asked him to explain. Hector told them that when he refused to stay at the motel in Queens, the manager indignantly claimed that he was crazy, since the city was paying $250 a day for the room. Beth did some quick calculations and came up with the figure of $7,500 per month. The others must have done their own arithmetic, because they were all stunned by the amount.
They were just beginning to consider what kind of apartment that amount of money could buy, when Miss lily joined them. She was obviously drained from the events of the long day and gratefully accepted the chair that Hector offered her. Kiesha told her that they were just discussing that the city paid $250 a day for the motel rooms, but she wasn’t surprised.
"The city always been messed up about how to treat the poor. It even worse with the homeless. Once you homeless, you don’t live nowhere, so you don’t vote, you don’t pay taxes, you don’t belong. It’s like you don’t have no identity anymore. Since you don’t live anywhere regular, you don’t matter as an individual to politicians, so they don’t care what happens to you. Those people who work for organizations that advocate for the homeless want you to stay homeless, so they can fight with the city about what it’s doin’ wrong. They need the homeless, so they can keep their jobs, and feel important and make high falutin’ complaints about the mayor. He just another sly servant of the rich and powerful. He do enough for the homeless to keep it quiet most of the time and that’s it. He don’t care about the poor…. Lordy. Here I am makin’ a speech. I gotta go to bed."
They watched her walk to her room and close the door, a proud woman who had defied the system for the sake of her children. Her shoulders may have been slumped from fatigue, but not from the burden of her problems. They were silent for a few moments, digesting what Miss Lily said. None of them had been homeless before, so they were still struggling to understand their situation, but everything she said seemed true. They all felt the alienation and isolation that had overtaken them, and they had all seen the despair that had crushed the spirits of most of the people at the E.A.U.
They didn’t know enough about the advocates for the homeless to discuss them, but Kiesha said, "I guarantee you one thing, they’ve never been homeless, so how do they expect to know how to solve the problems? They do their day’s work, then go home to the suburbs, or a comfortable apartment, while families are still sleeping on the floor of the E.A.U. When they get tired of dealing with the homeless, I bet they get jobs with the same city they’ve been blaming."
Hector nodded, "I think you’re right. The system doesn’t want to help the poor. It just wants to ignore or eliminate them. They started this workfare plan and kicked all these families off welfare. But what about their kids? Sure, a lot of those people were abusing the system, but you can’t punish the kids. They need day care, health plans, and education. And the people on workfare don’t earn enough to make ends meet. They struggle and struggle, but never get ahead. Their kids are just as bad off, maybe worse if it’s a single mother household. She’s gone all day, probably comes home exhausted and is too tired to shop, cook, clean and take care of the household. Do you remember last summer when Guiliani made all that fuss about a painting in the Brooklyn Museum?"
"Sure," Kiesha said. "He was foaming at the mouth."
"We weren’t here then," Beth said. "What happened?"
"This artist put elephant shit on a picture of Christ and Guiliani carried on like it was the end of the world."
Peter laughed, "You’ve got to be kidding."
"No. He kicked up a storm about the evil artist and the disrespectful museum. If he put out a fraction of that righteous indignation for the homeless, kids wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor at the E.A.U."
There was no disagreement that the mayor of only some of the people had a lack of concern for the poor. After chatting a while longer, Beth and Peter said goodnight and went to their room, anticipating the luxury of closing the door to their own family space. Jennifer and Andy were sleeping soundly and peacefully, fortified by McDonalds and improved living conditions. Beth stretched out on the bed, which felt like a floating dream after the hard, garbage strewn floor at the E.A.U. Peter took a shower, dried himself with paper towels, then lay down next to Beth, slipping his arms around her. They didn’t talk, just pressed tightly against each other, shutting out the horrors of the last few days. They lay there silently for a while until Peter demonstrated his expanding interest in their sex life. Beth stopped him playfully, " You naughty boy. Mister Clinton is poking me."
"It’s been a long time, honey. Slick Willie wants you."
She kissed him tenderly, "I want you too, sweetie, but we have to find a way, so we don’t wake the kids."
"How about a quickie? I’ll be quiet."
"Behave yourself. You can wait until we work out something. We’ll have to be very careful. I wouldn’t want to get pregnant on top of all our other problems."
They were too tired to get up and put the light out and they fell asleep in each other’s arms. They were just sinking into deep, restful sleep, when a blast of rap music abruptly yanked them awake. Out of habit, Peter looked at his wrist for the watch that now adorned a pawn shop in the Bronx. "What time is it?"
Beth looked at her inexpensive Timex that might bring one dollar at the hock shop, if the owner was generous. "It’s 10:45."
"What is that awful racket?"
"That’s a contemporary American music form known as ‘gangsta’ rap."
"I appreciate the lecture, but maybe I should have asked why it’s so loud." The music was getting louder. The lyrics were indecipherable, except to the dedicated aficionados who studied the words as intently as opera buffs absorbed Mozart. The blaring bass beat throbbed through the walls of the room, setting their teeth on edge, but didn’t wake the exhausted children, although they stirred restlessly.
"Maybe they just put it on, and they’ll turn it down soon," Beth said.
"I hope so. I’d hate to listen to that for much longer."
The music went on and on, becoming more and more irritating to Beth and Peter, who were yearning for sleep. They tried to ignore it for a while, snuggling together under the blanket, but the sound was too intrusive. Peter shifted several times in a vain attempt to shut out the noise. Finally, he got up and went to a phone that was in a slot near the door. He picked up the receiver and discovered that it had been disconnected.
He waved it at Beth, "That’s great. How are we supposed to make a call if there’s an emergency? I’m going to see if Hector wants to do anything about it." He went into the hall just as Hector was coming out of his room.
"Hey, Peter. It sounds like we got some noisy neighbors."
"Yeah. I was going to call downstairs and complain, but my phone isn’t connected."
"I’ll check mine." Hector went in and came out a moment later. "It doesn’t work." The music was much louder in the hall and both men closed their doors so it wouldn’t wake the children.
"I’m going downstairs to complain to the desk clerk," Peter said.
"Go ahead. I’ll keep an eye on things here."
It took a while for the elevator to arrive after Peter pressed the button, and the car was crowded once it got there. Some black men sporting gold chains and big gold rings begrudgingly made room for him and maintained a tense silence as they
rode down. They spilled out of the car on the ground floor, jostling him as they went to the street.
Peter went to the desk where the same clerk was on duty. "Hi, Mr. Singh. I’m Mr. Harmon, in 703."
"Yes."
"There’s loud music coming from somewhere upstairs."
"Yes."
"Can you ask them to turn it down?"
"It is Friday night. Some people make more noise then."
"I understand, but this is very loud."
"Yes."
"We’d appreciate it if you ask them to turn it down. We don’t want to wake the children."
"I cannot leave the desk, except for emergency. I am night manager. When late night manager comes on at midnight, I will tell him of your complaint."
"Is that all you can do?"
"Yes."
"Thanks a lot."
"Yes."
"What’s the night manager’s name?"
"Mr. Singh."
"I thought that was your name?"
"Yes."
"Are you related?"
"No."
"But you have the same name."
"All Sikhs are named Singh."
Peter went back upstairs less than satisfied with the management of his new residence. Hector had been joined in the hall by Beth, Kiesha and Miss Lily and they were discussing the disruptive music. When he told them about the indifference of the management to the noise problem, this further distressed them.
"The guys that work here are all named Singh and they’re only concerned about emergencies."
Hector was really upset. He wanted to go upstairs and ask the local music providers to turn it down, but the others dissuaded him.
"You don’t know what’s going on up there," Kiesha said. "What if you get into a confrontation our first night here? It’s not worth your getting hurt."
"I can take care of myself."
"Kiesha’s right," Beth said. "Wait until we find out a little more about what goes on here, before you do anything."
Hector was reluctant to agree, and Peter added, "When I went downstairs, there were some rough looking dudes on the elevator coming from an upper floor. They could be gang members. We can talk to some of the people here tomorrow and hopefully they’ll tell us what this place is like."
Miss Lily settled the issue in a very simple way. "Except for that noise they call music, we’re a lot better off now than we were earlier today. It’s Friday night. We can stand that racket ‘til they quiet down and go to sleep."
Hector calmed down and the others relaxed. "Once we know more about what goes on here, we can figure out how to deal with any problems," Beth said. "I’m worried that we don’t have a phone in the room. What if here’s an emergency like a fire or something?"
Peter nodded. "We’ll have to get cell phones as soon as we can." Miss Lily was embarrassed but mentioned that she couldn’t afford the expense on her limited income. Peter told her that he’d look into different phone plans and there might one that included multiple phones. When she repeated her concern about money, Peter suggested that she not worry until they knew more about it. They were all tired and decided to go to McDonalds for breakfast in the morning and discuss what to do next. Kiesha reminded them that Monday was Martin Luther King Day and schools and other places would be closed for the holiday. They said goodnight again and went to their rooms.
The pounding din of rap music went on for hours, supplemented with yells, peals of laughter, shrieks, cursing and screaming. The newcomers managed to endure the audio assault and dozed fitfully. The sound level reached a crescendo about 3:00a.m.and was punctuated by what sounded like a gun shot. After that, a funereal silence settled in and sleep gradually overtook the innocent and guilty alike. Beth kept waking up every half hour or so, apprehensive in the new environment and nervous about what they may have gotten into. She had an ominous feeling that the hotel might not be the kind of place they hoped for. She didn’t see how it could be worse than the motels her friends had described, but she couldn’t get rid of her uneasiness. She snuggled closer to Peter, who had finally fallen into a deep sleep, and felt some comfort in his warmth. The gentle snores of the children were reassuring. When the bright fingers of dawn peeked through the uneven venetian blinds, she slipped into the dark pit of dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The children were up much earlier than the adults and soon woke their slumbering elders during their playful explorations of the new home. The adults washed in the luxury of a private bathroom, then assembled the children in the hall for the breakfast expedition. When they got into the elevator, a tired looking upstairs neighbor grumbled about the energetic entrance of the children but subsided to sullen silence. Peter asked the Asian man at the desk, who turned out to be another Mr. Singh, if there was a McDonalds nearer than the one on 23rd Street. Mr. Singh indifferently said he didn’t know.
An older black man hanging out in the small lobby said there was one on Park Avenue South and 28th Street and told them how to get there. "Turn right when you leave the hotel and walk east on 28th Street. You cross Madison Avenue, go another block to Park Avenue South and it’s right on the corner next to the subway station. You can’t miss it." They thanked him and tried to calm the ravenous “puppies”, who were howling for sustenance. When they succeeded in establishing some order, they led the pack to the street.
It was a brisk, sunny winter morning. The bright blue sky was dotted with fleecy, puffy white clouds that scooted in front of the sun, casting brief, elongated shadows on the sooty buildings. In daylight the King Charles hotel didn’t look as run down as when they arrived the night before, but it was shabby from neglect. The rest of the block appeared to be struggling for a comeback after a period of decline and decay. There was an expensive looking hi-rise across the street, with an open plaza that didn’t look as if it had been designed for children. 28th Street was quiet on the holiday weekend and most of the people they passed were young and prosperous looking. Beth noticed that many of them glanced at her group appraisingly, then quickly turned away, as if identifying them as undesirable, but unthreatening. This made her reassess her group and it was obvious to her that they not only were an odd combination, but definitely not upscale. In fact, their appearance was more suitable for a poverty neighborhood, rather than a well to do community. Beth couldn’t judge their new neighborhood until she saw more of it, but her first impression was that it may have been a little seedy, but it was a lot better than the Bronx.
The children and the adults were happy being outdoors and breakfast at McDonalds was surprisingly edible after government surplus food. The meal was marred by the eviction from the premises of an old woman, wrapped in multi-layers of soiled cloth and tattered coats, along with her plastic bags of worldly possessions. Beth watched the proceedings with much more interest and sympathy than she would have a short while ago. Although she understood why the establishment didn’t want street people hanging around, it raised a broader question for her. How should our society treat the mentally ill homeless and the dysfunctional? She wondered why the city couldn’t build a drop-in center for street people, where they could shower, get a hot meal, a medical check-up, counseling and a bed for the night, if they wanted it. It sounded simple enough, but she’d have to think further about whether or not it was practical. She understood clearly that she and her family were now considered homeless. Maybe it was only a temporary condition and they’d get back into their apartment in a few more days, but for the time being they were in the shelter system like any other homeless family and they would have to make the best of it.
When they finished eating, they were reluctant to return to the confinement of the hotel, so they walked down Park Avenue South to 23rd Street. The west side of the avenue was lined with large granite-faced insurance buildings, designed to withstand the assaults of demanding claimants. The bleak stone walls concealed the legions of calculators who never slept in the endless campaign to separate citizens from their money. Bet
h remembered an economics professor at M.S.U. who fell into disrepute with the administration when he unfavorably compared insurance companies to gambling casinos. He contended that insurance companies fleeced the suckers even worse than casinos, because they never reminded the customers that the odds were always against them, and unlike the house, they tried to never pay off. She thought the buildings squatted like medieval fortresses, guarding the wealth of robber barons. In contrast, the east side of the avenue, with a number of new buildings, was clearly in an upgrade mode.
They turned west on 23rd Street and when they got to Madison Avenue, they saw a park across the street. Madison Square Park was mostly closed for construction and the trees were bare, but only a few people seemed to be enjoying the open areas. They came to a dog run on the 5th Avenue side of the park. It was teeming with a pack of barking, running, playing pooches, cavorting under the watchful eyes of their posing masters, who were doting on their surrogate children. The group stopped to watch the doggie antics for a few minutes and the children cheered for their favorites, like the Roman populi at the arena. Hector noticed the playground at the northeast corner of the park and pointed it out. The dogs were instantly forgotten, and the children stampeded for playland. The adults hurried after them, keeping a careful eye out for mishaps. The playground was mostly deserted due to the cold, so the children, led by Pablo and Raheen, rushed to the large, elaborate jungle gym, eager to try all the pathways.
It was too cold to sit around, so the adults stood and watched the children run wild, without anyone admonishing them to calm down and be quiet.
