When the RR train screeched to an abrupt stop in the tunnel under the East River, Gabriel opened his eyes to the darkness outside. The lights inside flickered and went out. Now they were in total darkness, except for the glow from the emergency lights. Several minutes passed. Gabriel imagined being buried alive, drowned by the angry river waters cracking through the tunnel’s walls. Suddenly, all the lights came back on but the train did not move.
Most of the seated passengers were dozing, getting a few extra minutes of sleep before reaching the Lexington Avenue stop. Some buried their faces in newspapers — the Daily News or the Post — or in magazines like Time or Sports Illustrated. Those who stood leaned forward to peruse advertisements while fidgeting with the overhead hand bars, hot under their heavy coats and woolen hats and scarves.
Gabriel closed his eyes, reclined his head on the cold metal wall behind him. He saw himself riding in the back of an ambulance to Elmhurst Hospital. Right next to him was his mother, Mercedes; on the opposite side, James Salvatore sobered up, pondered how he had almost gotten his best friend killed. The paramedic riding with them, a young Hispanic man in his twenties, worked to stop the bleeding coming from the gash above Gabriel’s left eye. The paramedic asked if he was dizzy or nauseous, assuming that such a powerful blow to the head must have given him a concussion. Gabriel was cooperative, almost relieved to be headed to the place that the little girl, back in 1973, had been taken to because earlier, immediately after he’d gotten kicked in the head at the 90th Street train station, he was sure he had lost his left eye. Gabriel was an easy-going kid who stayed out of trouble, but Sal had had a loose tongue that night, helped no doubt by the beer in his belly, and had said the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. And Gabriel wound up paying for it.
It was late in the autumn of 1975. His parents had been divorced three years. Mercedes had remarried, bought her first house with her second husband and moved the family from Astoria to Elmhurst. Everything was different in Elmhurst — new routines, streets and avenues, neighbors and stores — and Gabriel hated it.
The night he took the ambulance ride, Sal had arrived for a visit in a foul mood. He’d brought two six-packs of Budweiser and sat with Gabriel on the basement couch drinking and listening to Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon. Julia had just broken up with him and Sal wanted to drown his sorrow. By eleven o’clock, he was fairly toasted and Gabriel, who’d had a couple of beers, was dizzy also. Gabriel told Sal about his new life, how violent the neighborhood was, and Sal convinced him they should escort Mercedes home from the train station. Her train arrived around midnight. Against his better judgment, Gabriel walked out of his house with a drunken Salvatore, who seemed more than eager to have someone, anyone, look at him the wrong way or say the wrong thing so that he could unleash his bottled-up anger with his fists.
The trip to the Elmhurst station itself was uneventful; the streets were rather quiet, their corners devoid of the usual buzz. But no sooner had Gabriel and Sal climbed the long double flight of stairs from the street onto the token-purchasing platform than Sal found the adversary he sought.
In his dizzy stupor, Sal had trouble walking and assessing his surroundings. Two young men were on the platform in the process of breaking the law by not paying for their fares. Gabriel saw them both quite clearly — a tall well-dressed black teen was just disappearing up the stairs on the Manhattan-bound side, toward the upper platform where the trains passed. His buddy, a short light-skinned Hispanic teen with a slight limp in his stride, was not far behind. He had just yanked open the exit door and was proceeding calmly through it while the token clerk wailed into his microphone for him to return and pay his fare. Before Gabriel could say a word to stop him, Sal had yelled, “Hey jerk! Can’t you hear the man over there? Pay your fuckin’ fare!” The Hispanic teen had responded, “What’d you say mothafucker? You fuckin’ talkin’ to me?” and pulled out a knife. Gabriel watched horrified, not imagining that soon he’d become embroiled in a fight.
The first guy, noticing his friend had not followed him to the second platform, rushed back down, burst through the exit door and headed toward Gabriel. He swung his fists wildly. Gabriel had little time to react or prepare for the fury of this unexpected opponent, but in the split second that was his, he got as far away from the staircase as possible. He put his hands up to deflect the blows of his attacker’s big fists but was driven back and after a violent push, Gabriel’s head crashed through a closed platform window that swung open over the street as it broke. Gabriel saw the street twenty feet below. With half his body out the window, his assailant worked to pry Gabriel’s hands from the casement.
