(Photos by Joe)

How we must have looked as we traipsed uptown, the four of us and an invisible boy from a dream . . .

We stepped out from the shadow of the row homes on East 6th Street and into the late afternoon sun on 2nd Ave. The boy, whose name was James, became diaphanous in the brighter light. He scrunched his button nose and reminded us that he would disappear soon. My lady friend(LF) knelt down to whisper in his ear and then kissed his cheek. He nodded and gave a wistful smile. She then held his hand to ensure we didn’t lose him, while the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) began to watch him like two slouching hawks.

The five of us headed across the pedestrian heavy St. Mark’s Place, which is a main artery in the East Village. All around us, as is usual on the block, tourists, suburbanites and hipsters, all brushed shoulders. I checked the faces of those we passed. None of them seemed to light upon the boy. Yet most with “the gift of sight” would be surreptitious.

We went down into the Astor Place station. For god knows what reason, num and nuts swiped a MetroCard through the fare slot for James to pass through the turnstile. The blue-eyed boy’s face turned ruddy as he struggled to budge the turnstile arms. When a moment later I heard the clap and rattle of a train, I manipulated the arms, and guided him through with a hand on his sponge-like back.

There was a handful of empty seats in the polished, stainless steel subway car. James sat on LF’s lap. He turned fully transparent under the fluorescent lighting.

LF was radiant, having gone that afternoon to an East Village salon with num and nuts. I sat next to her and pushed aside her sleek black hair. A musky scent filled my airway as I kissed her neck. Her brown eyes popped open wide, and she touched the spot I had kissed. Right there blue veins rose gently under her pale skin. Her look told me that I shouldn’t have done that. Not now. Not given what we were about to possibly do.

We exited onto Lexington Ave and East 53rd Street. By now it was early evening, and bright orange clouds drifted beneath a violet  firmament. Once again, James became fully opaque, though it still seemed that only we could see him.

We came upon the dead end street in the East 50’s where I had seen James’ home, a home that I since could not find. A medium height man in an overcoat, stepped out of the shadows on the corner. It was Benny, “the cigar store Indian.”

(Antony Gormley’s Event Horizon – 26th St and 5th Ave)

“I got him a free cell phone from senior services,” LF said, cutting me off before I could get in a word. “And I texted him to meet us.”

Benny came upon us and gave a somber, gap-toothed smiled. The old homeless man smoothed his hand over James’ thick black hair. I assumed he knew the boy’s mother, if not a vampire, was a demon whom we might have to kill.

As we walked down the block, Benny discreetly gave out wooden spikes to everyone but the boy. The wood was gunmetal gray. It looked terrible in LF’s hand. I pictured her rearing back, in girlish awkwardness, to strike a killing blow.

Num and nuts slipped the spikes into their pants pockets. I didn’t expect them do anything with the instrument other than poke holes in their pockets and hurt them themselves.

When we could see beyond the last home on the right, James’ three-story home came into view. The facade had an insubstantial air, looking at it was akin to watching an old movie reel film. It was a sea foam green color and had three turrets that reminded me of rocket ships. The windows overlooked the FDR Drive and East River.

I slipped my hand inside my coat, and ran my fingers along the spike to the blunt point. I looked down at James. “You should stay outside with (LF),” I said, and looked at her. “We have no idea what we’re going to find.”

“The house has secret passage ways,” James said, his blue eyes confidently meeting mine. “When Pie-eyed Pete comes into the house, I can always smell the river. I’m pretty sure, I know the passage he takes.”

“I don’t think you coming inside is a good idea,” I said.

“I know all the secret doorways,” he said. “You don’t want a vampire sneaking up on you.”

At the mention of the word “vampire,” num and nuts began to squawk and banter like unruly parrots. Benny gave a shrug and gazed over his shoulder. He took a full step back.

“Okay,” I said with a huff, “we all go in.” I gazed up at the “grainy” doorway, then led the way up the solid wooden stoop. Our footsteps made no sounds. Benny hurriedly followed and waved his hand, urging us to go inside.

Two guys and a girl came diagonally across the street. All three wore black windbreakers, and one man filmed us with a video camera. I recognized them from the train we took uptown.

“They’re ghost hunters,” Benny said, as we filed into the front door.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Four

House on the River’s Edge

Lost

What You See

How We Must Have Looked

The Last Embrace

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(“Home” – Photo art by Joe)

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” – Michelangelo on creating the David.

Weeks ago I told Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” about a haunted house in the East 50′s that mysteriously disappeared. My lady friend(LF) and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts), were with me when I spoke with Benny. The five of us had gone to a Tex Mex restaurant.

Benny, who is an old homeless man with clairvoyant powers, said the home I had seen was in a dream, weaved into reality. The reality part explained the emails I received from the boy I had met in the dream, as well as a phone call he had made to my boss. Benny also said that if I found I was at the home again, to tell myself that it wasn’t real. Then he said I should just forget about it as I did most any other dream. He didn’t say what to do about further phone calls or emails, and I didn’t ask.

-

After a long day of demolition work in Flatbush, I came up from the Astor Place subway and treaded to a hair salon in the East Village to meet LF. Just days from the start of Spring, there was a touch of warmth in the afternoon air. It was as welcoming as a cold beer.

The salon was tucked away on a quiet street, lined with cars and five-story walkups. The sidewalk in front of me was empty. The budding leaves on the trees caught my attention, before I noticed the silence was uncanny. My senses came alive.

A boy loped between two parked cars and paused on the sidewalk ahead. His arms were behind his back, and his head was angled to meet my gaze. It was James. He was the boy I had met at the haunted house that disappeared. He was the boy from the dream. Yet he looked real.

I became conscious of each step, wishing someone else was on the street to see the boy. LF was in the salon, less than sixty feet away.

“You never came back,” James said pointedly, seeming aloof yet angry. His short black hair was neatly combed to one side. His blue eyes were icy.

“I did come back, but couldn’t find your house,” I said, texting LF: ”Come outside right now…”

“How could that be?” he said, wearing a similar outfit as the time I met him: a collared white shirt, “high-water” slacks, and polished black boots. Though now he had on a stylish blazer.

I tried to touch his arm, but he jerked it back. “You’re not real. You’re from a dream world,” I said, seeming to have no reason to question my consciousness. “Somehow you’re weaved into reality.”

“What about my mother and my sister, you met them too?” he said.

“They’re not real either.”

“Good, so then you won’t have a problem, because,” he wiped his forearm across his eyes, “it’s going to get messy.”

“What happened?”

“That ghost in my house, it wasn’t a pirate, or maybe he was at one time–” James lifted his right arm for me to touch.

I clasped the elbow and marveled how it was soft and pliable, more like the arm of a doll. I looked up. LF and num and num came out of the salon. Immediately, they set their sights upon James.

“–His name is Pie-eyed Pete,” the boy continued. “He’s a vampire.”

“How do you know,” I asked as LF and num and nuts came within earshot.

“I knew his name all along, but not that he was a vampire.”  He cupped his mouth. “Then he–he and my mother!”

“Your mother didn’t believe your house was haunted,” I said.

“And now she’s dead! Or undead.” He sniffled.

“Undead?” LF wondered, her black hair and white face glinting even though we were in the shadows. “What do you mean?”

“Last night while I slept, she came to me,” James said. “When I woke, she was bent over me. Her eyes looked like the eyes of a wild animal.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. ”There was blood on her mouth . . .  and her nightgown. And the air smelled like blood.”

“Did she have pointy teeth?” I asked.

“I don’t know?”

“Where was your father?” LF asked.

“I haven’t seen him–in years,” he said. (This conflicts with what I first was made to understand.)

“And Lara, your sister, where was she?” LF asked fearfully.

James looked up at me and wiped his cheeks with both hands. “If you could have come back, maybe it wouldn’t have happened!” His pale face was streaked with red. “My mother,” he said and took a deep breath. “My mother jumped back from my bed and hid her face from me. ‘Run for your life, James’ she said. ‘Mommy is dead. Your mommy is dead.’ She was crying when she said it.

“I got out of bed and ran to Lara’s room,” he sobbed. “The sheets and covers and stuffed animals were thrown on the floor. Lara was face up on the bare mattress, dressed in her communion dress. My mother must have put it on her. But I couldn’t look at Lara or go closer. I ran out of the house.”

Everyone was sobbing. LF knelt and hugged James, who went limp. I heard him whisper, “I have no where to go.”

“You can stay with us,” LF said.

It was some time before James recovered enough to speak again. He looked directly into LF’s eyes. “Soon, you should know, I’m going to disappear, but I’m not really going to be gone. I will still be with you.” He embraced her again, and pressed his head into her shoulder.

“Okay, don’t worry James,” LF said.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Four:

House on the River’s Edge

Lost

What You See

How We Must Have Looked

The Last Embrace

—

Some photos from Greenwich Village:

Tompkins Square Park

Avenue A in the East Village

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village

Around Cooper Square

First Presbyterian Church in Greenwich Village

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Photos by Joe)

I wanted to get something up so here ya’ go. Of note, when I was a freshman in high school many moons ago, me and two of my friends cut school in Staten Island and went into the Village. It was the first time we ever did somthing like that–go into the big, bad CITY. We came up out of that Christopher Street subway exit pictured below. I think we were nervous because we had no clue what to expect. We still talk about it to this day. I can remember we went to 99 Records and Bleeker Bobs. We survived . . .

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Barrow Street, Manhattan - Photos by Joe)

A stranger named Ehrie with an East European accent paid me a surprise visit on Barrow St. in the West Village. My friend Benny, “the cigar store Indian” had sent him to teach me how to “disappear.” Ehrie said it would enable me to avoid the attention of ghosts, demons, and the various paranormal phenomena in NYC.

Along the narrow block Ehrie wouldn’t show himself to me. There was no need for him to duck behind cars or in doorways of the small brick apartment buildings on the street.  A step behind me, he merely moved aside each time I glanced back. He did it in such an effortless manner, that if I whipped around, I was certain he would still be at my back.

It had been a few minutes into our meeting when Ehrie had said with solemnity. “You shouldn’t be on this street, ever.”

I grunted in seeming agreement and wondered if he knew that I’m writing a book on the Revolutionary War Soldier named Max Beckley. He lives in one form or other on Barrow Street. I glanced between my legs and saw Ehrie dance to the side, toes pointed out. He had bowed legs.

“If you want my help, don’t try and look at me,” he gently reminded me, his intonation adding a touch of menace.

“I’m in deeper than others,” I said, knowing my problem is that “I’m loud!” I walk, talk, and even think LOUD. I am loud in every veritable sense. It’s no surprise that I “wake the dead,” or at least, catch their attention.

“You’ve opened a door, Joe–” Ehrie began.

(Barrow St.)

Ehrie’s accent reminded me of Hugh Grant’s Dracula rendition on the audio book recording of that novel. I could just hear Hugh saying, “Transylvania, Bukovina and Herzegovina. The Carpathians . . .“ Images of a black forest set upon a craggy, cloud covered mountain range filled my head. 

“–I’m here to help you shut it,” Ehrie continued, carefully enunciating each syllable. “You’ve been easing the door open for a long time.”

“I got a peek inside,” I uttered, bulging my left eye from the socket in an effort to catch a glimpse of the stranger. Without any success, I sighed and looked up at the brick apartment as I spoke. “We all know there’s more than ghosts and demons at work here. I won’t say the word,” I said and whispered, “I won’t say ‘alien.’”

“You must forget some things,” Ehrie said. “Try not to think about them, you know. Only then can you take your first step towards disappearing. Close your mind.”

I laughed. Impossible. Already on this blog are some of my deepest insights and experiences in NYC. Plus there’s the two books I’m writing about Max.

“For most hours of the day and night, my mind is closed to supernatural entreaties,” Ehrie said. ”Only the most salient things come to me–like you. I’ve known your face for some time, Joe. That’s not good. Benny didn’t have to tell me what you looked like or your name.”

“I’m terribly loud.”

“You are,” Ehrie said and chuckled. “Over the past hour, I’ve followed you from Midtown and heard your footsteps in the crowds on Fifth Avenue. Just below that sound I easily picked up on your thoughts, loud and clear I might add. And when I had let you glance upon me, I felt a weighty glare. I could have looked upon your soul if it was my desire.”

“Oh boy!” I said with a sigh.

“You have to change.”

“How different are you?” I asked and clenched my growling stomach. It had been a long day, and I was hungry. Soon I had to meet my friends at a Mexican place on 7th Avenue S. I really did want to learn how to disappear, but wanted to eat first.

“I am nothing but voice and movement,” Ehrie said with confidence. “You will not know me, unless I want you to.”

I turned to my right and felt him brush against my back as he moved left. “What if there is something or someone I want to see?”

(Barrow St.)

“Listen, that’s your truest sense. Steal a glance only when you’re certain no eyes are on you. Listen to the world, to the voices, to the music, and then you will feel, and eventually see with your inner eye. Find harmony, listen for it, it will lead you a step closer to disappearing,” he said and his voice grew thin. “In the coming months, I will check in on you. Someday, like myself, maybe you can disappear completely.”

“You want to join me and my friends for some Mexican?” I asked thoughtlessly.

“I must go,” Ehrie said. “Hopefully you will change your ways. It will take time. You must learn to be like a living ghost.” His voice echoed as it seemed he tried to leave a lasting impression. “No one must know you live.”

I looked aside and saw the bow-legged Ehrie striding across the street. To my surprise, he turned and gave a close-lipped smile for a full moment. He had smooth, white skin, a clear light in gaze, and wiry hair that was parted in the center. He looked much younger than his voice indicated. All of a sudden, I recognized his face and gave a guttural laugh. He was the spitting image of the late, great magician, Harry Houdini. A year ago I had bought postal stamps with his mug on them.

“No one living or dead knows me,” he said with a wide grin. “Like me, you must disappear completely and become a living ghost.”

I smiled as a buoyant feeling rose up from my gut. I couldn’t tell if Ehrie was a ghost or not.  He looked to be flesh and blood though was encased in a baby blue aura that the untrained eye might miss.

“Shhh! I let you see my face and know my secret. Now close your mind. You must learn how to keep such secrets, especially if you want to disappear one day.”

(Harry Houdini – known to friends as “Ehrie”  – uncredited/resized)

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Nine – May/June 2010

Nowhere To Run

The Fine Art of Disappearing

To Disappear Completely

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Photos by Bald Punk)

I couldn’t post yesterday because we had a power outage. I was in Staten Island and the whole freaking place was pitch black. The place looked the best I’ve ever seen it.

Tomorrow I will put up the next story post titled “In My Head.” It will pick up where White Fire left off.

Here are other photos from in and around Avenue A:

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village

Tompkins Square Park

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photos by Bald Punk)

I’ve made so many excuses about my photos in the past and on these, I’m going with: “I was cold, hungry, and it was a Sunday.” The one above came out nice.

In the future I promise better work. Though I want you to know I did sit down on the sidewalk for some pics. It smelled like ___.

Holy Redeemer is on East 3rd Street, which is a tight street. I can remember thinking “it’s a mountain of a church.”

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photos by Bald Punk)

I took these pics around Cooper Square after we parked our car on 3rd Ave and Great Jones St. It’s one of the handful of places in NYC that you can find a parking space-sometimes.

Most of photos are labeled. Hold the mouse over them for a description. If I didn’t know the name of the building, I used the street/s. I had to use the prefixes a1, a2, a3… so I could keep them in the order that I took them.

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photo by Bald Punk)

I discovered Tuba Skinny and His Tiny Men over a month ago in Washington Square Park. They were awesome.

I’m their biggest fan.

They were selling cds, but I was broke. If anyone knows where I can buy a cd or where they are playing, lemmie know?  

They should have a website, because I get a few hits a day from people that search ”Tuba Skinny and His Tiny Men.”

See Easy Site Navigation if you are new to BaldPunk.com

(Picture by Shanna Ravindra)

I’m going to keep my posts short from now on, as that’s what you’re supposed to do.

Plus the UK hates me, and I don’t want to lose the people that check out my site from Moldava. I get tons of hits from there. It whacks me out.

Here’s what happened Friday night. I went out with some of my mofos to kick-it big time at McSorley’s Ale House. After that we went to a place called Planet Rose. It’s a karaoke bar on Avenue A and 13th Street. It was nice.

See the video I took that evening here.

That’s the end of this post.

–Baldie

P.S. Will one of the mofos from Moldava, please email me? You people must be cool as hell. Email: bp@baldpunk.com

P.P.S.S. -  Okay, I hope the BlogGod doesn’t mind, but I have a little more to tell you about Friday night. My lady friend didn’t go, and neither did the pizza or Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nums).

The cast was Barney, Dizzy D, Polar Bear Dave, film editing guy, Louie Trips, Rockhead, and a guy with a “Redsox hat on backwards that we all know but ignored.”

Nothing extraordinary happened. Just your average bar fun, shooting the breeze, watching the Yankees host the METIES at The Stadium, and some wacky singing at Planet Rose.

Did you see the play at the end of the game? I felt bad for Luis Castillo even though I root for the Yanks and they won—

Barney who was all dressed in his METS regalia was really bummed out. He and I were taking pot shots at each other all night. I can’t remember what he said though I know his lips were moving.

I was in a winsome mood, and hit Barney with stuff like “The METS are to baseball, like what karaoke is to singing. . . The METS are to NYC, like what the Dodgers(‘Dem Bums’) were to Brooklyn.”

I was laughing my head off, and Barney was making whiny faces like George from Seinfeld, saying “you’re killing me, you’re killing me . . .”

It was good to see Louie Trips, who’s a travel agent and has been living in Hilton Head, SC. He was telling me how he fools his ninety year old mom into believing that Hilton Head is really the Canarsie section of Brooklyn. When she sees crocodiles in the front yard, he said it can get a little difficult.

Dizzy D really needed the night out. Lehman Brothers, the company he used to work for went out of business, and he lost a lot of money. (I worked at Lehman, too.) Now he’s at Barclays Bank, where they have him teaching people in India all he knows about his IT job. He said once he’s done they’ll can his ass.

Polar Bear Dave and I seriously talked about how we needed to write tunes for BaldPunk.com. I did at least, and he yessed me to death.

Btw, I’m like Flea on the bass guitar–not really, but I can play pretty good with my fingers. Polar Bear Dave plays the drums, guitar, keyboards, and sings. We’re gonna write songs for you. They will be awesome. If they ain’t, blame him, because the bass part I write will be super duper.

I wish you could meet my buddy, the film editor guy. He’s a good man.

He works on one of the most popular prime time TV shows out now. On his phone, he had a picture of him and a couple of blonde chicks from the show. How cool is that!

His job basically involves him and other mofos sitting in a dark room from seven to eleven at night, cutting down the footage shot that day for the director to see the next morning.

But only one day out of the year does he get to party with the blonde chicks. It drives his wife nutso.

Anyway, in total honesty, the night out was kinda fun but not great-great. Maybe I should see a doctor and get a prescription to help me through such nights. I know “that guy that lives on your block has the remedy–”

–Ha! Ha! Ha! You remember this post? I told you I hate drugs.

Friday night I was a little bummed because my lady friend wasn’t with me. When she’s around, I almost don’t mind num and nuts stepping on my tail. She’s so cool, everyone loves her. Plus she does the impossible, she makes me look even better!

You might not believe it, but I’m a real softy. I’ll post a short story I wrote called THE SOUNDS WE MAKE. You’ll see what I mean. I wrote it to balance out DARK CHILD.

I’ll put it up a little later.

Bye for now,

Baldie in the punkalicious Big Apple

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Ten - June 2009 (Mofos Night Only)

Mofos Night Only

Friday Night Music Video

Partying on the Lower East Side

THE SOUNDS WE MAKE (Short Story)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Video by Bald Punk – Music by U2)

I pieced together some footage from our night out Friday and set it to Hands That Built America by U2. It came out pretty good. What do you think?

Tomorrow I plan to post some commentary on the evening.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Ten – June 2009 (Mofos Night Only)

Mofos Night Only

Friday Night Music Video

Partying on the Lower East Side

THE SOUNDS WE MAKE (Short Story)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels