Return to Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

  He wished me luck and took off to wherever he was going, leaving me with a substantial bank account. I worked a string of dead-end jobs before eventually hitting my stride as a children’s-book author. I was a double-threat, because I could draw and I could write. I also had no problems working within the constraints of the severely limited vocabulary available to storytellers in my trade.

  Once I had good money coming in I moved to an apartment of my own, a studio on the Upper East Side. I was there for about three years before moving to another studio on the Upper West Side.

  This was my pattern—a few years in one place, always a studio, and then on to the next apartment. Over the years I lost count of how many apartments I had all over Manhattan Island, from Tribeca to Morningside Heights. Always studio apartments, always rentals. I was a moving target. I dreaded the commitment of a mortgage or a marriage. The women came and went. Mostly, they went.

  The only consistency was my work as a children’s-book author. I was a big hit in this deceptively tough racket, maybe because one thing made me uniquely qualified for the work.

  Despite all my crazy adventures, I had never really grown up.

  Which is probably why I was in no shape to handle my father’s death, and failed to dispose of his ashes in what you might call a rational, adult fashion.

  Chapter Four

  When we reached the footpath on the Brooklyn Bridge I was handcuffed and taken to One Police Plaza. It was a hell of thing to get through the crowd that had gathered, including three TV news crews, and that’s where Billy the cop’s brawny shoulders came in handy.

  “Let us troo, please, let us troo.”

  I was fingerprinted and photographed, full face and profile. I was given the right-to-remain-silent speech by Billy, whose last name was Debowski. He took the cuffs off and told me I was going to be charged with criminal trespass, among other things. I told him I didn’t want a lawyer. Then I was taken to a little room with a table and two chairs. I sat there alone for about ten minutes before the door opened and a short man with a beard, rimless glasses and the world’s worst comb-over entered and introduced himself as Dr. Philip Rosensohn.

  We didn’t shake hands because he didn’t offer. He sat across from me and folded his chubby hands together on the table.

  “So,” he began, “how are you?”

  “You a shrink?”

  He winced, very dramatically, as if he’d just been jabbed with a needle. “I’m not fond of that word.”

  “Sorry. Are you a psychiatrist?”

  “Yes. Are you aware of what’s happening here, Mr. Ambrosio?”

  “Well, I’m under arrest.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  I shrugged. “I like your tie.”

  He forced a smile. “I guess you think this is funny.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You’re treating it lightly, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Do you see me laughing?”

  “You risked your life, not to mention the lives of others, to do what you did.”

  “I didn’t ask those cops to follow me. I was doing fine on my own.”

  He pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and read from it before saying, “Did you love your father?”

  I laughed out loud. “Congratulations, Doc. You made me laugh. I guess I’m treating it lightly, after all.”

  “You climbed to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge to scatter his ashes. This indicates powerful feelings about the man, one way or the other.”

  “You think?”

  “Mr. Ambrosio, please. Why did you do this thing?”

  “Because the ashes had to fly as far and wide as possible.”

  He blinked at me. “I’m not following you.”

  “Look, my father was a restless soul. He couldn’t stay put. Wherever he was, he wanted to be someplace else. He literally lived on every continent in the world, Doc, so when I got his ashes in the mail—”

  “Whoa, whoa.” Rosensohn held up a hand, palm out. “You received his ashes in the mail?”

  “Right. He died when he caught a fever while hiking through an Amazon jungle and was cremated that same day. At least, that’s what the letter from the local police claimed. You can’t hold a body in that tropical climate.”

  Rosensohn sat back in his chair. “Well. That must have been quite a blow to you.”

  “Better believe it. The ashes arrived postage due.”

  Rosensohn’s eyes widened. “Wild guess here—you and your father weren’t close.”

  “Sure we were, when he was around. He was okay, my old man. Why do you think I climbed the bridge to scatter his ashes? I wanted them to blow as far and wide as they could. Wanted him to be in death as he was in life—all over the place.”

  “Bullshit.”

  That jolted me. Shrinks are always so neutral in movies and TV shows, and this guy was giving me attitude. I was starting to like him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My instincts tell me you’re not being truthful.”

  “Well, they’re right on the money. I don’t like your tie.”

  Ignoring the smart-ass remark, he plowed ahead. I admired his balls.

  “You’re a man of means. You could have hired a small plane to scatter his ashes. Instead, you went to the Brooklyn Bridge, knowing exactly what would happen, the attention you would draw in our current climate of terrorism. You wanted it to be dramatic, didn’t you?”

  “Seemed appropriate. My father was a dramatic guy.”

  Rosensohn hesitated. “Is your mother living?”

  I wasn’t expecting that. “Long gone. Died when I was ten. Buried in the ground, out on Long Island, when cemeteries were in style.”

  He leaned forward. “You realize you could go to prison for what you’ve done.”

  It was my turn to say “bullshit,” so I did.

  “I’m afraid it’s not. Criminal trespass, endangering the general public—”

  “Oh, come on. I didn’t hurt anyone, my record’s clean and I have money. Save it, Doc. Let’s finish this formality so I can pay the fine and go home.”

  He stared at me and swallowed hard. “I have a feeling your mother’s death has more to do with what happened today than your father’s death. Could I be right?”

  I actually felt dizzy, having just climbed to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge without feeling dizzy. I don’t know if the shrink was right, but I couldn’t say he was wrong, either.

  I shut my eyes and covered my ears with my hands.

  “Give me a break, Doc. For Christ’s sake, I’m sixty years old and I just became an orphan.”

  * * *

  I was released without bail, but only if a relative would come to take me home. I’d called my uncle Victor, who entered the police station in his usual state of dress: blue jeans, a black pocket T-shirt stretched tight by his belly, white socks and sneakers. His fists were jammed into the pockets of his blue windbreaker, and he looked exactly like what he was: a retired New York City bus driver who’d been jolted from an afternoon snooze by an emergency call.

  I saw him before he saw me. He was pushing seventy, and his hair had whitened but his eyebrows remained jet-black, exactly the way his father’s hair had gone. It was like seeing Angie’s ghost walking toward me.

  What a phone call that was, to Vic’s home in Queens. He’d answered with classic Ambrosio nonchalance, not “Hello?” but “Yeah?”

  I was relieved to get him and not his machine—if he had a machine, which wasn’t likely.

  “Vic, it’s Joey.”

  “Hey!”

  “Think you could pick me up from One Police Plaza? I’m in a jam, here.”

  A funny sound—he actually yawned! “You kill anybody?”

  “Nah. Put on the news, you’ll see what’s going on.”

  “All right, let me put my pants on.”

  He hung up before I
could thank him.

  And now, less than an hour later, here he was, in all his unshaven glory.

  “Over here, Vic!”

  I was seated on a bench with Officer Debowski, who’d been ordered to stay with me until my relative arrived. Vic heard me and ambled over, as if this were a chance meeting in the aisle of a supermarket.

  “See the news, Vic?”

  He nodded. “Congratulations. You’re the top story on New York One.”

  “This is my Uncle Victor,” I said to the cop. “Vic, this is the man who brought me back down to earth.”

  Vic shook Billy’s hand. “About time somebody did that,” he said.

  I laughed out loud, remembering how much I loved this peculiar lifelong bachelor—guess it takes one to know one, right? I’d always thought of Vic as a cheerful pessimist. He’d do anything for me, and I couldn’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for him, and so why the fuck did it take my arrest to bring us face-to-face for the first time in more than a year? I’d phoned him when I’d gotten my father’s ashes a week earlier and we’d promised to get together, but something in the Ambrosio gene code seemed to prevent promises from jelling into realities.

  (Lightbulb! Maybe that’s why I did what I did, Dr. Rosensohn! Maybe I got myself arrested to make sure I would see my uncle!)

  Vic patted my shoulder with his right hand, the way you might pat a dog who’s just retrieved a stick. His left hand remained in his windbreaker pocket, clutching something.

  “He’s gonna be all right,” Billy assured Vic in an overly-sincere voice.

  Vic shrugged. “I’m not worried.”

  “Okay, then.” Billy shook my hand hard enough to pop my knuckles, then gave me his business card.

  “Call me if you need me,” he said, and he was gone.

  Vic watched him go. “A cop with a business card,” he murmured. “How times have changed.”

  I hugged this uncle of mine, more like a big brother than an uncle. He didn’t really hug back, but gave me a few awkward pats on my back.

  “Thanks for coming, Vic.”

  “Forget it. Who do we pay?”

  “What?”

  “Bail. How the hell does it work?”

  “There’s no bail. They just want me to walk out with a family member.”

  “I guess I qualify.”

  He pulled his left hand from his windbreaker pocket. Clutched in his fist was a roll of bills thick enough to choke a pig.

  “Jesus, Vic!”

  “Took out as much as I could from a cash machine, and it’s all twenties,” he grumbled.

  I was too choked up to say anything, but Vic wasn’t.

  “What the hell, Chinatown’s right behind us, ain’t it? Whaddaya say we go eat some chinks and drink a farewell to my brother, your father, like we promised we would?” He shook his money fist. “Come on. I’m buyin’.”

  We walked to the exit together. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I did it?”

  He chuckled. “What for, Joey? You probably don’t know yourself. I’m just glad you didn’t jump.”

  “I was never going to jump.”

  “Aaay, I know that. Ambrosios cling to life, no matter how shitty it gets.”

  Hours had passed since my arrest. The sun was setting as we got outside, and one lone pesky photographer followed us, snapping away.

  “Shit,” said Vic, rubbing his face, “is this gonna be in the paper? I didn’t shave today.”

  “Mr. Ambrosio!” the photographer shouted at me. “Why did you do it?”

  I ignored him. Vic and I increased our pace. The photographer kept up.

  “Sir!” he shouted to Vic. “May I ask who you are?”

  Vic ignored him, but when the photographer was right at our heels Vic turned and went nose to nose with the kid.

  “You can go away now,” Vic said in a deadly calm voice. Remarkably, the kid obeyed. We watched him trot away until he turned the corner, then we headed into the heart of Chinatown.

  “That showed him,” Vic said with pride. “Screwed him up good, not saying who I was.”

  “Unless he’s with the Post,” I said. Vic seemed puzzled. I held my hands up, as if to support a billboard.

  “Mystery Escort For Deranged Children’s Book Author.”

  “Aw, shit.”

  We went to Wo Hop’s and ate and drank as if we were both taking the fatal needle in the morning. There was very little conversation, though Vic did ask a delicate question through a mouthful of egg roll.

  “Taylor know about this?”

  I shrugged, felt my neck tingle. “Haven’t heard from her.” For the past two years, to be exact, but I didn’t want to get into that.

  Vic swallowed, jabbed the air with his fork. “You ought to call her.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be a dick. Do it before she reads all about it.”

  “I will, Vic, I will.”

  Taylor is my twenty-seven-year-old daughter, as she’d be the last to admit.

  The fact that I was a fairly well-known children’s-book author and illustrator gave my story that little bit of oomph it needed to jazz up the front pages. The New York Daily News had a great shot of me hurling the ashes skyward, under a headline reading DUST IN THE WIND: STORYBOOK ENDING FOR CHILDREN’S BOOK AUTHOR’S DAD. Not bad, but the New York Post took the prize with SEE JOEY CLIMB! over a shot of me high on the cable. And of course the Times showed its usual pizzazz with CHILDREN’S BOOK AUTHOR, APPARENTLY DISTRAUGHT OVER FATHER’S DEATH, ARRESTED AFTER CLIMBING BROOKLYN BRIDGE TOWER TO SCATTER ASHES.

  The really crazy thing is how that climb filled my pockets. I had twenty-two children’s books in print, and all of them surged in sales on Amazon as a result of my Brooklyn Bridge climb.

  The money would come in handy, because a week later my penalty was finalized, with the help of a lawyer who charged me two grand: I would pay a $5000 fine, and attend twice-a-month therapy sessions for the next six months at my own expense. Two hundred bucks a pop for a total of twelve sessions with the psychiatrist of my choice, from the Police Department’s stable of shrinks. Missing any of those sessions would count as a parole violation, which could send me to prison for six months.

  “Couldn’t you get rid of that prison threat?” I asked the lawyer.

  He chuckled. “Are you kidding? You’re lucky you’re not behind bars right this minute! Hell, you’re lucky they didn’t shoot you! Just make sure you show up for the sessions.”

  I decided to stick with good old Dr. Rosensohn. Why not? Anybody who could tell me I was full of shit was all right by me.

  Hell, if I’d had a few more people like that in my life, everything might have been different.

  Chapter Five

  I didn’t call my daughter. I figured she had to know about my escapade, if she was anywhere near a television or a newsstand where she lived on the Upper West Side. And even if she wasn’t, one of her friends was certain to tell Taylor about what her crazy father had done on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Then again, maybe not. She never took my last name, and it’s not likely she told people I was her father. She went by the last name of her mother, a woman I dated for a month in 1984.

  What can I say? It was a crazy time in New York City. To guys like me, fatherhood just happened.

  * * *

  Things moved fast after the ash-scattering. I put my father’s Charles Street apartment on the market and it sold in two days for almost a million bucks. There was no mortgage on the place, so even after paying for the Shepherd Avenue house I’d still have half a million, plus the money my books continued to bring in. And Social Security was just two years away. In other words, I was set for life, provided I didn’t break any records for longevity.

  The biggest battle I had was with my accountant, who could not believe what I was doing. “I am strongly—and I mean strongly—advising you against this purchase,” said Myron Rushbaum, CPA, a dramatic little man who had a hard time keeping Drake’s Coffe
e Cake crumbs out of his moustache.

  “Duly noted.”

  “It’s a dreadful idea, all around.”

  “I heard you the first time, Myron.”

  “Nobody with reasonable means and a good home buys a house in the city’s worst neighborhood. Nobody.”

  “I won’t have a mortgage and I’ll have a fat bank account.”

  “Wonderful. They can mention your fat bank account at your memorial service.”

  “Myron—”

  “Think of your daughter. Is this what you’d want her to inherit?”

  “She can sell it.”

  “To who? Someone like you? Have you run your grand plan past her, by any chance?”

  “We’re not exactly on speaking terms these days.”

  Myron sighed and shrugged. “Well, I’m guessing this move of yours won’t do much to improve the lines of communication.”

  “The good news is, they couldn’t get any worse.”

  The Taylor situation wasn’t entirely my fault. Her mother, Moonchild Parker, was an avant-garde art critic I met at a Soho loft party. (Was Moonchild her real first name? I was never able to find out, but believe me when I say it truly fit the woman.) We had a whirlwind courtship that stopped whirling after a month, but in that time she fell pregnant and seemed delighted by the prospect of single motherhood.

  So she had the baby, and I did everything I was supposed to do in terms of finances and seeing Taylor on weekends. But when my daughter was two years old Moonchild moved to San Francisco and of course, the child went with her. Thus began my life as a weekend-phone-call dad, a four-flights-per-year to San Francisco dad, a who’s-this-man-in-the graduation-picture-with-Taylor-and-Moonchild dad.

  So it wasn’t my fault, but at the same time, I let the situation make it easy on myself. What could I do? Move to San Francisco? No way.

  So the years passed, and Taylor went to college for a degree in business before making her way back to New York City with some kind of job in finance that allowed her to have a nice apartment on West End Avenue.

  And the last I’d seen of Taylor was at a Starbucks in her neighborhood soon after she’d moved to the city, two years earlier.

  When your daughter’s last words to you are “I never want to see you again,” you have to be an idiot not to get the message. It really hurts, especially when you know you deserve it.