“You’re goin’ die mothafucker! You’re goin’ die!”
Gabriel found a strength he didn’t know he had. In one motion, he released his right hand from the casement and flung it back with a clenched fist into his adversary’s face, connecting with his nose, knocking him back and momentarily disorienting him. The only thought running through Gabriel’s mind was Get away from the window! But his assailant grabbed Gabriel’s long hair and threw him to the ground. Gabriel felt a kick in the stomach and one to the head near his left eye, and then the rumble of an approaching train through his right cheek, which was pressed flat against the platform floor.
The 7 train had arrived just in time to save Gabriel’s life. The assailants jumped over the turnstiles with the agility of gymnasts and rushed upstairs to hop on the train and disappear. Within minutes, another train pulled into the station with two policemen who radioed for an ambulance, and Mercedes, who unleashed a scream of despair that brought her son back to consciousness.
Looking around the dingy emergency room, Gabriel realized that his wound was minor compared to those of the others. A kid no older than himself had been stabbed in the stomach and waited, hooked up to an IV, with a T-shirt drenched in blood and a couple towels pressed against his belly to stifle the bleeding. The grimace on his face indicated he was in severe pain but the boy sat in silence like a man while the hospital bureaucracy operated. Gabriel was relieved when a nurse finally came to take Carlito Gomez to the operating room. Carlito walked through the double doors holding the blood-soaked towels about his waist with his right hand, supporting himself on his mother’s shoulder with his left and dripping blood on the dirty hospital floor like a car dripping oil on the road.
That night, Gabriel had an hour in the emergency room to ponder his frightening experience, to see the numerous other lives interrupted by violence. But it was not until the doctor had finished stitching up the gash near his left eye — six stitches in all (not many really, when compared to what other patients would get that night) — that Gabriel learned how close he’d come to being knocked senseless or losing an eye.
“You’re a lucky young man, Mr. Brosa,” the doctor said. “Your assailant kicked you in the perfect spot. A little lower and the blow would have crushed your eyeball; a little further up and you could’ve been dead. Fortunately, you got hit in-between, right on the bone; that’s what saved your life. You have very, very strong bones.”
Gabriel surveyed the left side of his numb face. His eye was completely shut. Without further ceremony, he thanked the doctor and walked out of the hospital and into the street. Sal hailed a cab while Gabriel huddled close to his mother, trying to reassure her. Nothing was said in the cab on that short trip home.
Gabriel opened his eyes to see that the RR train was again in motion. It had been cleared to come into the Lexington Avenue station and resumed its journey at lightning speed, the conductor trying to make up for all the time his train had sat in the tunnel. Gabriel got off the train at 23rd and Fifth and walked toward Ann Corp. He reached the dispatcher’s window, took out his Chevy Impala at 6 a.m. and soon was into the morning’s rhythm. Turning left from 21st onto Seventh, he picked up a burly fellow who was headed to the Garment District, dropped him off on the far west corner of Sixth and 37th and continued uptown for other passengers.
Th
ose first days back to work after learning of Mandy’s disappearance went on interminably like a transpacific flight. Gabriel followed no strategy and didn’t worry about how much he’d make. He felt relieved whenever he got stuck in traffic because this gave him more time to think. He didn’t converse with his passengers anymore. He waited for them to enter his cab and announce their destinations, assessed how best to get there and went. He drove easily through the streets, as if his “Off Duty” light was on, not battling for fares or worried about being cut off by buses. Often, he passed by the New York Public Library and had the urge to stop, go in and do his own research on what had happened to Mandy. But each time he continued on, trusting that Mr. Jones had told him the truth or at least everything that anybody knew about it.
CHAPTER 16
A long cold December week passed. Gabriel spent a few nights in Astoria and let Paul drive the Dodge to school. Gabriel enjoyed seeing his father happy as he played host and told funny stories about his youth in Cuba in the ‘20s. The buoyant, loving atmosphere in that cramped basement apartment lifted Gabriel out of the lingering depression that had set in since learning about Mandy, but just before bed each evening he was overcome with sadness while longing for that distant, joyful past. Mandy — the first Holy Grail he ever sought.
Late in the afternoon, on December 8, the Manhattan sky darkened and a cold rain fell as Gabriel snaked across Central Park to the Upper West Side. A brisk wind picked up, sending leaves and small tree branches onto the road, making the surface extra slippery. The cab got chilly, and out of courtesy to his passenger, Gabriel cranked up the heat. With wipers going at full tilt and traffic lights dancing wildly at every corner in the blowing wind, Gabriel drove down Central Park West to 86th where he let his passenger off. As he was in no particular hurry to find another fare, Gabriel lingered by the curb a few minutes and gave the old man more time to collect his things. Gabriel took his fare and generous tip and looked on curiously as the man held on to his hat and briefcase and forged his way toward the awning at a forty-five-degree angle.
Before pulling away, Gabriel wrote in his log the destination and time of arrival: 4:15 p.m. In an hour and a half, he could head home. He looked through his stack of bills — just over a hundred dollars. If he made twenty to thirty dollars more, he would have an average day. But once again his heart wasn’t in the hustle. He would be happy with another five or ten dollars and an uneventful trip home.
The wind died down and a steady, light drizzle now fell. Like a robot, Gabriel clicked his wipers to intermittent and his left blinker on. A woman on the corner in full rain gear was trying to flag down a cab, but as Gabriel moved toward her, another taxi flew past and cut him off to take the fare. Gabriel wondered why anyone would risk an accident for a probable three- to five-dollar ride, but before he could get too righteous, it occurred to him that he’d done this many times before.
He turned off Central Park West onto 72nd and glanced at the entrance gate of the Dakota — at the building’s dirty stone walls, the booth with the suspicious porter in it, the deep courtyard within this fortress, and suddenly he felt sick. A year earlier, this place had become infamous when John Lennon had been shot at point-blank range. The shooting had taken place late at night on December 8, the day before Gabriel’s twenty-second birthday, and had triggered one of the worst seasons in Gabriel’s young life.
Gabriel spied a rare parking spot halfway down the block and slipped into it. He walked back toward the Dakota with the irresistible urge to see the spot where Lennon’s life had ended and where so many of his fans’ dreams had been shattered. For a second, the thought that Mandy’s life could also have come to such an unpredictable end flashed through Gabriel’s mind, but he pushed it out.
A strong wind blew, ripping through Gabriel, sending his light jacket and hair into a flutter, and he picked up his pace. He felt the Hudson chill creep into his bones, bringing with it all the sick feelings of that dreadful day, a year earlier. About twenty feet from the Dakota’s entrance, several people in heavy raincoats sat huddled in a circle on the sidewalk, trying to prevent the lit candles they held from going out. Gabriel glanced across the street and saw other groups of fans holding a sidewalk vigil. Some kept to themselves, perhaps in meditation or prayer; others conversed, maybe shared their memories of Lennon and the Beatles, of that day in December. Gabriel wanted to join, to share his own memories and heave out the grief that squeezed his heart.
A semicircular police barricade had been set up in front of the Dakota so that its tenants could get in and out safely. Most tenants would be dropped off in front by taxis or limousines and quickly escorted in by the booth attendant. Others, sympathetic to the vigil keepers, would linger outside awhile, holding candles and singing Beatles or Lennon songs, before walking inside to resume their lives.
Gabriel strolled to the barricade and peered beyond it, toward the spot where Lennon had collapsed. He whispered a Hail Mary for Lennon’s soul, then another for Mandy’s, before he walked with his head down, lost in his own thoughts, back toward his cab. He was surprised when a woman in yellow rain gear and dark sunglasses tapped him on the left arm.
“Like to join us?”
Before he could decline, she handed him a slender white candle. Gabriel thanked her and, not knowing why he couldn’t find an excuse to refuse, let her light it and followed her toward her group.
He sat next to her and nodded to the others who welcomed him. The woman whispered “Strawberry Fields,” and everyone started singing. Gabriel sang, though not loudly, while watching his candle flame flicker. The other flames also danced; some were nearly blown out by the breeze that snuck into the circle, but then they rebounded into a wonderful fullness.
The darkness came and the candlelight fell on the faces of these friends as they sang “Imagine.” The streetlamps on 72nd, like miniature glass-encased suns, illumined the street all the way from Central Park West toward Columbus and Broadway in the distance, where, like the yellow swirls in a van Gogh painting, they blended with the violets and vivid blues of the evening sky that cleared over the Hudson. The traffic nearby increased, a sure signal to Gabriel that the rush hour’s fury was in full swing; pedestrians, cabs, and buses could be heard everywhere.
Gabriel did not want to leave. After just two songs, he felt he’d become intimate with every member of the group. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was four fifty. The cab was due back by six, so after the group finished singing “Let It Be,” Gabriel thanked everyone for letting him join and said he had to get back to work. Before getting his cab, he heard a voice call behind him. “Going downtown?”
Gabriel turned and saw it was the woman in dark sunglasses.
“Yeah,” he replied, happy to have some company. “Hop in. Where exactly downtown?”
“19th Street, right off Seventh.”
“That’s near where I’m headed,” Gabriel said.
Instead of clicking on his meter as he pulled out, he switched on his “Off Duty” light. In a short time, this woman had become his friend and he felt funny charging her.
“Aren’t you going to put the meter on?” she asked, as he turned left on Columbus.
“This one’s on me,” Gabriel replied. “As thanks for bringing me into your group.”
“Come on. You can’t work for free. Please turn it on.”
Gabriel felt a subtle pressure to do as she asked, so he complied and the bright-red meter numbers registered the first dollar on the corner of 71st and Columbus.
On Columbus, Gabriel stayed in the center lane and away from buses making their routine stops. The traffic was heavy and would get heavier each day before Christmas with tourists on their way to see the tree at Rockefeller Center and shoppers filing in from every borough, Long Island and Jersey to visit fancy stores like Lord & Taylor, Saks Fifth Avenue and Macy’s. As he hooked left onto Broadway, Gabriel’s passenger broke the silence and caught him off guard, addressing him by his full name.
“It
should pick up a bit here, right, Gabriel Guillermo Brosa?”
“Yes, most definitely,” Gabriel responded, elated to have heard someone pronounce his name so sweetly. “It should clear up all the way to 45th depending on the traffic at Columbus Circle. Broadway to Seventh is usually the fastest way down at this hour.”
“Not that I’m in any particular hurry tonight,” she continued. “But I’m hungry and would like to get a good table at Mario’s, after I stop home.”
“We’ll be there in no time, ma’am.”
“My name is Helene Hansen. You can call me Helene. I prefer that to ma’am. We’re friends, aren’t we? Lovers of the Beatles? Admirers of John Lennon? Even new friends don’t need to be so formal. Or, maybe I’m wrong?”
“No, no. You’re right. Sorry, Miss Hansen.”
“Helene, please,” she replied, somewhat aggrieved.
“Okay. Helene. You pronounced my name beautifully, without an English accent.”
“That’s what two years of upper-level Spanish courses at NYU can do. And of course, a few dates with my professor didn’t hurt. While he worked on my Spanish, I worked on his English … until he went back to his wife in Spain. Never bothered to tell silly, gullible Helene Hansen he was married. He sure had me fooled with his ‘you can trust me’ Latin smile and Castilian accent.”
Helene paused briefly, then added, “So that’s how my Spanish improved.”
Gabriel hadn’t really paid much attention to Helene’s appearance till she related this interesting episode. With her sunglasses on (which she had not removed, even though it was almost dark) and in that long yellow raincoat and hood, Gabriel had taken her to be much older when she’d approached him near the Dakota. But her voice was sweet and young, and Gabriel surmised that she must be in her early twenties.
Paint It Yellow Page 8
