(South Street – Photos by Joe)

The five of us all gazed at a blue neon glow that was brightest by the Fish Market Restaurant on South Street. I shuffled my feet, blinked, squinted, and pretended to look real hard. Don’t know if the shuffling of the feet worked, but I did my best not to let on that I clearly saw what we all were searching for.

The others, who included my lady friend(LF), the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts), along with a white interloper from Queens named Terrence, all knew they were missing “the bigger picture.”

The blue was representative. I saw “it,” but held my cards close.

Last month I had seen a similar glow over a late evening crowd holding placards, set behind police barricades by the Columbus Circle entrance to Central Park. It seemed more like a blue gossamer upon their head and shoulders–or a touch of twilight that remained. Of the times before I had seen a similar glow, I had thought it nothing more than spirit matter, which I use to describe various unexplainable, airborne disturbances.

I had looked about for another trace of the blue as I headed up Central Park West. At my right was the stone wall that surrounds the rectangular park, and beginning on the corner across the street–for as far as the eye could see, were stately apartments, hotels, museums, and houses of worship. They create one of NYC’s many amazing skylines, which can be a visual treat from one of the park’s winding paths.

Directly across the street, out front the comparatively-new, Trump high-rise hotel, I spotted a point of blue as  it glided toward the large globe that sits in the middle of Columbus Circle. All of a sudden it looked as if the point closed, re-opened, and rotated. I dropped my gaze to see my shirt and arms were illuminated by the same blue that fell upon the crowd.

(Columbus Circle)

Now, if I turned, in front of the old Fulton Fish Market building that sits on the water on South Street was a similar, hovering point of blue. It was like a floating eye, a probe, possibly–lighting upon the Fish Market Restaurant across the street. At various times the others had glanced back. I thought the only reason they didn’t see it was because it was tiny. After all, I had missed it plenty of other times throughout the city.

I nudged my LF’s sweaty arm, and whispered for her to turn around. She abruptly looked up at me. So did the others. I shook my head, not wanting to show them. Yet num and nuts, who both looked super cool in cottons with sweaty, slicked-back hair, started to grow jumpy and make the odd whimper.

I knew they were on to something. Those two are good at picking up shit, annoyingly good. But this is one secret I didn’t want to unravel just yet, especially since we were plagued by the interloper; Terrence, the big white guy that didn’t sweat. If I showed him, in the future he might think of me as his personal guide to the supernatural, and I didn’t want that.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, and started toward Fulton St., which is the main thoroughfare in the historic seaport area.

“Ner, nu, ner, na,” num and nuts uttered to each other; so much for their summer-chic, MTV beach house “façade!” Those two are whacked. I know that–and so do my readers.

“What is it?” my LF asked, her long black hair lying damply on her shoulders.

Num and nuts limply angled their arms a few doors to the left of the Fish Market Restaurant.

My anticipation rose and I shuffled my feet nervously. Terrence’s eyes opened wide and he smiled with hound dog cheeks.

Sure enough, where they had pointed, a steel gate over the front of one of the buildings opened a moment later. It was old and rickety, the kind that a person had to raise by pulling chains, yet it slipped up the painted steel rail without a sound or person in sight. Behind it a door opened and a man slinked out onto the sidewalk. Dark blue lines outlined his frame.

Head ducked into the open V-neck of a coat, the person swiftly headed uptown toward Peck Slip. Terrence jumped out between the traffic and crossed the street to the sound of horns. The man’s head shot up and his back straightened.

(Max Beckley)

I followed with a hop in my step, having to also skirt between passing cars, one being a cop car. I thudded ahead of Terrence and up behind the man. Along my bare arms appeared a dark outline of blue. I turned, and with a gnarl, yelled at Terrence. “If you know what’s good, stay the f— back!” He slowed. “There’s a line here that you don’t want to cross,” I said, threateningly.

Finally, Terrence sighed and came to a stop, his fleshy breasts jiggling for a second.

“Hey you, you, you!” I cried, watching the man’s steps grow hesitant as I caught up with him.

His face was bright pink as if it had been scrubbed, and his short hair was dark, wavy, and clumped with jell. The light in his eyes screamed of innocence. I recognized his face! It was the Revolutionary War soldier, Max Beckley!

“They woke me for you! They woke me for you,” Max said, his eyes alight with terror. Fear seemed to leap off his person. “I’m to give you a message.”

I stepped back in horror, my eyes on the clumps of jell in his hair. What was it from? His birth . . . It took all my power to utter, “What is it?”

“You amuse them,” he said with a strained laugh as if someone forced him. He angled his face and gave an eerie, detached smile. Then he slapped his cheek. Blood oozed from his left eye. “This is what we can do,” Max said, though the voice was sweet and calm; definitely not his own. “Wake Max and kill Max. Others, too, Joe.”

They know my name.

From the corner of my eye I spotted my friends encroaching. I windmilled one arm and cried, “Get back!”

Max fell to his knees and his right leg snapped sideways at the calf. Yet he only moaned in pain, though such was the sound from his lips that it was like a silent scream. More bones snapped and my mind whirled in fear and disgust.

I wanted to run, but searched “them out.” I knew they were watching; I knew they were close.

Diagonally across the street in front of the old Fulton Fish Market building–mere feet from by the blue point of light–was an unusually dark, sleek space. I spotted a wide-bodied creature and saw vague motions flutter about it. I turned back to Max who was writhing in pain. His body slipped away and squished down into the curbside opening for the sewer. To fit, his flesh ripped away and more of his bones cracked.

There came shrieks and cries from my friends. My LF loudly sobbed. It took a minute or two to semi-recover after Max was gone. I looked about and saw the blue light along with the creature had also vanished.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty – June/July 2010

Milk Toast

Keeping Secrets

See The Light

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(South Street across from The Paris Cafe – Photos by Joe)

“Where your treasure is, there will your heart also be.”                      

Luke 12:34   –

Believe me, I don’t give away all of NYC’s secrets. Especially those associated with that block of small brick buildings on South St. between Beekman St. and Peck Slip. At one end are vacant fish market offices, and at the other is The Paris Café, established in 1873. In my eyes, the sadly dilapidated row of buildings, save The Paris, sits in its own little cloud within the boundaries of historic South Street Seaport.

The rundown row carries the truth not only of time, but of another age. Particularly in the seemingly sterile tourist district, where many of the pre-20th Century brick and mortar buildings have been brought back to old world splendor.

Before I ever even noticed a strange cloud or apparition on that block, I saw the buildings as windows to the past. Now I know them as “curtains and doors” to which ghostly images permeate, yet still think of them as windows to the past, ones that for certain do not hold their secrets very well.

~

I headed across Pier 17 at South Street Seaport to meet my lady friend(LF) and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts). On the wooden pier is a three story mall that has an open deck, which wraps nearly around the upper floor.

Behind me was a pesky white guy from Queens named Terrence. He had just met me that hot and humid evening, and wanted details on a ghostly neon light over one of the aforementioned buildings on South St.

I stopped abruptly and shook my head. “Dude!” I cried in a derogatory manner, though that’s how that word always rings in my head. I looked away for a second. This guy just won’t leave me alone. “Another time, I’ll catch up with you. I’m just not in the mood to play tour guide to the supernatural tonight.”

“Maybe it would be, um, it would be easier, now!” Terrence said, his face round with plump cheeks and bright, expressive brown eyes. “The blue neon light has, um-has started to brighten.”

“Man, you’re from Queens and you’re white, you’re basically a tourist!” I cried and paused to read a text message on my cell. My friends were wondering what was holding me up. I glanced at the skyscrapers in Lower Manhattan before I took in Terrence’s face. Pure white, no greasy sunblock residue–and the bastard didn’t sweat . . .

Cell in hand, I pointed my thumb at him. “Listen, dude! If you don’t stop following me, I’ll never help you!”

Terrence sighed with head and shoulders hunched; his frame had the shape of a bloated question mark. At over six foot and near three hundred pounds, he didn’t exude a hint of aggression or force of character.

“Another night!”

“Okay,” he said, twisting his mouth and nose in a near quarter-circle. His large body heaved with sadness as he skulked off.

(Pier 17 at South Street Seaport)

I went into the seaport mall and met my friends. We had a few drinks on the outside third-floor deck, which is one of my favorite places to hang out in NYC. I can grab a beer or a cup of Joe and kick back on a lounge chair, all while admiring the most famous East River crossings, Lower Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the Upper Bay.

I had told my friends about Terrence and what he was looking for. After we left the mall and came to South Street, we all gazed up past Beekman at the row of buildings on the west side of the street.

“I can see the neon blue glow,” my LF said, wearing a black tank top and shorts. Num and nuts, who both wore bahama shorts and cotton-white button-down shirts, nodded like bobbleheads.

“Yeah, and the fat white guy–see him, that’s Terrence,” I said, pointing to where he stood between two parked cars. There was a touch of the blue glow atop his head, which was cocked in an odd manner, as if his neck was broken.

“Let’s go over and take a look,” my LF said.

I stiffened. Let everyone look, but I’m not giving away this secret.

We took up on the other side of the street from the row of buildings, in a parking area under the elevated FDR highway. Terrence came over and joined us with an enthused smile. “This guy thinks I’m a tour guy to the supernatural,” I said, just before I reluctantly introduced him to my friends.

He guffawed with a twinkle in his eyes. We wasted no time in admiring the blue neon light. It was ”strongest” by the Fish Market Restaurant, which sat near the middle of the block.

(Fish Market Restaurant)

Num and nuts drifted into the street, which isn’t separated from the parking area by a sidewalk. All of a sudden a tall tourist bus with Ontario plates towered directly over them! None of us had saw it coming. It would have been a scarier moment, had not the Canadian driver smirked and shook his head as if it was a routine occurrence. He pulled away without a sideways glance.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

“We’re missing something,” my LF said, to which everyone seemed to agree.

Except me! I didn’t say a word. I wasn’t giving this secret away even though I clearly saw what they were missing and knew if I pointed it out, it would be clear as day to them.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty – June/July 2010

Milk Toast

Keeping Secrets

See The Light

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Wavertree sailing ship/South Street Seaport, NYC - Photos by Joe)

At the South Street Seaport to meet my friends, I was aware a tall white guy had tailed me since I came out of the Fulton Street subway station that was a four block walk. To be certain, I moved away from the sparse, early evening crowd between South Street and the three-story mall set on Pier 17 and made my way over to the old boats moored on the other side of the wooden pier.

Next to an old tugboat sat an iron-hulled sailing ship called the Wavertree. A few weeks ago I had met a man who told me that his 76-year-old uncle had recently made new yardarms for the vessel over at a warehouse in Mariners Harbor, Staten Island. He said his uncle was a shipbuilder from Scotland where the Wavertree was made in 1885.

I eyed the rigging on the Wavertree, one of the last large sailing vessels constructed out of wrought iron. A moment later I turned to see the white guy amble nearby. He was my height of 6’2”, weighed close to 300 pounds, and seemed to regard me with a bit of trepidation. He gave an abashed smile and continued closer. “Joe, can I ta-ta-talk to you,” he asked, twisting his mouth as if to push out the words as he spoke. He wore a black T-shirt, fashionable jeans, and had a milky white color.

“Why?” I asked with an air of reproach.

“I know-na-know of you,” he said, stepping within a dozen feet.

“You read Bald Punk. It’s all fake, made up stories.”

“I knew about a-a-bout you before the blog,” he said with a shy grin, having plump cheeks that gave his handsome smile a clownish appeal.

“Is that right?” I said, puckered and noticed how his pale skin shone brightly against the black T-shirt. It had been a hot sunny day, and the stranger had followed me from Fulton Street, yet I still wondered if he’d spent even a moment in the sunlight that day.

“Terr,” he said, a spark of both fear and excitement seeming to light his gaze. “That’s my name, Terrence.”

“What’s your problem?”

“I want um, um, your help,” he said, his voice having a nice tone as one does with a good sense of pitch.

What was he afraid of–me or . . .

“You have aaaa, the gift of sight. I do too, not as good as you do–as you do, but I can see certain aaaa-things and can’t make them out–you could. I know, um, that you could.”

“If you’ve read my blog, then you would know I’m trying to see less and less. And I ignore ghostly music, whispers–I don’t want to hear shit.”

(Pier 17 – South Street, NYC)

“The first chapter of your book, yeah, aaaa, in the first chapter, Max–” Terrence began, referring to the main character named Max Beckley in a manuscript tucked away on my laptop. He was a Revolutionary War soldier abducted by demons in the Battle of Brooklyn. Countless times on this blog I’ve mentioned both Max and the book, but never his adoption after being reincarnated or whatever it was that had happened to him; which I’m still trying to figure out.

“–he-he-Max wasn’t adopted in, aaaa, in NYC. It was in Miami.”

I tried to remain nonplussed as I wondered how he could have known the particulars of the first chapter.

“When the step-parents a-a-a-left with him,” Terrence continued, his stuttering growing worse, “it was a hot summer day, really hot and humid. You had that right, but the orphanage was in Miami.”

I knew he was right. In the draft, I had put the scene in NYC because the visions I have of Max’s are not only entirely set there, but seem tied to the very soul of the city. But now that he said Miami, it felt right, especially because the image of the orphanage that I have is of a white-washed building surrounded by heat-scorched trees and shrubbery. It was unlike any place I had ever seen in NYC.

“Is that worth something?” Terrence asked.

I shrugged.

“Ya-your words come to me, the words from your book,” he said.

“Save yourself the purchase price,” I said, eyeing him severely, thinking I could easily tell Terrence to get the F outta my face–and he would be gone. He was the very essence of ”milk toast.” But in the same moment, only now do I realize that his timidness had forged a connection. And to offset his uneasiness, I continued to joke. ”You’re a cheap bastard.”

Terrence gave a hearty guffaw and spoke. “Max’s story needs to be-to be told. Many like you and I, people like us, want it to be known.”

“Why do those images remain?” I wondered and looked searchingly into his brown eyes. “In some instances I can see the images with my eyes open–as if they were filmed and are broadcast from the spot where they occurred.”

“I almost think someone left a trail, um, left a trail, images remain, are there for those who have sight,” he said, seeming to repeat much of his dialog for clarity. “Images of people and places are everywhere, in, throughout NYC. They want a-the story, a story, unh, to be told. I can, I get them confused with ghost sightings, too.”

“So if you have sight, what do you need me for?”

“The same reason your friends do, because you see and hear things real clear, much clearer than-than they do.”

A bolt of tension froze my body. How dare he–!!!

–By friends I knew he meant my lady friend and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts), who at that very moment waited upstairs at the seaport mall for me. “I don’t feel comfortable that you know so much about my book, and it pisses me off that you refer to things about my friends that I don’t mention on my blog.”

“I can’t control what I see and know, I’m sorry, I was being honest.”

“So what is it you need from me?”

(South Street)

“There’s a place on South Street, a few blocks from here. Everyone once in a while I can just make out a blue neon light coming from there. Um, I have a sense ghosts or something, um, sweep in and out of a door. But I can’t–see it. It’s already started to glow this evening, um; it will be more visible tonight.”

“What do you think it is?” I asked.

“I don’t know. There’s a strong pull and it upsets me that I can’t figure it out. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.”

“Now knowing everything you know about me, why do you think I’d show you the doorway?” I asked.

“Because,” he began with a hint of confidence, “on your blog, you do say all the, all the time, you don’t want to see-to see things. But it’s clear you do! You keep writing about Max, you practically live here on South Street, which is ghost central, not to, um, mention all the images, and you go in Central Park all the time at the gloaming hour. You, you, you want to know even though you say you don’t.”

“You’re f–king milk toast,” I cried and gave a sarcastic laugh. “Where do you get off telling me this crap?”

“Um, it’s true!”

To be continued . . .

 —

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty – June/July 2010

Milk Toast

Keeping Secrets

See The Light

—

Wavertree Sailing Ship – Restoration Research (Outside link)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Barrow Street, Manhattan - Photos by Joe)

A stranger named Ehrie with an East European accent had 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.

Ehrie definitely seemed the right man for the job. Along the narrow block he 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 a smooth, effortless matter, 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 who 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 on the audiobook recording of that novel. I heard Hugh say, “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. “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 book on Max.

“For most hours of the day and night, my mind is closed to supernatural entreaties,” Ehrie said carefully. “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 a 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 made him sound. 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 PHOTOS

(“Disappear” - Photos/Photo Art by Joe)

I had told Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” about the elusive demon that whispers to me and the threat it had made on my life. Benny asked if there were places I usually heard its voice. I named Smith Street in Brooklyn, where the threat was made, and in Manhattan, South Street by the Seaport and a section along Lexington Avenue where there is a glut of spiritual activity.

“Everyday, take a different path, try to avoid the same streets two days in a row,” Benny had said, and though his expressive *green eyes seemed to ponder my quandary, he didn’t elaborate much except to say, “Demons are lazy creatures. It’s why they’re in such predicaments.”

I took his advice and haven’t once heard the demon’s voice over the past week, even though I’ve been back to South Street and Smith Street, respectively.

—

Last Sunday I had time to kill before I met my lady friend and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts). They all had to work until early evening. We had planned to have dinner at a Mexican restaurant by 7th Ave South and Bleeker Street in the West Village.

The temps were in the low 80s with partly sunny skies. I meandered down 5th Avenue by Rockefeller Center in Midtown, which sits a block away from the glorious gothic spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Well-dressed tourists populated the sidewalks and the traffic on the avenue was sparse. Compared with other city blocks, the entire area was inordinately bright and clean, while the air smelled only of sundry colognes and perfumes.

To avoid crowds, my pedestrian route through Midtown usually excludes Broadway and 5th Avenue; so in a way it felt like a new experience.

(Rockefeller Center)

I passed the main public library on 42nd Street, where two large stone lions named Patience and Virtue lay in inspirational poses at either side of the wide front walk. A minute later I gazed up in singular awe at the Empire State Building on 34th Street. A slight haze surrounded the 102-story Art Deco skyscraper and its Indiana limestone had an alluring gleam. For a full moment, as my eyes traced the building’s surface, I believed I was looking back through time. Soon after I imagined some of the marvel-worthy structures that would spring up throughout Manhattan in the coming millenniums.

At 18th Street began Union Square Park, which is relatively compact but well-appointed with trees, benches, smart paths, and handsome statues. It is one of the places in NYC where one would find the most disparate and diverse groups of people. As usual, there was a nice size crowd spread between the park’s four corners.

I continued down into the Village that starts at 14th Street, and popped in and out of a few stores as I made my way over to the west side.

In order to heed Benny’s message and avoid the same route two days in a row, I bypassed 7th Avenue (I was there on a work errand the day before) and went down Hudson Street. From there I could circle around to the Mexican restaurant.

A shadow rushed over me. I looked up in search of a some atmospheric oddity or other unknown entity.

Then I heard a low voice that was similar to the demon whisper, only this was sweeter and softer. Down the intersecting block, I caught sight of a wafer-thin man who had his head craned toward an apartment building. A micro-second later he flashed out of sight. It was his voice I had just heard. I needed to see him again!

I stealthily crossed Hudson Street and came around from the other corner. The moment I caught sight of the impossibly thin man again, he was gone like a match blown into the night. I looked up at the street sign.

It was Barrow Street! The man surely had knowledge . . . or even something to do with Max Beckley.

(Barrow St. & Commerce St., Manhattan)

Max was a legendary Revolutionary War soldier who was abducted by demons from the Brooklyn marshes and is said to live on Barrow Street in some form or other.

I knew I chanced more trouble, but this was a mystery I had delved into for longer than I care to admit. Right now I have enough material for two books on Max.

In hopes of getting another look at “the being” (he was no man), I snuck around to the other corner. Once again when I laid eyes on him–his gaze set fixedly up at the same apartment–he flashed out of sight.

His perception was mind-boggling, and I guessed that he was a demon. I’m far from an expert on them, but it would be a terrifying prospect if many had similar perceptive ability.

I headed down Barrow Street a short ways and plopped down behind a car. I did not lift my head, though listened closely. It was a few minutes later that I heard the being speak. At first I thought the language was gibberish, yet soon could have sworn I heard a mix of English, and two or three other foreign tongues. By the being’s melodic and sweet tone, I guessed it to be some sort of inner dialog. Minute by minute I felt a silky calm set over me. I could have listened all night.

Into my head came a lively image of the Virgin. Her cheeks were rosy and her gaze broadcast a compassion I felt in my viscera, while her robed figure was full of luminous color. Just as her veiled arms spread open, I was startled by a presence.

“Don’t move a muscle,” a man whispered, having a slight Eastern European accent. “I’m a friend of Benny’s.”

Startled, I sat up straight and began to turn.

“No, no, no, no, no, don’t move,” the man said.

(“To Disappear Completely” - Image by © John Springer Collection/CORBIS - Enhanced by Joe)

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Call me Ehrie,” he said softly.

“What did Benny tell you?”

“That you need to learn how to walk the streets unnoticed, that you need to learn how to disappear at a moment’s notice. Because too many creatures of the night know you.”

I thought of the being I had been espying on Barrow Street, and how easily he vanished from sight. ”Disappear, now that would be good,” I said.

“Yes, it is a fine art that must be mastered,” Ehrie said. “But first, forget what’s going on here. Forget Max. There is absolutely nothing you can do, except further burden his soul.”

“I have to go and meet my friends now,” I said, knowing I was way too deep in my pursuit of Max’s story to do that. ”Another time then?”

“No, we begin tonight.”

“But–”

“First, you must find and keep up with me,” Ehrie said.

“I don’t know what you look like, how can I find you?” I asked. When there came no answer, I turned and saw an empty sidewalk. Though focused toward the corner just in time to see a man’s leg below the calf and his rising heel as he turned onto Hudson Street.

(*Note: Benny’s eyes now appear to be green in color, not hazel as they had on other occasions)

—

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 PHOTOS

(Smith Street – Photos by Joe)

Since I had witnessed Benny, “the cigar store Indian” kill a vampire last week behind the Lower East Side Pathmark, I have been tormented by a whispering voice. The first instance came moments after the cigar store Indian impaled the vampire whose name was Robert. The words came from a creature that seemed to arrive just before the death blow. Encased by a lustrous shadow, the creature was gone before either myself or Benny could make much of it.

In the days that followed, the whispers, which are almost entirely indecipherable–have the same cold, robotic tongue. Whenever I hear the voice, I cringe and feel as if the words are attached to the end of a lashing whip. They always remind me of the vampire’s death. I see the gruesome strike by Benny with a spike through Robert’s chest and hear the miserable thump it makes.

No matter how many times I replay the scene in my head, I can’t make much sense of the creature’s shape, though the words it uttered sounded something like ”Forgive them–wild.”

Yesterday had provided a reprieve as I ambled along Smith Street in Brooklyn. It was a warm day and the sun was high in a crisp, solitary blue sky. The air was filled with an enchanted scent of warm spices. Dry falafel mix smoked on a charcoal grill came to mind. Coincidentally, I was on my way to Sahadi’s, a Middle Eastern fine foods store on Atlantic Avenue. But it was their bread I wanted. They bake delicious multi-grain, French-style loaves. Sometimes I call ahead and order a half dozen loaves. (I freeze them.) Besides the taste and nutty aroma, the bread has a wonderful texture that makes each bite a little adventure in mastication.

By the corner of a tree-lined Sackett Street, I was passed by a woman pushing a stroller and came upon a girl just a few inches shorter than my height of 6’2”. She had a wide, puffed up mouth, and her wavy black hair looked as radiant as her well-moisturized face. Also, given her languid motions and elongated figure, I guessed she was a model. She had “the deprived look.” I watched her from behind sashay off with airy steps and wondered what was attractive about her.

(Sackett Street)

I took a deep whiff and detected “the spices” now had a hint of barbecue sauce. Like a cartoon character, I imagined my body aloft and floating nose-first toward Atlantic Avenue.

The playful mood didn’t last long. I spotted a man across the street who reminded me of Robert. He leaned forward with each stride and dragged his feet. His frame was angular and arms hung limply at his sides. He wore woolen slacks, a dark vest, and had his white sleeves rolled up. I diverted my gaze down the gently sloping street.

A cool gust hit me and I turned to see if someone had opened a door to an air conditioned store. Just then a sliver of darkness fell over Smith Street and the wind whispered. In my gut rose a sharp pang along with more images of the vampire’s grisly death.

A sudden lethargy came over me. It was like a silky hand closed my eyes and pulled me down to sleep. I heard what could only be described as a loving whisper. I yawned and seemed to be asleep on my feet . . .

(Smith Street)

For a moment the street before me was rutted and full of mud like in a bygone era. The stores on both sides of the street were gone, replaced by a luminous green forest that sloped down to the harbor. The last thing I remembered before coming back to the moment–was a rose bush had popped up in my path. I stumbled around it. 

Blue skies brightened all around me and my nostrils filled with the warm, spicy air. I slowly regained my bearings. I gasped!!!

The shriek of brakes and wail of a horn brought the moment back in full. An SUV violently skidded toward me.

I was dead!!! Life was over! All my bones were going to be shattered and a bloodied heap awaited my body.

