by E. B. Lee
“Heyyy, Grant.” Cedric’s smile revealed a noticeable gap between his two front teeth. With a punch on each other’s shoulder, the greeting was complete. Cedric slid his bags aside to make room. Grant, still standing, introduced Carli.
Cedric scanned Carli from head to toe, nodded at Grant, and gave somewhat of a smile, somewhat of a sneer. Suddenly serious, he asked, “You leaving?”
“Hell no,” said Grant. “You, my friend, know me better than that. I just need some help. Mostly with the women.”
Cedric nudged his bags aside, making room for two guests rather than one. Then he said, “I’ll help with the women.”
Grant got down to business. “Are they treating you right at the shelter?”
“Yeah. Okay. Not great, but okay.”
“What do you mean, ‘Not great’?” asked Grant.
“I don’t know. It’s just different.”
“Of course, it’s different. Sometimes different can be good.” Grant allowed a few seconds for his words to sink in. “Tell me about the food. Is it okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I still get some of my own when I can.”
“That sounds all right. And you got a bed, right?”
“Yeah, the bed’s okay. I’m trying it,” said Cedric.
“That sounds good, too. Really good. You haven’t been bussed, have you?”
“No.”
“So, so far, no problems.”
Carli learned about some of the problems walking from Wilson’s to Cedric’s: thefts, attacks, other bad stuff. Coat pockets like Wilson’s could be too inviting to be safe. Sometimes they got slit while the owner slept. Metal detectors at centers were good, but not foolproof. She understood Cedric’s resistance.
“A couple of guys got talking to themselves,” said Cedric. “One was shouting on and off. How are you supposed to sleep? This other guy was hacking away. You can’t smoke inside, and I’m not saying that’s what he did, but he was coughing all over the place.” Cedric shrugged to end his recap, then said, “I’ll give it a few more days. It’s warm. Okay?”
“Wise man.” Turning toward Carli, Grant continued. “This man is a can collector extraordinaire. Hardest worker I know.”
Cedric beamed. Carli smiled back.
“How many do you collect in a day?” Grant asked.
“Good day? Two bags easy. Ten bucks.” Leaning toward Grant, he lowered his voice. “Know a couple of really good new spots. Plus, my usual route. Keeps me in business. Plus, I just found me a great new place to take them,” said Cedric. “Central Market takes every single one. No limit. I don’t have to even think about that redemption center.”
“Cedric, my man, you’re doing great,” said Grant. “Tell me, though, have you checked into assistance like I suggested? Maybe asked anyone at the shelter about it?”
Cedric was silent. Grant let him off easy. “Just keep it in mind.”
“Sure, sure, but I don’t want to take no one else’s money and have to owe ’em anything. Besides, I already have a job.”
“Well, maybe a different job would work just as well.” Grant leaned a bit closer to Cedric. “You hear anything about the park two nights ago?”
“Just what’s in the news.” Cedric reached his eyes toward Carli. “I read the paper. Every day.”
“No word from the street?” asked Grant.
Cedric shook his head. “I’d tell you. You know that.”
Grant nodded and stood. Cedric gave a casual two-fingered salute, to signal the visit’s end.
Once outside, Carli asked, “Do you think he knows anything about Lenny?”
“Cedric’s usually pretty honest with me. I believe him.”
Every few blocks on their way to Four Bridges, Grant pointed out another person he knew, or stopped to share a quick conversation. He spotted most from nearly a block away; knew exactly where to look. There sure were a lot of them, including one man prospecting for coins near the street gutter, two of four men who lived near the Midtown Synagogue entrance, a man who clucked for conversation, and a woman who only ate French fries. The woman turned away when Grant approached. Heading the final blocks crosstown, Grant pointed out yet another man, who was occupied digging cigarette crumbs from an empty package. Carli and Grant passed a young man—who looked no more than eighteen years old—pointing in the air and making repeated circular movements with his hands, as though performing mime. Finally, there was a “screamer” – a woman in a green shawl, known to start screaming without notice. Grant wasn’t sure if it a ploy; a means to make the woman appear crazy enough to warrant being left alone. Once again, Carli wondered how she had missed them all. Here they were, in plain sight. And there were so damned many! What hit hardest was knowing each had once been someone’s protected child.
Carli and Grant arrived at the Four Bridges drop-in center just after noon.
“Hey, any of you near the park two nights ago?” Grant’s voice boomed as he addressed the roomful. “Anyone?”
Forty or so people in chairs looked around expectantly, waiting for news, but no one answered. Wilson didn’t bother raising his head from his chest, but Carli was grateful to see he had made it.
“If you don’t know, we had someone hurt up there. If you hear anything, you tell Mercy or me, or anyone else from Outreach. And be careful. Okay?”
A few in the group nodded.
The bodies streaming in and out of the room, past the metal detector’s inquiring vision, seemed endless. All they were given was a single chair, but it was better than cold stone and far better than wind and wet flurries. A few left with a nod to the guard and a show of a single cigarette. They would soon return.
Grant provided Carli with a quick survey of the room; the assortment of broken lives was numbing. She was relieved when Grant said, “I think you’re getting the gist of it. Let’s go find Mercy.”
Carli and Grant found Mercy in her office finishing a conversation with a man, who said, “I’ll try. I understand.”
As soon as the man left, Grant and Mercy exchanged glances. “Pizza?” asked Grant. Theresa smiled, and Grant led the way to Sal’s, at the end of the block.
At their corner table, Mercy extended Carli a hearty welcome. “I remember my first day here like it was yesterday. I met this man, Jesu, and he lied to me.” She turned to Grant and said, “By the way, have you seen him lately? I don’t know if he’s in or out. Still lying to me.”
“Haven’t seen him,” said Grant.
Mercy continued her story. “He said he needed a coat. This man was so convincing, and I was new. So, dang, if I didn’t make a special trip in the snow to get one. I gave him the coat, thinking I was doing the best thing in the world. The next day, the very next day, no coat. You know what he says?”
Carli shook her head.
“Said he gave it to a friend. Like hell he did. That coat that I raced to get was likely worth two vials of crack.” Mercy and Grant sighed in unison. “Sometimes, you just want to shake people and get some good sense into them, but it doesn’t work that way.”
“Amen,” said Grant. “Tough love.”
“But it’s not that simple,” said Mercy. “No ma’am. The thing is, some want something, but they’re struggling and don’t want it bad enough. Or they go working at cross ends with themselves. It’s like they have two heads and one says yes while the other says no. Other times, you get mad at the system instead. Look at Rudy, who I was talking to inside when you two arrived. Works at a nightclub cleaning toilet bowls. That’s right, toilet bowls. You tell me how he feels telling the shelter he’s late for curfew because he’s cleaning toilets in another borough, and sometimes the train is late. I mean, how’s a person supposed to feel? How’re they ever going to keep their pride? This one’s trying, and he’s still getting stung. Dang, it burns me to a crisp. Say, think you can stop up at the shelter and vouch for him? I’ll be calling and sending messages too.”
Grant nodded. “Say, has Vera been at drop-in today?”
�
��Pretty sure she came and went already.”
“She’s one of the two I want you to visit,” said Grant, looking at Carli. “Not to worry. We’ll meet her soon enough.”
Looking at Mercy, Grant said, “You might get a new one named Lenny. He should be coming out of the hospital. With any luck, he’ll decide to go home. But he might stop here instead.”
“The one who got bashed in the head? I heard about him,” said Mercy.
With lunch over, Mercy headed to Four Bridges, and Carli and Grant started walking uptown. Over his shoulder, Grant called to Mercy, “We’ll send you the easy ones today, if we find any.”
Carli heard Mercy call out, “Ain’t no such thing, and you know it.”
Another block north, Grant slowed, put a hand on Carli’s arm, and said, “Here’s someone you might know. He barely misses a Church Run Midtown East Side, unless he’s on a business trip.”
It was hard to forget Canada.
“His real name’s Steven. Steven Lewis. But he never liked it,” said Grant. “So, I call him Madison, or Mad for short, though he’s never angry. He usually beds down outside the Midtown Synagogue on Madison Avenue with a few of his buds; the ones you saw on our way here. He’s the one who suggested the name, in jest, but the name stuck. I doubt he’ll ever stay inside anywhere, though he, of all of them, could.”
It was good to see the iced chowder was missing from the man’s beard. Carli confided, “I named him Canada.” Grant laughed his approval.
“For the longest time, he thought I was an undercover cop,” said Grant. “He cleared out as soon as he saw me. That’s because … well, a guilty conscience does things.
“What do you mean?” asked Carli.
“Madison makes his food money dealing, or copping, and middle-manning it, actually. He takes it to the young ‘white-collars’ on Wall Street, the ones the big hitters don’t have time for.”
Carli stiffened. “He’s a drug dealer?”
“Yup, makes it look like they’re making a donation, helping the needy,” said Grant. “The thing is, the needy one is the person Madison says ‘bless you’ to as he hands them the stuff.” Carli knew it happened but hadn’t realized the logistics.
“I don’t blame them, really,” Grant continued. “Most of them have zero street smarts. They’re better paying the mark-up and letting our friend, Mad, travel into the shadows to get the stuff. They can certainly afford it. Madison used to deal cocaine and crack exclusively, but lately, he’s moved into heroin, what with all the opioid addictions and related legal prescription scrutiny. All these years, he’s never done any of the stuff himself. To him, it’s just a job. A way to stay out and earn his keep.”
“So, what do you do with this knowledge?” asked Carli.
“What do you think? No one’s going to rehab if they get busted for going. And no one’s going to trust us to help if we send them to jail. What do we do about it? Nothing.” Grant shrugged. “We’re here to help,” he said. “We have to know this stuff. Shit happens. Hits happen too. One hit. Two hits. Lots of hits happen, and one of the biggest methadone clinics in the country is sitting pretty right there, right around Wall Street.”
“What?”
“Sure. Those who bid Madison adieu spend their lunch hours buying meth instead.” Grant tipped his capped downward slightly across his eyes. “We’re not the police. We’re here to help them, any way we can.”
“But he’s a drug dealer,” said Carli, suddenly happy with her fake name.
“I know,” said Grant. “A small-time drug dealer. One of the smallest. And his buyers are going to get it somewhere. I know, for a fact, they’re safer buying it from Madison than in some sleazy dark alley, production house, or car transaction.” Grant picked up the pace and shouted, “Hey, Madison!”
The burly man spun around, happy to hear Grant’s voice, but pulled up short upon seeing Carli. “Are you out all hours too?” he asked, once Grant made the introduction.
“No,” said Grant. “I get to keep all those overnight secrets to myself.”
Madison became suddenly serious. “I heard someone in the park got roughed up. You know anything?”
“I do,” said Grant. “They left him pretty bad off. All for a buck or two, I’m sure, or a bit of entertainment. You keep the guys together, okay?” It wasn’t a question.
“You knew him?” asked Madison.
“I checked in on him at the hospital,” said Grant. “He’s new.”
“No idea who did it?”
“Not a clue. There’s always someone trying to make the news, or maybe it was Lucy’s guy trying out a new game.” Madison nodded, wanting more scuttle. Grant changed subjects.
“Carli, here, has a nickname for you. Fact is, you’ve met.”
Madison looked carefully.
“She saw you at a Church Run and calls you ‘Canada.’”
Madison roared. Several pedestrians looked over.
“Call me Chipmunk if you want. Whatever suits you.”
“Why not,” said Grant, staring at Madison. “Names can’t hurt, right? See you tonight.”
“He’s a good man,” said Grant, “but I doubt he’ll go inside anytime soon. Being in wasn’t too good to him in the end.”
“What do you mean?” asked Carli.
“The poor guy had a high school sweetheart and would have done anything for her. They got married young. No kids, just the two of them. Madison had a steady job, and he got laid off. Over time she lost interest. She must not have liked his oaf-like ways, and she broke his heart when she sent him out. He doesn’t want to deal with alimony or any ties that’ll keep breaking his heart, so he just split and left it all to her. Madison figures this is his best way out. So, I give him space and check on him. I give him credit for his spirit. Seems like he could turn it around easier than most if he’d just get past that broken heart.”
“Sad,” said Carli. “Hard losing someone you love.”
Grant nodded. “Now, what would you know about that?”
Carli didn’t answer. Instead, she said, “So, what should I call him? He doesn’t like Steven, and the name Madison seems reserved for you.”
“Why not stick with Canada? He seemed to like it, and he said you could call him anything you want.”
“Canada it is,” she said. “But I’m not too keen on working with a drug dealer.” Another half block along, Carli asked something else. “The man who got hit in the park ... What will happen to him?”
“Lenny? He’ll be fine. Bruised, stitched up, but recovering, which tells me it was probably just one person, not any punk kids this time.”
Carli caught his eyes.
“Kids might have pummeled him dead,” said Grant. “It happens more than you think. Sometimes they even set a person on fire, either out of spite or for sick fun.” Grant took in a deep breath as though thinking. “No, this was one person. Probably settling a grudge.”
“Someone he knew?” she asked.
“Turf war sort of thing. Just a hunch.”
“Another person from the streets?”
Grant pursed his lips.
“Does Lenny know?”
“Nope.” Grant directed his eyes toward Carli’s. “As to where he’ll go … wherever he wants.”
“They’ll just let him out? To the streets?”
Grant nodded. “Unless they have a reason to keep him, but that costs. My guess is he gave them a fake address. With any luck, he’ll give more thought to the shelter system or going back to wherever he came from. That’s why I went to see him – to give him Mercy’s contact, and to find something out … about it all.” Grant gazed right through her as he said, “You can take a breath now. Your first day’s over.”
Carli said, “Thank God. I’m breathing.”
“Wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“Bad? No. Eye-opening? Yes.”
“Good. It should be. Same time next week?” he asked.
“Sure.”
When warmth retu
rned to her body, Carli flipped through her recent sketches of the city and closed her eyes. The vibrancy she tried to capture over the past weeks only served to perpetuate the myth. The myth that all was well. She reached toward a neatly arranged row of pencils and selected a medium soft 4B. She began placing the people of the streets onto a row of empty benches lining Central Park. She struggled to create the proper angles, wanting to show a man hunching forward just enough that his chin folded into his chest but the rest of his body didn’t slouch. It took three tries to lay down a man on a bench with just the right bend of the knees and extension of the legs to allow his feet and knees to hang over the edge and his head to rest on the armrest. Adding a blurred likeness of a tattered, light-colored coat was easier. Next bench over, she inserted another man’s form in the likeness of Wilson. In a finished piece, with color, she would keep the lines soft and would differentiate only slightly between flesh and swatches of clothing. She wanted them to appear somewhat obscured. In life, so many remained nearly invisible.
On another blank sheet, she started a study of Canada from memory. She couldn’t believe she was sketching a drug dealer. What the hell? The thing about him that stood out – and the thing she had to get right – was the expression in his eyes. While everyone’s eyes gave a clear message the instant you made contact, Canada’s eyes were complex, with multiple layers and meanings appearing over time. His overall aura was upbeat, but his eyes did not match. No, Canada’s gaze included a hint of concern, worry, hardship, or, perhaps, it was a fight for survival. Maybe even had a slight element of defeat. Of course, they still held onto the loss of his first love. This sentiment came through clearly. How to capture it, she wondered? She made several attempts, but each time the result fell short. Art was as much about looking and seeing as it was transferring paint to canvas or graphite to paper. What was she failing to see? Carli stared at her work, and then followed her thoughts on a tangent. What would a study of all of their eyes look like? She closed her own eyes to see those she had seen throughout the city with Grant, and suddenly realized how strongly their eyes contrasted with the liveliness of the eyes she had seen day after day at TSW Inc. One set of eyes reflected bodies filled with hardship, drugs, struggle, and fear. The other gave news of bodies high on life, pressing to achieve, and soaring in the excitement of challenges and ideas. It was survival as success versus success well beyond. Carli faced a troubling thought: maybe some at TSW Inc. were falling, too. Hiding addictions. Feeling failure, but covering as best they could. Maybe some had more trouble at home than she had stopped to consider. Not that she had ever stopped to consider it. She thought of herself. Without Henry. Yes, it was possible. It could be any one of them, even with gleaming eyes.
