(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 had 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.

That night 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. While 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. It 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 had 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 had 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 named Terrence–the big white guy who didn’t sweat. If I showed him, in the future he might think of me as his personal guide to the supernatural. 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. 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. I had to 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.

Terrence sighed and came to a stop. His fleshy breasts jiggled 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. His short hair was dark, wavy, and clumped with a lumpy 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 were 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 had forced the words 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 info on my Novels

(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 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. It was 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 feet 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. It’s 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 brick 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 seen 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 info on my Novels

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

At 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. Just to be certain, I moved away from the sparse, early evening crowd between South Street and the three-story mall set on Pier 17. I 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. He had made them over at a warehouse in Mariners Harbor, Staten Island. He said his uncle was a shipbuilder from Scotland. It was where the Wavertree was made in 1885.

I eyed the rigging on the Wavertree. The ship is 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. He wore a black T-shirt, fashionable jeans, and had a milky white color.

“Why?”

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

“You’ve read Bald Punk’s stuff. 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. 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 crap. 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’s 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. I thought if I told Terrence to get the F outta my face. He would run off. He seemed to be 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 broadcasted 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 info on my Novels

(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

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

I told Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” about the elusive demon that whispers to me and the threat it had made on my life. He 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 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. The site 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 many other city blocks, the entire area was inordinately bright and clean. 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 entrance. 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. 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 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. I 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 some atmospheric oddity or other unknown entity.

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 that 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. He is said to currently 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. I guessed that he was a demon. I’m far from an expert on them. Though if he was, it would be a terrifying prospect if many had the same 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 that I felt in my viscera. 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.”

“Oh-okay,” I said, knowing I was way too deep in my pursuit of Max’s story to do that.

When Ehrie didn’t say anything after a few seconds, I tried fruitlessly to spot him from the corner of my eye. Then I said, ”I have to go and meet my friends now. 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)

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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

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