The massive vehicle stopped and the nose jutted up at my chest that was arched back. My hands slapped down on the hood. The driver’s eyes were open wide in terror and, like myself, he too was unable to gesture or speak.

I had begun to shake like a bell though still managed to hurry off, not sure where I was going other than “away.” It was then that I heard someone whisper. I searched fruitlessly for the person or thing that had spoke–knowing it was my tormentor.

When he next spoke, I clearly heard the voice, which was impassioned, though still sounded like the articulation of a computer . . .

“If we wanted it so, you would be dead. Remember that. You would be dead.”

(Thick forest – “Nowhere to Run” inspiration)

—

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 PHOTOS

(My work truck out front a Brooklyn jobsite – Photo by Joe)

On the subway back to Manhattan I sat with a vacant expression, dog tired from a long day at a thankless job. Demolition, especially gutting the interior of an old walk-up, where plaster over wire mesh-and-lathe walls and ceilings were made to withstand Armageddon, is a miserable job. Add soot-covered insulation that falls like snow and nobody wants to work. No one is happy, least of all me.

On the train I had a protective hand over my canvas, black messenger bag that was on the seat next to me. Inside were various papers and notes, The Life of Pi by Yann Martel, my camera, and laptop. My attention drifted from the subway ads, to the girl across from me that would be very pretty if she didn’t seem impossibly distant, to a middle-aged Latin with a pencil thin beard, to the grit in the cracks and seams on the floor of the shiny new car.

When the doors slid open at Bergen Street station, I saw Benny, “the Cigar Store Indian” standing as if the engineer had stopped the train explicitly for his entrance. My vacuity gave way to anger. I rolled my eyes and turned away as Benny sat next to my messenger bag. He seemed to have a GPS on my position. It would have been impressive if he wasn’t such an annoyance.

Yesterday, too, Benny had tracked me down. It was on my lunch break that he startled me. I had found a quiet spot on the third floor of the four-story walk-up we were gutting. Covered in dust, my eyes shut, I sat in a dilapidated office chair with my feet up on a pile of rubble. I cracked an eye. Particles gleamed with sunlight. To my surprise, I saw Benny’s thin frame appear and thought I was dreaming. That was, until he spoke.

“Robert has picked up on our intentions to kill him. Even though he is a stolid, undead thing, a vampire,” Benny said, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the drone of meringue music that came up through the bare plank flooring. ”The ghost voices warned Robert. He already knows my face. He will know yours. Soon enough, weeks, less, he will find his way to your door. Let’s do it tonight, get it over with. Time is of the utmost importance.”

The train rattled on into Manhattan and Benny had yet to say a word. It made me suspicious. Dressed in the old three-piece-suit that he had worn on all the occasions I’ve seen him of late, old Benny who was homeless didn’t smell, nor was the suit dirty.

The trained neared Wall Street station, when at last he spoke. “You have the weapon I gave you,” he said resolutely as if I would need it soon.

I didn’t respond, though closed my grip on my messenger bag where the blade was ensconced between the pages of The Life of Pi. Days ago after I had agreed to help him kill the vampire, Benny had presented me with a hardwood knife that had a finely carved handle and a double-sided, blunt blade that came to a point. Because it wasn’t sharp, I had thought there was a mystical aspect to the wooden knife when used on a vampire, though in the middle of a sleepless night the realization came to me that it clearly wasn’t meant to slash–but could be made useful only by a violent plunge.

“I wasn’t of sound mind when I had agreed to help kill the vampire,” I said under my breath, eyes set past Benny, down the length of the bright subway car. Many of the riders looked dazed, between moments of “life.”

Benny scratched his nose with his index finger. His nails were very clean for an old homeless man.

“I was caught up in the moment,” I added before my cell beeped with an incoming text. “It was the Seaport,” I said, looking down at the phone. “That place gets the best of me.” I read the message and gazed about like an angry owl.

“What’s wrong?” Benny asked, with sudden sensitivity.

“Where’s Robert going to be tonight?” I asked.

“He usually goes to the Pathmark on Cherry Street and sucks the blood from the rats.”

“My lady is shopping there right now!”

—

I spotted our Camry in Pathmark’s parking lot under a bright street light and hurried inside the store. Benny had told me to follow him around the back of the supermarket to wait for Robert, but I wanted to check on my lady friend(LF). I went through the automatic doors and made my way across the front of the store between the cashiers and front end caps. I spotted her in a short black dress and gray leggings, pushing a cart in the coffee aisle with her back to me. The pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) were with her. They were dressed in jeans and stylish shirts. Given a quick glance, they looked like suave hipsters. But if one could espy their shopping ritual, they would see num and nuts dance about my LF in orbital patterns, and compete for her attention.

Num and nuts aside, my LF looked fine. Very fine indeed.

Benny grabbed my arm. “Look,” he said and pointed to the store’s large front windows. I had never seen Robert clearly, yet I was certain it was him.

The vampire had a long, thin, pasty face and the most vapid look in his eyes. He raised his hand which seemed to have webbed fingers, and gave a single slash at his throat; even then, his face remained expressionless.

Benny took off with hurried strides and waved for me to follow, though he didn’t look back. I caught up with the old man outside. Robert was nowhere to be seen in the parking lot. Without pause, Benny stalked around to the side of the supermarket. One spotlight fell on three trailers that were parked in loading docks. Aside them in the dark shadows was a dumpster that connected to the building.

Robert climbed to his feet from under one of the trailers and raced straight at Benny. The vampire raised his hands above his head; his shoulders rocked side-to-side, while his legs were rigid.

Benny ran to meet Robert, and at the last possible second–in a lightening quick motion–the old homeless man pulled out a wooden knife. He hardly had time to rear back as they met with a crash and a sickening thud!

Benny staggered back. He had impaled Robert through the breastbone. When it seemed I couldn’t turn away, I noticed to my right an unusually sleek space in front of the building’s grimy, white cinder-block wall. It was as if I was looking through a door to a dark room. A wide-bodied creature was “in there” and I saw vague motions flutter about it. I couldn’t make out a single feature or see the true outline of the creature’s shape.

My eyes jumped to Robert as he spoke.

“There are many forms of death,” the vampire said in a surprisingly sweet, provocative voice. His lips were withered and a “new light” budded in his eyes as they met mine. “The one that comes for you is rarely by your own choosing.”

Benny stepped forward, and with the palm of his hand, smacked the knife deeper into Robert’s chest. The light rose in the vampire’s eyes. It was like he experienced a moment of life before death. Seconds later Robert fell face first and his body smacked soundly on the asphalt.

It was only then that Benny turned to the queer darkness, which had begun to dissipate.

“What is that?” he asked.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(View from South Street Seaport Mall, 3rd floor – Photos by Joe)

Twenty minutes had passed since I sat down with a decent cup of Joe and turned on my laptop. I was outside on the third floor deck of the South Street Seaport Mall. Just upriver was the much marveled, Brooklyn Bridge, and not far beyond it was the representative blue-steel, Manhattan Bridge. The early afternoon sun presided over pastel blue skies and an East River breeze flowed upstream from the mouth of New York Harbor, a quarter mile to my back.

Hyper-focused, I was reading through the opening chapters of my book about Max Beckley. People familiar with this blog know of him as the Revolutionary War soldier that was abducted by demons as he lay dying in the marshes of what is now Park Slope. Outside of this blog, I’ve written well over 100,000 words about his saga and have enough material for two books. I see his life best when I’m by the Seaport. It’s real. Probably why I’ve been warned to pull my snout out of his story.

Someone dropped down at the other end of the wooden bench and over the next few moments was profoundly still. I imagined they were enrapt by the sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, which can be like a magical loom that spins out dreams.

I glanced up and to my displeasure saw next to me the slight frame of Benny, “the cigar store Indian.” He’s a clairvoyant, old homeless man who claims that in another life he had been one of the Lenape Indians that met Henry Hudson in 1609.

And his eyes were set on me, though his presence was ghost-like.

Benny wore an old, three piece suit and had a brand new pair of black cross-trainers. I remembered that my lady friend had bought them in TJ Maxx. Now I know who “the kicks” were for.

“What do you want, Benny?” I said gruffly as if he was a dog. “Want a coffee or some food?”

He put his lower lip over his upper and shook his head. His tanned face had a fresh sunburn. “I want to talk to you about Robert,” Benny said, referring to the alleged vampire that we both “ran across” a few days before out at Calvary Cemetery in Queens.

I gazed down at my laptop and reread the last paragraph in the first chapter. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not . . .

Karl let his gaze drift up to the second floor window, to the room where Max unknowingly waited for the couple. A sense of anticipation spread over his stomach and he closed his eyes, daydreaming of how eternal light might feel, imagining the final door opening and a ghostly hand beckoning him onward. It was then that from the primeval depths of his mind came a long-dismissed hope . . . God is forgiveness.

“The other night I saw Robert at the Pathmark on Cherry Street,” Benny said.

“Shopping?” I said with a smirk.

(Pathmark)

“He was hanging around the dumpsters, catching rats and sucking the blood from them.”

“Cool.”

“He leaves the cemetery regularly,” Benny said.

“Good to get out of there, even if it’s at night.”

“I’m going to need you,” Benny said somberly, his countenance showing a seriousness that I’m not used to from him.

He wants me to help him kill the vampire . . .

I stiffened and looked to the Williamsburg Bridge that was the third span upriver; which tends to get lost in the vista because of its utilitarian, Erector-Set-type design. My mind’s eye took me further and “came ashore” by the old Domino Sugar Factory set alongside Grand Ferry Park. My sight threaded up a small, paved hill and turned left on Kent Street. Soon I passed the new luxury condo towers that sit right on the East River and a sprawling, waterfront park. My “eye” made a right onto Greenpoint Avenue, moving through the urban landscape of brownstones, walk-ups, synagogues, churches, banks, and sundry stores that included Polish delis, bakeries, and butchers. Once over the border into Queens, I saw the gentle slopes of Calvary Cemetery that were choked with tall monuments. Robert was interred there.

(Calvary Cemetery)

“I can’t do it by myself,” Benny said.

“What do you have in mind?”

Benny closed his eyes and gave a barely perceivable shudder.

“How?” I asked.

“Dismember him, limb by limb, until the soul slips off,” Benny said, with a serene light in his hazel eyes. (Last time I saw Benny, I could have sworn his eyes were light brown.)

My body flinched, though it could have been my soul as it realized the mortal sin it might have to absorb. ”I’ll help you find him,” I said and carefully folded my arms so as not to tip my laptop, imagining we must sound like soulless killers. “The cutting up part you’ll have to do.”

Benny looked up into my eyes and smiled. In looking back, I can’t believe how I wasn’t repulsed or ashamed–I had remained calm. I’d like to say that there was some element in Benny’s eyes that held sway over me, though I can’t be certain.

The old homeless man set a brown paper bag in my lap. “It’s not a knife,” he whispered, head bent. “Just a harmless stick that has a finely carved handle. It’s an antique. Priceless to some. Keep it on you. I’m not a powerful man, if Robert kills me, he will sense you are near. When given such a creature, it is the weapon of choice.”

(Max Schreck as Count Graf Orlok in Nosferatu (1922)

“Is he a vampire?” I asked, closing my hand over the bag. I ran my fingers over a slender object wrapped in a thin cloth. I pressed my thumb on its sharp point.

“He likes blood. He’s undead. I would say ‘yes.’”

“There must be others like Robert,” I said.

“There are things in the night, more strange and perverse than vampires.”

“Good God help us.”

“Don’t concern yourself. They are things you may never see or feel.”

“Oh, great, thanks, like I’m just going to forget.”

“It’s the price paid for knowing,” Benny said.

I stiffened, knowing I had little recourse. “How does Robert get here from Queens?”

Benny laughed. “He takes the 7 train,” he said, his brows high and face radiant. “He has a MetroCard.”

I looked up the East River and tried not to smile.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photo by Joe)

We were at a cemetery late one evening last week and Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” had stopped to talk with an old woman who said her son Robert is a vampire. Now I’ve seen many odd creatures in my life, but I refuse to believe that there exist immortal fiends of the blood-sucking order. Yet when I spotted a hand rise from the loose soil at Robert’s graveside, I was in no mind to see the point proven either way.

“Time to go,” I said and grabbed Benny by the arm before either he or the old woman noticed the hand, which suspiciously had begun its ascent at the precise moment the sun fell behind the buildings to the west.

I had wanted to drive off and leave the alleged blood sucker and his mother. In the way of a clean get-a-way were my two other friends, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts). Their faces were scrunched like they were going to hurl–I knew they saw the hand. For the record, my lady friend(LF) was standing right behind them, but she was browsing Facebook on her cell.

Num and nuts launched into the oddest, most prolonged screams I had ever heard. They began in the lower octaves, very closer to a moan, and their voices rose like the siren of an oncoming fire truck.

“The high road awaits!” I cried and crashed past num and nuts who danced out of the way like skeletons on a string. My LF had looked up in bewilderment and saw my smiling face. “I’m starving!” I cried and stuck my tongue out. “Let’s get to your sister’s and eat!”

Num and nuts high-tailed it around her and clambered into the back seat. I slung Benny in with them, and opened the passenger door for my still befuddled LF.

And then Maragret let out a harrowing scream. It was like something exploded in her bowels and entrails shot from her mouth. Such a cry of pain, it was like a knife to my soul.

I cursed and went to get her.

Through the gloom I saw what must have been Robert. He pushed up out of the grave aside his mother who had fallen to her knees.

Robert scrambled out of the hole and to his feet with stiff and unsure motions. Tall and wiry, as he walked his shoulders rocked side to side, while he clenched his butt cheeks.

My adrenaline had kicked into overdrive, but I still paused though not by my own volition.

It was a gruesome and unholy sight, made worse because it was a mother and her child. “The hall of records” in me had to absorb and catalog it. My body seemed to float aimlessly for a moment.

Margaret had turned milk-white and her mouth was open though she had grown quiet.

A yellow light flashed. I turned to see a pickup truck come up the road with a flashing yellow light on its roof. A bright spotlight affixed above the driver’s side door lighted on us.

I turned and got a better look at Robert. He didn’t walk fast, but seemed in a hurry; while each stride seemed to have him nearly stumble. Arms were pressed to his sides and his hands trembled and I saw that he had long, curled fingernails.

Months ago I had seen a homeless man by South Street that had the same odd stride as Robert . . .

“Hey, hey–!” a man called from the pickup truck.

Robert flopped straight down to his right as if someone had tackled him. He began to crawl on his crooked elbows and knees. The motions were much smoother than when he was afoot.

“–Place closed an hour ago!”

I waved to the man in the pickup, gathered Margaret from the ground and put my arm over her shoulder and led her to the car. It was a late model Cadillac, parked near our Camry.

She seemed as fragile as a newborn, and in no condition to drive. There was very little if any spark in her eyes.

I had no choice but to drive her home and told Benny to come with me. I had expected her to say she lived in Long Island, which would have meant she was going to be chauffeured to the nearest Mickey D’s, but no, she lived just a few miles away.

Benny got in the back seat and fixed his gaze out the window. I was furious that he had us take him to the cemetery that night so he could “talk with a spirit.” I was certain it was really Robert whom he had brought us to see.

A minute or two after we pulled out of the cemetery, Margaret seemed to be doing a little better. Her head and shoulders shook like a bobblehead, and she broke the silence with an impassioned tone, “I just want Robert to stop. Is there anyone that can make him stop?”

Benny glanced my way, only to divert his gaze when our eyes met.

Between mucous filled breaths, Margaret repeated her words.

“We will help you,” Benny said with an air of believability. “In any way we can, we will help you.”

I glared at him. He smiled.

We pulled up out front of Margaret’s house and she asked how she could reach us. Benny began to rattle off my LF’s cell number. I cut him off mid-number and gave Margaret my work number. My boss at the demolition company usually picks it up and he’s a lunatic. I imagined him giving her a quote of five grand over the phone to “demo” her son that’s a vampire. And I can just hear him telling me, “I don’t know what da’ f—- a vamp’pyre is. Just knock it da’ f— down and throw it in the f—-ing truck.”

—

When we got to my LF’s sister’s house in Greenpoint, I threw the car in park and said I needed to speak to Benny alone. I didn’t meet my LF’s glance as she got out of the car, but knew she looked at Benny as if to say, “don’t worry.”

I hate the way my LF views Benny as a sweet, old homeless man. The fact is that he has innocent eyes and a schoolboy smile, and knows how to use them on her.

“You took us there on purpose,” I said, my arm hanging over the back of the seat. “Don’t try and tell me otherwise.”

“I didn’t know we would find a vampire.”

“Alleged vampire.”

“Yes, you’re right, we need to find—”

“F— you!” I said and repeated it before he could speak. His face reddened. “You live to torture me. Don’t you get it that I don’t want me or my friends involved in your little adventures. How many times do I need to say it before it gets through to you?”

“You’ve seen Robert before,” Benny said, evenly. “Right.”

My gaze grew steely and detached. I wasn’t going to answer. I wanted to forget Robert. I wanted to forget that the night ever happened.

“On South Street, you’ve seen him,” Benny said confidently.

I blinked.

Benny said nothing for close to a minute as he seemed to let the silence quell my emotions. A car slowly came up the street that was lined with streetlights, and lit doorways of handsome brownstones and walk-ups. I wondered if it was a pizza delivery car in search of an address. He parked out of sight.

I gazed about for something else to capture my interest.

“Though he has no need to be, Robert can be deadly if provoked,” Benny said, and then his voice slowly faded to a whisper. “What you need to understand, like it or not, is that there is a price that comes with knowing. It doesn’t have to be death.”

I tensed, but only for a moment as I was taken by how the dark was so clear and crisp. I wished for all dark to be that way.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

It was late last Saturday afternoon and my lady friend(LF) and I along with the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) were headed for a Polish Easter Eve celebration in Greenpoint. It was to be a night of great food, good beer, and soulful Eastern European celebrants.

I came out of our apartment building in Upper Manhattan with The Cure’s “Sinking” on my iPod. I thumbed along with the music on an imaginary Music Man bass guitar that hung just above my knees. “Sinking” is one of the songs that can help me to drown out extraneous noise in my life. It has a way of pulling me into “a moment”. Plus the bass line is fantissimo.

(The Cure – “Sinking” Live in Orange)

“I’m starvin’ like Marvin!” I said as I jumped behind the wheel of our Camry and threw it into drive. I checked for traffic in the rear view mirror and raised my brows in surprise. Planted in the back seat between num and nuts was Benny, “the cigar store Indian.” I had been the last one out of the apartment, maybe twenty feet behind my three roommates and didn’t see him get in. Though by habit I had avoided sight of num and nuts, who both had their hair slicked back and wore flare-leg slacks and open-necked silk shirts. To their credit, they exuded style and cool, yet it’s something they practice in front of a full length mirror in their room.

For a few blocks I said nothing to my LF who was in the passenger seat typing a message on her phone. She had her hair up and wore a choker necklace with a diamond cross. She looked virginal, almost beyond reproach.

In the rear view mirror I saw Benny’s eyes gleam as he diverted his gaze from mine. The old homeless man knew with my LF in the car, I was virtually emasculated. Then it occurred to me that he might even have the key to our car as he holds such sway over my LF’s better judgment.

Alas, I leaned aside to my LF and puckered like I had sucked on a lemon. “In case you haven’t notice,” I said tenderly, and gave a reverse nod to Benny, “we have a flaming pink elephant in the back seat.”

“We’re going to stop at Calvary on the way,” she said in a tone that suggested it was a supermarket and not a cemetery.

I bit my lower lip. “Anyone have any dead relatives buried in Calvary?” I asked, scanning the faces of the three bananas in the rear view mirror. I got wacky stares from num and nuts as they seemed to consider it. I turned to my LF. “Are you sure you’re not mistaken, there is absoooo-loooot-ely no reason we need to go to a cemetery, especially on the day before Easter when our presence might be considered a slight on J.C.”

“Joe, it’s on the way,” my LF said sweetly, while she reached over and scratched my dome. She does that to get her way. I’m worse than a dog.

I pointed at Benny in the rear view mirror, my face flush and jaw locked so I wouldn’t smile. “You’re lucky she’s here,” I said, mad that it was the third time I had to drive Benny to Calvary so he could talk to the odd ghost. “Next time, drive you straight into the river.”

Benny gave a casual, gap-toothed smile. A joyous light was in his eyes. I grinded my teeth.

—

(Calvary Front Gates – Photos by Joe)

I did a U-turn out front of Calvary’s wrought iron fencing and steered to a stop at the curb.

“Could you drive in?” Benny asked.

I stared at the steering wheel for a full moment before I put the Camry back in drive.

The cemetery road was covered in the early evening shadows from clusters of tall monuments. The place sort of looked like a miniature city, replete with solid granite and marble skyscrapers, topped with innumerable crosses, angels, cherubs, Virgins, ancd Christs.

Benny leaned forward and told me to stop.

Dressed in an old but clean suit of clothes, Benny looked more like an elderly gent from the 1920’s than a homeless man with clairvoyant powers. The light in his eyes showed an inquisitive and excited nature. In the past, his face has never conveyed the burden of age; which, for someone who says he’s lived more than one life, is good, I guess.

There was a jump in the old homeless man’s step as he went off on his little excursion to find his “friend.” He waltzed up a cement sidewalk between the graves, abruptly turned to his right and strode on the grass between the rows. He raised a hand and grinned. It looked like he was about to greet someone that stood in his empty path.

(Calvary Cemetery)

The four of us leaned against the car and waited. Num and nuts hovered close to my LF, and had a lively chat, or so it seemed by all the noise they made. I didn’t listen to a single word. My stomach emitted what seemed like a symphony of hunger pangs and groans.

Benny’s slight frame was partially hidden by a succession of graves. By the way his mouth moved it he seemed he was deep in conversation. If he spoke with a ghost, I didn’t see it. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t even a vague shadow over the entire cemetery. The place looked spiritually bereft. And it was the gloaming, too.

I pulled my camera from the sleeve and checked to see where the mourners were located. I didn’t want anyone to see me taking photos. It was bad enough that I had brought Benny to violate their space. Except for a woman that was nearby, the cemetery looked closed.

Ten minutes later the old homeless man strolled back to us with a smile. Such a sacrilege in itself. Worse. He stopped to say a few words to the lone mourner. It was an elderly woman who didn’t acknowledge him with either a motion or gesture. Her head and shoulders hung in such a manner that she gave off an air of deep depression. I couldn’t blame Benny, that is, if he was trying to comfort her.

She made the sign of the cross and kissed her thumbnail. She hung rosary beads over a small wicker cross in front of the grave. Benny stepped closer and she turned her face in what could have been fear or anger.

When Benny didn’t pull away, I made a beeline to him. My feet thudded on the grass. I eyed the old homeless man’s neck and clenched my fist.

Just as I arrived the woman draped her open hand down to the grave, which had a large granite slab that ran perpendicular to its base. Benny knelt down and dug at the side of the slab with with his cupped hand. He pulled away the earth like he was about to plant flowers. I was apoplectic.

(Calvary Cemetery)

Benny looked up with half-moon brows and a touch of sorrow in his eyes. I took a step back. The inscription on the tombstone read:

Wxxxxm (surname)

John 1939-1999, Father    Margaret 1940—-, Wife

Robert 1964-1984, Son

“Robert does it out of hunger,” the woman said, whom I guessed must have been Margaret. She had unkempt gray hair and wrinkled white skin that was freckled and liver-spotted. She looked approximately 70-years-old, as she would be given the date etched on the stone.

I put my hand on Benny’s elbow and helped him up. “Time to go, old man,” I whispered.

Back on his feet, Benny held his ground.

“My son is a–” Margaret said, and cupped her mouth. Her eyes were tragic.

“Benny,” I said, and tugged on his elbow. “It’s getting late.”

Margaret raised both her hands and held them about her cheeks. “My son is a vampire!” she said breathlessly.

I rolled my eyes, too pained with hunger to put up with any more nonsense. I also might have cursed, but that was under my breath. (I believe in loads of crap, but not vampires.)

All of a sudden it got much darker and the three of us turned away from the grave. Over the top of the small buildings that sit across the street from the cemetery, I caught the last rays of the dying sun. Like a last breath . . .

The light of day quickly withdrew as if it was sucked up into the night. I can’t say why, but I immediately turned back to the grave. It was just in time to see what looked like a mouse push out of the loose dirt next to the slab. But it wasn’t a mouse.

It was blackened fingers and they stretched through the earth!

“We really, really, have to go,” I cried and pulled Benny hard enough so that he stumbled along side me. A few steps later he tried to look back at the grave. I jerked his arm so he wouldn’t see the hand that had now rose up beyond the wrist.

In our path were num and nuts. Both were aghast with their mouths fixed open, while their eyes looked like someone was *tickling their privates. One began to groan, and then so did the other. My eyes darted to the nearest marble Jesus and I prayed they wouldn’t scream . . .

(Calvary Cemetery)

—

* I’m sorry for that description, but as readers of my blog know, those two guys are totally whacked.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Eight - April/May 2010 – “Something to do with Vampires”

The Hunger

The Price Of Knowing

To Kill A Vampire

Death of a Vampire (or A Door Opens To A Dark Room)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS