"The Last Time I saw Beautiful"
by Nicole Goodwin
At one time in my
life Putnam Avenue had been a good place to live. All the kids on that block
knew each other, played together; our souls were tall and green like Brooklyn
trees. We were all born from the same roots, nurtured by the same sun, bathed
by the same drops of rain. Although
none of us ever mentioned it, we all saw each other as a member of the other’s
family because all of our parents knew each other well and seemed to get along—especially
during the summer. I remember the happy black faces of men gathering outside
with their beers, their boisterous laughter bouncing off every brownstone and
apartment building across the block. The women including my mother would just
sit outside on the stoop steps gossiping in whispers, then they too would burst
in loud laughter like the men, except the women were known to “high-five” each
other from time to time if one of them said something to the other that was
incredibly funny. Everyone had their
slice that they kept to, the Puerto Rican kids had Jefferson Avenue, the
biker’s kids had the spot in front of the biker club on Broadway, and the
project kids Bushwich Avenue. And we, we had Putnam Avenue. Our block wasn’t really special back then, it
looked like everyone else’s block did, and when the weather was nice enough,
everyone did the same thing, on the same day, at the same time, probably in
similar ways. Like, on the days when the sun’s rays would be at their worst,
blazing against the back of our neck and arms, hovering over our heads like and
incriminating god, we would battle back by opening the fire hydrants.
The cooling waters
would gush out of the bright red hydrants, slapping against our vulnerable
skin, leaving us screaming in terror and joy, as it would attack us
mercilessly, while relieving us from the burden of the heat. I was both
grateful and fearful of this aqueous gift, since I can remember I have had a
long time fear of drowning, yet watching the water violently spewing out of the
pump was the closest I had ever come to seeing an actual waterfall.
When I would see
the boys scooping up the other girls like cavemen, dragging them closer and
closer to the hydrant, my body would tremble with anxious longing I could not
explain to anyone. The sensation arising more and more—expanding inside of me
like a balloon, as I watched the growing young, brutish, muscular arms of the
boys I had known all of my life, grip the quivering waists of the older girls,
their feminine bodies blossoming with each passing summer. Their legs would
kick, and fists would punch at the air as if trying to wrestle against some
invisible attacker, protecting what little dignity they had reserved underneath
the wet sheet that once was their summer outfits. But in the end it was to no avail, they all
shared the same fate, I would witness the spectacle time and time again; the
helplessness screams of laughter and torment mingling together like a siren
song urging the boys to go further, further toward the center as if they could
leap into the black gaping mouth of the silent red fire hydrant, with their
nameless virgin sacrifice. This and other rituals were repeated every
summer, time and time again. Except for one thing, no block—I mean no block
could throw down a block party like ours did.
Everyone from all
the buildings from all the blocks brought out the best dishes they had, making
my mouth water like the little glutton I was. The rap music blasted from huge
speakers shaking the concrete ground, the waves rumbling on the inside of you
if you were to close to the stereos. There were balloons and two blue wooden
police barricades that cutoff the street traffic making it safe to play in with
no worries—a small, but welcomed blessing for kids like me. Since my brownstone
was stationed in the middle of block, at the center of all the excitement it
was the most popular every year, and that year was no exception. The PAL program and other non-profit groups
came around in the spring clearing out weeds, debris, garbage, and old mattresses
from 2 empty lots transforming them into 2 “organic” playgrounds. It was a
wondrous, lovely thing as a city kid to see flowers growing, and bees buzzing
around filling in the barren spaces of a waste and decay. They even painted an
enormous mural on the backside of the one of walls it was an abstract of a
faceless black child reaching up holding the hand of a faceless black adult.
For some strange reason that mural had become very dear to me, every time I
think of it, I am reminded of home not in the sense of a place but in the sense
of people, and time, and the feeling of being pure—of being free of all
burdens. Usually when I felt this way I
would run around chasing after nothing in particular, letting the mingled
sensations of the sunshine and warm summer breeze hit my chicken legs watching
the all the people whoosh by me let all of the joy soak into my young
veins.
I
don’t know why I stopped running at that moment while the other kids played out
in the streets that were free, free,
free! of the procession of blind trafficking cars. Looking back, it may
have been the glimmering shine that caught my eye. The sleek Lincoln Continental was more luminous
than silver as laid against the blackened tarp of the street curb. I had never
seen a vehicle of that caliber before, but in the name alone I could recognize
its opulence. Nobody impoverished, broke, or needy, could ever afford such a
chariot. It was truly only the medium of kings. And then the body fell out.
The
corpse didn’t fall to the ground as comically portrayed in movies or on TV. No,
once the car door was opened it slowly descended towards the tarred ground as a
feather blown into the air would, landing gracefully. I my body was silently
transfixed, yet I heard his languishing heartbeat thrashing against my ears
until there was nothingness. The world had been enveloped into an unknown void.
Time itself melted away. What seemed like years later were the screams. A hand
reached across my shoulder, shaking me, screaming “What happened? What happened?”
I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t say
anything.
In actuality it
did take several years for the truth to be it was explained. The neighbor—my
neighbor, Mr. Leo was a heroin addict. He along with two other friends took
turns getting their “fix” unbeknownst to his and the rest of the block
children. His hit was a bad one; in fact it was to be his last. His friend’s
fled the car while his body went into arrest He died on the way to the hospital
that day. What I saw literally was his final bow.
In
time things slowly decayed. As all the block kids got older, we became more
hateful towards everyone and everything.
Most of the girls and boys just fucked their way out of youth, becoming
parents way before their time. Everyone else I had known was either in a gang,
or became restless high school dropouts, or addicted to any and every narcotic
that they could get their hands on including the soft stuff like “weed”, and
pills, to the harder shit like “base”—which is now known to the world as crack.
I was no better falling into a drunken stupor of education and books, dreaming
away my life. We all had our addictions and our fixes that promised to wash the
slate blank as Mr. Leo’s did. I suppose like the loss of any good father, his
absence took all of our childhood happiness with him to the grave that day.
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