(Abraham Lincoln)

I met this kid who looked like Abraham Lincoln. I’m still referring to him as a kid even though he was a junior in college and 6’4.” Fresh-faced with an uncanny presence, he said his name was Alexander and that his nickname was Buddy. I called him Alex.

It wasn’t until our second meeting, when I caught him off-guard with a rousing “hello!” – that I saw the resemblance. He swung around and revealed prodigious ears. On our first meeting, he had worked to hide them in his slinky, emo-style haircut. 

–Those ears! Picturing them now makes me chuckle. While it seemed as if they were the last pieces in a puzzle.

From the strong nose to the dimpled chin, to the raised hairline, and aforementioned ears, he was the mirror image of an unfledged and beardless, Abraham Lincoln.

Of all places to recognize one with the looks of such an immortal figure, we were outside Cooper Union’s Foundation Building. It was where Lincoln had given a speech that is credited with propelling him to the White House.

For a full moment, I had stood in awe on that second meeting. I half-believed Alex was young Lincoln. A thousand dreams blustered in my head.

The supernatural world was also aware of the resemblance. It’s the only way to explain errant shadows that stretched away from Alex like he was a pistil, and they were petals. While in the wind was the sound of brass horns and a lone violin.

It had seemed I was dreaming on my feet . . .

“Keep moving, don’t stop!” Alex had cried, as he swiftly led me across the street toward K-Mart on Lafayette and 8th St. He kept looking over his shoulder. “Talking to me was the first mistake,” he said, under his breath. He was referring to my blog post about our first meeting. “That title has more meaning than you might think.”

I glanced back to Cooper Union as I heard a bassoon languidly swell. “Now I hear a trumpet. Hmph!”

“It’s the band that played at Cooper Union on the night he spoke,” Alex said.

(Cooper Union’s Great Hall – place of “Lincoln Address”)

“Lincoln, you mean, the night he gave his address in 1860.”

“You’re not doing yourself any favors by using his name,” Alex said. “They might see something in you.”

“Are you him?” I asked, dumbfoundedly.

“You out of your mind!?”

“You know, maybe reincarnated?”

“I’m sorry, no,” Alex said, brushing his hair over his forehead and cheeks. “I resemble him, that’s it. That’s all.”

“Abe Lincoln,” I mouthed, thinking he would be better off wearing a hat to hide his ears. “The spirit world comes alive for you. You can see the shadows, and hear the music, too.”

“I bet I see less than you do,” Alex said, hastening his pace with gangly strides. Wrinkles surfaced on his forehead and in the corner of his eyes. His face grew darker. “I barely hear the music, and can’t tell the instruments apart like you can.”

“That’s insane, right,” I said with a stutter, trying not to notice the changes in his face. ”The spirits recognize you as him. Probably remind them of when they were alive, or the time or something.”

“Walk faster.”

“I think you should enjoy it,” I said, seeing the wrinkles vanish and his youthful glow return.

“You crazy?”

“You’re the one who keeps going back to Cooper Union where he gave that speech.”

(Turn of the Century Cooper Square)

“It echoes, you know,” Alex said.

“I say, enjoy it.”

He twisted his lips.

“Cut your hair, let those ears loose on the world,“ I said.

“No way!” he cried, and brushed his hair forward with both hands.

“Thank God that you don’t resemble Mayor Jimmy Walker or ‘Bill the Butcher.’ Probably be haunted by someone the Butcher killed.”

“I never thought of that,” he said, pensively. Then his eyes split wide in fear.

“What is it?”

“600,000 people died in the Civil War!”

“Don’t worry about that!” I said, dancing in front of him as I waved my hands. “We love Lincoln in NY!”

“No,” he said, spitting out the word. “Believe me, ‘they’ don’t.”

I put my hand on his back and tried to think up something positive . . .

“Ghosts can see right through you,” I said, “if you’re evil, if you have a bad soul, they’d see that. You feel no evil or malice coming from the spirits,” I said, realizing mid-sentence that I was taking a chance with my words.

“It’s more,” he said with a huff. “It’s like they want to open the door back to the 19th Century. They want me to go back.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t look away.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, slowing to mull it over.

“I’ll have to go now,” Alex said, moving ahead of me. “I have a class.”

“Call me!” I cried, “you have my card.”

He nodded with a jump in his step. My cell rang and he held up his phone to show it was him. “If I have a problem, who else would I call.”

“Good,” I said and forced a smile.

—

Here are the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Five - January 2010

THE FIRST MISTAKE

A Stranger No More . . .

Dreaming of Lincoln

Around Cooper Square (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

Last weekend I met this emo kid who wasn’t so much a kid. Very tall and gaunt, with the look of a man twice his age, my guess is that he was either a college freshman or a runaway.

Our conversation lasted a few minutes, and with all the spiritual activity in NYC, I should have forgotten about him. But his face continues to surface in my memory.

I’m sure I’ve met him before, though he looked older . . .

On the day our paths crossed, he was searching for something by Copper Union. I’m certain it was of the supernatural order. Yesterday I went back to the spot where I met him on Astor Place to see if I could find “it” myself.

I came up from the Astor Place subway kiosk that’s nestled in the center of a small triangle. It’s surrounded by three streets, E 8th, Lafayette, and 4th Ave.

Parked next to the station at the curb was an orange-colored, Mud Coffee truck. I got a small cup of Joe and sweetened it up real nice because it was the afternoon.

My iPod was off though I still plugged the wires in my ears. My plan was to shuffle around, enjoy the coffee, and hope no one would suspect I was looking for something preternatural. Moreover, I would be able to focus without anyone thinking I was a nut.

(Photos by Bald Punk – Alamo sculpture, Astor Pl. Station & Mud Coffee truck)

I had hardly taken my first sip of Joe when crepuscular shadows started to creep in. I was right on time.

If there is paranormal activity, the gloaming is not the best time to spot an apparition, but it’s easier in that hour to detect shadowy drifts of energy that coalesce around haunted spaces.

I hung around by the coffee truck and grooved to a tune I was making up in my head. My hands were fisted, though my movements weren’t that pronounced, so I kinda looked cool, and not so much like a loon.

I am prone to spontaneous dance moves. There is usually a resonant thrumming coursing through me. It’s hard to contain myself at times without a dance-step or two.

Here and there on the streets were thin spots of vaporous light, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary until the last quarter of the gloaming. By then I had moved over to Lafayette Street, near the entrance to K-Mart.

A hazy shape lingered on the sidewalk out in front of Cooper Union’s Foundation Building. Constructed on its own little block in Cooper Square in 1859, the building is a six-story brownstone that has an arched main entranceway. The arched design repeats over various large windows.

I also spotted a static cloud under the building’s main entrance on Astor Place. Soon after a silhouette appeared in a window on the 4th floor, right above the stone Cooper Union name.

I believed the figure might have been a real person, until it drifted higher in the window.

(Cooper Union Foundation Building)

I turned my attention to the barest of whispers. They sounded like a passing train or trolley car. It was definitely not the rumble of the subway. I was certain of that.

Soon it was time to leave and meet my lady friend and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys. We planned to have dinner a few blocks away at a great Mexican restaurant by West 8th and 6th Ave. The food is pretty good, plus they have a bar where you can load up by yourself on green, red, and brown salsas.

Once my mind was set on food, I had a greater calling and started off.

A moment later I heard a relay of voices. The only word I could make out was “coming,” which echoed.

To my unbridled excitement, I spotted “the kid!”

He took long, gangly strides as he came across 3rd Ave. He was headed toward the sidewalk in front of Cooper Union. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his long coat.

Something insubstantial stirred at his feet. All the shadows around him elongated and bent in ways that now seem maddening. A pale yellow aura circled behind his head and shoulders.

Forgetting myself, I loped across the street and grabbed him by the elbow. “Hey kid!” I cried. ”What’s up?”

“Bald Punk!” he said, falling away from me. His long hair slinked around his head to reveal his humongous ears.

I was mesmerized as I realized who he reminded me of. “You look kinda like Abe Lincoln!” I said, smartly.

“No!” he said, in both shock and fear, and raised a hand to cover his ears up with his hair. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. Especially here,” he said, his eyes darting about with a fearful light in them.

—

(Abraham Lincoln)

Here are the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Five - January 2010

THE FIRST MISTAKE

A Stranger No More . . .

Dreaming of Lincoln

Around Cooper Square (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(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

As a rule I avoid talking to strangers, and my guard goes up when they talk to me. The most an interloper will get out of muah is a furrowed brow or at best, a grumble.

Yesterday, I not only broke my rule, I initiated a conversation. And now I find myself unable to get the stranger’s face out of my head, who actually was a kid, not much older than eighteen.

I was with my lady friend(LF), and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts). We had taken the 6 Train to go shopping at K-Mart on 8th Street and Broadway. The store has an entrance inside the station, which we passed by. We decided to have lunch first.

Over at a restaurant in the East Village, we had a repast of hummus, baba ganoush, falafel, tabouli, tahini, olives, salad, and toasted pitas. The establishment is on 2nd Ave., a couple of doors south of St. Mark’s Place. Me and mofos used to go there at three in the morning after nights at the old Palladium nightclub that was a few blocks up on East 14th.

(Photos by Bald Punk – Astor Place meets St. Mark’s Place and 3rd Ave)

After lunch, we sauntered along St. Mark’s Place toward K-Mart. On that street, there are mostly four and five story apartments, built in the 19th Century. Many of the basements and first few floors are converted into shops that cater to hipsters and tourists.

Before us was a slew of retailers selling trashy clothes, silver jewelry, knockoff hats, and cheap sunglasses. I eyed their wares, feeling a little like a ship drift. Back in the day, record and CD shops were nestled here and there on the street. It practically was the center of my universe. Now with the ease of finding music online, St. Mark’s has become just another street in the Village.

We crossed 3rd Avenue, leaving St. Mark’s, as it becomes Astor Place for a short block before forking with 8th Street.

We were across from Cooper Union when I first spotted the aforementioned “kid”. He was tall—about 6’ 4,” and gaunt. He had a full head of straight black hair that was combed down to his eyes, and pushed forward from the back of his head to his cheeks.

He was standing near a Mud Coffee truck, parked next to the Astor Place Subway Station.

The kid reminded me of Joey Ramone, who used to live in an apartment building a couple blocks up. I gazed at the kid, thinking about Joey. I had seen the punk icon plenty of times in the Village. Joey was always super friendly.

(Alamo “The Cube” by Bernard Rosenthal between Astor Place Subway and Cooper Union)

The kid’s clothes looked a few sizes too small, which is the emo-style, I think. Gray jeans emphasized his emasculation, and he wore layers of sweat shirts instead of a proper jacket.

More than anything, his eyes held my attention. There was a seriousness and intensity in them that I rarely see in a person so young.

“Hey kid, what you looking at?” I called out to him, seeing he was staring up in the direction of Cooper Union.

(Cooper Union)

The kid looked right at me and gave a small smile, and I knew he wasn’t a native. A New Yorker would have given me “a look” first, and sized me up to see that I wasn’t a nut.

“I don’t know,” he said, dumbfounded. “Just nothing. Nothing.”

“Well, don’t hurt your neck,” I said and followed my friends into to K-Mart.

We bought some new cooking utensils. I would tell you which ones, but I wasn’t paying particular attention, though I did pick up one of those huge bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. I also bought whacked out Sun Chips for num and nuts, who only like them because my LF does. They’re pretty good chips for dipping, because they can hold a nice dollop of onion dip or a scoop of salsa.

We came out of K-Mart onto 8th Street. I held the door open for my LF. When I turned, the kid walked right past me. I pulled the bag of chips to my chest and heard a crunch.

(Astor Place and Lafayette Street)

“Did you find what you were looking for?” I called out to him. Hair swept across his face, revealing two huge pieces of white flesh. I chuckled to myself as it took a second to figure out that they were his ears. They were huge.

“Oh, hey,” he said and blinked like he was half-asleep. He ran his hands through his hair and covered his ears. “I come here, often, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“Does this area bring back a past life experience?” my LF asked light-heartedly, her tone one that if you heard it, you would know that even though she was a stranger, you could trust her. She just has that way. She can talk to just about anyone, and they always know that she’s the coolest person ever.

Unfortunately, num and nuts went all batty-eyed at the mention of “reincarnation.” The kid winced. His knees touched as he twisted his long, lanky legs.

I frowned and shook my head at num and nuts. Readers of my blog might not believe it, but they actually can look “super cool.” That’s because they practice. I won’t get into it, because I live with them, and it would be too embarrassing if my mofos knew what they get up to. Let’s just say they spend a lot of money on clothes, and that helps. But once either opens their mouth, game over, you know they’re whacked.

“I’m sorry if I was so forward,” my LF said, surely sensing that the kid was in a bad way.

He blinked hard and looked like he was going to cry. “I can’t talk about it. I’ve never told a soul, and I can’t,” he said, blushing.

I stepped closer to the kid, and did something completely out of character. I wanted him to trust me. I even lied to my LF about what I said. I whispered, “We are knowing,” and slipped the kid my business card, which, don’t hate me over that. Because, yes, I have one. It says Baldpunk.com, has my email, cell#, and maybe a picture of me.

The kid thanked me for the card and plodded off.

Now here I am, waiting for an email or a phone call. His face haunts me. I feel like I might have met him many years ago, which is crazy, because he is just a kid . . .

—

Here are the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Five - January 2010

THE FIRST MISTAKE

A Stranger No More . . .

Dreaming of Lincoln

Around Cooper Square (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels