(Photo by Bald Punk – Turner Street in Sandy Ground – Click twice to fully enlarge)

Me, my lady friend(LF), Scrappy D, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts), along with Benny “the cigar store Indian,” have arrived at Sandy Ground, Staten Island. We are searching for the ghost of a slave named Hardy. He’s the only one who knows the whereabouts of the demon called Old Seven . . .

Sandy Ground is an old community founded by freed black slaves on Staten Island. The Rossville Fire of 1963 destroyed many of the original homes and from what I saw it’s an area stifled by the vinyl siding of new housing developments. Very little that remains holds an old world charm or significance. There’s the white-vinyl Historical Society building, a humble church, a cemetery that dates back to the early 1800′s, and a couple of desolate back roads that are relatively rare in NYC. On those roads are some pretty nice old homes, too. But that’s it, I think?

Sandy Ground Historical Society was closed, even though we arrived during business hours. We drove a block over and parked our car on Crabtree Avenue, across from the old cemetery.

We got out and explored the area, which was fed by serene, tree-lined roads.  Benny walked ahead of us, gesticulating, while talking to the birds, trees, and shrubs; seeming every bit the homeless person he “portrays” in real life.

We left him alone until he said we should go back to the church.

We pulled into the building’s empty parking lot. A chubby black kid was mowing the lawn. He wore grapefruit-sized headphones.

We made our way around the building’s entrance and found the doors were locked. The kid pushed the mower in our direction without lifting his head.

In the parking lot, I saw Benny was still in the front seat. He was muttering to himself.

I thought if Hardy’s ghost was in Sandy Ground, we sure as heck weren’t going to find him, especially in the middle of a bright sunny day. I said it was time to go and my LF protested. I’m sure it was only out of respect for Benny.

On the way to the car, I nearly knocked over the pizza and Chinese delivery guys who were tangled up in Scrappy D’s leash. If you’re new to this blog, all you need to know about them is that if Scrappy D jumped off the side off the Grand Canyon, they would follow. Not to save him mind you, but just because they’re whacked. They would probably catch the squirmy-little-bastard mid-flight, and play with him like nothing was wrong. You think I’m kidding, don’t you . . .

(Photo by “The Mel” – Scrappy D)

In order to curtail an argument, I decided to make a last ditch effort to find Hardy. I waited for the kid with the mower to come our way. I raised a hand to him. He didn’t seem all too happy to shut the mower or lift his headphones to hear me.

“You know a man named Hardy from around these parts?” I asked. He shook his head without seeming to give it much thought. He started to slide the headphones back down over his ears. I caught his eyes do a-little-nervous dance and immediately raised my voice, “How ‘bout any ‘ghost slaves’ that haunt Sandy Ground? You know of any?”

His eyes flashed over my shoulder. Benny sprung out of the car and made a beeline to us. The kid stepped back. “He don’t want to talk to you!” the kid said to Benny, his voice a tad deep and surly.

“It’s important.” Benny replied. “It’s about the demon, Old Seven.”

“Red man, you can’t tell him anything he don’t know.”

“Where is he?” Benny asked. The old homeless man looked over at the church. His eyes lingered while he said, “I know you won’t lie to me.”

Just then I had a horrible revelation about Hardy. I felt guilty “for thinking up.” It didn’t help that Benny met my gaze. He shook his head, as if he knew what I was thinking and wanted me to keep quiet.

The kid stared off for close to ten seconds, seeming to have a communion with the wind. It reminded me of the conversation Benny had had with “nature” a short while ago.

I listened closely. I tried to hear if there were any voices in the wind I too could pick up. My head shot up. Somehow the revelation gained veracity. I was certain that not only did Hardy have a run-in with the Old Seven, but it had resulted in the slave’s death. More details came to me . . .

“Ignore Old Seven,” the kid said. “It’s what Hardy said he shudda done.”

“Please,” Benny appealed.

“What do you think you can do?” the kid said with a hint of anger. “You can’t kill a demon. No one knows that better than Hardy.”

“Do I have to fear Old Seven?” Benny asked and gave an appealing smile. “If I leave here without knowing, I will be forced to track the demon, and take my chances.”

“You’ll never find him.”

“At night, sometimes I envision him huddled on a moonlit beach,” Benny retorted.

“He’s crazy,” the kid said to me, and then unfortunately looked at num and nuts, who were both holding Scrappy D. He probably thought we were all nuts.

Benny straightened. Something seemed to catch his eye. “Does Hardy have him here, down by the beach?”

“You’re a crazy ol’ fool!” the kid said.

Benny smiled and said, “We have room for you in the car.”

–

(Photo by Bald Punk – Mt Loretto as seen walking to the shore)

I drove south on Bloomingdale Road, and the kid sat in the front passenger seat. The four others were squished in the back with Scrappy D.

The kid must have doused himself with a whole bottle of cologne. He smelled like a mix of flowers and wood-smoke. It was actually pretty nice. I found myself picturing a bucolic landscape, thick with pine trees and green pastures.

After a couple of turns, we were on a large, open road called Hylan Boulevard. Brush and shrubbery lined the street. A block later we parked in a gravel lot. On the other side of Hylan was a small brick building that housed an activity center. Set back from it on sprawling acreage was a large church with a high steeple. Years ago the entire area was the site of Mt. Loretto Orphanage.

We headed off on foot down a long blacktop road. It was closed to cars by a bright yellow gate. It led straight to the shore.

(Photos by Bald Punk – Mount Loretto Unique Area – pics below, too)

Benny and the kid trailed behind us. We were led by an excited Scrappy D, who was sniffing the foliage like a maniac.

After about a quarter mile we came to another empty road that ran parallel with a small bluff. The bluff was partially hidden by trees and tight growth.

To our left, we could see the water glinting through the trees and headed that way. Arriving a minute or two after us, Benny and the kid went to the right. We turned and followed them. We passed a small brick shrine, and then went through a slim break in the trees, and down a steep path. It led to the beach that was no more than a couple dozen feet wide.

In the sand, someone had arranged a long line of stacked rocks and tree limbs. They were arranged in a ceremonial or symbolic manner. The placement was repeated for farther than the eye could see. Midway along there was a rectangle formed by branches and odd pieces of wood, embellished with a few haphazard placements of stones and bricks atop stumps.

An image took shape in my mind’s eyes.  Under the moon and stars, I pictured someone huddled on the shore. I remarked to Benny, “It must get lonely here at night.”

He gave a wistful smile. We both looked out into the bay where there were many small sailboats. Many birds circled above them.

“What happened to the kid?” I asked, seeing he was nowhere on the beach. “Where did he go?”

“What’s his name?” my LF said apologetically. “I’m embarrassed that we didn’t ask.”

“Hardy,” Benny whispered and gently kicked up some sand. He raised his voice. “That was Hardy.”

I didn’t even question Benny. I just knew that the kid was Hardy. I felt sick to my stomach. I wished I would have been more thoughtful. I wished I could have asked about his life.

Benny winced. “Hardy is Old Seven’s caretaker,” he said. “I had to check on him. That’s all. We can go now.”

I thought of the revelation I had back at the church, and choked up. I took Benny by the shoulder, steered him away from the others and revealed it to him.

“Hardy was barely a teen when he made the journey from Maryland to Sandy Ground,” I said.

Tears welled in the old man’s eyes. He wiped them and nodded.

I continued, “On the night Hardy arrived here, he slept on the beach. By chance Old Seven came upon his prostrate body, and for the fun of it, whipped him to death.”

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Nineteen – October 2009

Expedition to Sandy Ground, Staten Island

Historical Sandy Ground

Just A Car Ride To Staten Island

Looking for the ghost of a slave named Hardy (see more pics here: Mount Loretto in Staten Island)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(Photo by Bald Punk – Photo from Wagner College, Staten Island)

Me, my lady friend(LF), Scrappy D, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys, along with Benny, “the cigar store Indian,”  are on our way to Sandy Ground, Staten Island. We are searching for the ghost of a slave named Hardy. He’s the only one who knows the truth about the demon called Old Seven . . .

I’m trying to keep my posts shorter. So these are all the things I’m not going to tell you in the next one about our search for the ghost. I’m holding off on that installment for now, because I wasn’t paying close attention to everything that went down. Don’t think I screwed up or anything. I always think about U and try to remember as much as possible. I even write crap down.

But things were revealed in an unexpected manner. Just wait for the post. You’ll see.

So here’s what I won’t tell you in “said” post.

I’m not going to tell you anything about the car ride from our Manhattan apartment over to Sandy Ground. That’s because nothing happened. It was just your average car ride. We chilled and chatted.

I asked Benny, who believes he’s been reincarnated many times, if he had ever seen a bearded Indian. He laughed and said “yes.”

“How did you shave?” was my next question. I asked it as I looked directly into Scrappy D’s eyes, and rubbed noses with him. (I forgot to tell you that he was with us in the first post in this series.) He was zipped up inside my jacket, while I sat in the back seat. My LF was pressed in close to me, scratching the doggie’s head. “Bones, that’s what you used, right?”

(Photo by Bald Punk – Scrappy Doodles)

“Yes, also rocks, and shells,” said Benny, who was in the passenger seat. The pizza delivery guy was driving. (NO COMMENT.) And the Chinese delivery guy was on the other side of my LF.

“How the heck could you shave with a shell and not cut up your face?” I asked, looking out the window with Scrappy D–who had pressed his snout to the glass.

Benny laughed, and turned around in the seat. He looked at me–really focusing in on me. He rarely does that. I told you how he’s slight of build, doesn’t have the best teeth though has a warm smile. I never mentioned the force of his personality. That’s because I never noticed it before. When you’re with him, “it’s all about Benny, all the time.”

Maybe I need to be a tad more vigilant. I’m good at yelling at people to get them to do what I want. I’m also real good at breaking shit. That’s because I do demo work for a living. But I’m not so good at noticing the little things.

I need to change that. Especially now. That’s ’cause of late it’s starting to feel like I’m freewheeling down a dark road . . .

“You would be surprised how many things you can do when you focus only on what you’re doing,” Benny said, talking about shaving with rocks and shells. “It’s not like my Indian brethren were running off to work. We were living each moment, for the moment.”

The weight of his words shut me up for a moment. I planted my chin planted on Scrappy D’s head. We were on the West Side Highway. I gazed out the window over the Hudson River to the hilly shoreline of New Jersey.

–Scrappy D got passed around a lot in the back seat. I don’t hog him even though he’s my dog. He kept poking his nose at my LF and lathered her face with his tongue. Once she had him, the Chinese delivery guy was basically in her lap.

And you know what happened next, the pizza delivery guy kept looking back from behind the wheel. I yelled at him to keep his eyes on the road. I told him, “You can hold ’the scrap-mister’ all you want whenever we got to wherever the heck we were going to.”

It took forever to find Sandy Ground. Not a single person in Staten Island knew where it was. I wound up accusing Benny, who is an old homeless man, of taking us on a joyride. I won’t gloat though I did howl when I finally found the address on my Blackberry. I “Googled” it.

But before that, in Brooklyn, we were holed up in traffic on the elevated Gowanus Expressway. There wasn’t much to see because we were stuck by rows of converted warehouses that are pressed right up to the roadway . . . Btw, I remember hearing a traffic report about twenty years ago along the lines of: “Roadwork begins today on the Gowanus, expect delays for the next ten years.” They have yet to finish “said” roadwork.

When we got to Staten Island, I saw many autumnally colored trees and mused, “What if leaves changed directly from green to brown and never turned all the beautiful colors; would Crayola have so many great colors?”

–Benny told us more about the demon named Old Seven, who he saw get off the same boat as Henry Hudson.

“I was lucky to catch a glimpse of Old Seven that day,” Benny said, who in one of his past lives posed as a cigar store Indian.

“September 12, 1609, was the date Hudson sailed into the harbor,” I injected.

“Yes,” Benny said. “As soon as I laid my eyes on Old Seven, he ran off like a scared child. He hid from me then as he does now. He knows who I am.”

“What do you mean, Benny?” my LF asked softly.

“It’s true that I am the same thin, meek, and unimposing person I was then,” Benny said and turned fully around in the seat. He wasn’t wearing a *seatbelt. ”But I am still a full-blood Lenni Lenape. I am a Delaware Indian. I have knowledge gifted to me by the Great Spirit. He is the Master of Life. I don’t have to run to catch a man. The same goes for a demon.” He turned forward and lowered his voice. “I have Old Seven’s scent in my nostrils. I could find him if it was my desire.” He gazed out the window. “First we must talk to Hardy.”

“You saw Old Seven again, didn’t you,” I said to Benny.

He sighed, but didn’t answer.

“What do you hope to learn about Old Seven from Hardy?” my LF asked in about as sweet a tone as humanly possible.

Benny shook his head like old people do, and I couldn’t tell if it was a denial or a natural ailment. A full moment later he spoke cryptically, “No one knows the touch of evil better than Hardy.”

–

*It’s clear Benny does not ride around in cars all that much. That’s ’cause, he’s a freakin’ homeless dude. More than once I had to tell him not to take off his seatbelt, and to stop turning around. So please, no e-mails on car safety.

–

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Nineteen – October 2009

Expedition to Sandy Ground, Staten Island

Historical Sandy Ground

Just A Car Ride To Staten Island

Looking for the ghost of a slave named Hardy

(See more pics here: Mount Loretto in Staten Island)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS

(I wish the above car was mine. We have an old Camry, but it runs great!)

My car is idling on the street below. The pizza delivery guy is behind the wheel. Benny, ”the cigar store Indian” is in the front passenger seat. In the back, it will be me on the right hand side(RHS) and the Chinese delivery guy on the left with my lady friend in the middle. I am of course on the RHS because it provides the best views from the Gowanus Expressway and Verrazano Bridge. But that’s for Scrappy D who will be riding with me, zipped up inside the sweat jacket I’m wearing. He loves seeing shit out the window.

(Photo by Bald Punk – Scrappy D scoping shit out)

Plus I feel  better when Scrappy’s close, and I’m going to need it because . . .

We’re going to Staten Island!!!

(Photo by Bald Punk – Verrazzano as seen from Wagner College in Staten Island)

Yes, you heard that right, STATEN ISLAND. The place is completely whacked. If you don’t believe me, then read about what happened the last time we went there–

Ohhh, but first let me clarify. We’re going to Staten Island to look for the ghost of a slave named Hardy. Benny says we can find him at some place I’ve never heard of called Sandy Ground. I’m certain it doesn’t exist. But if we do find him, he’ll just scare the crap out of me. This whole trip makes no sense. “What does?” you ask . . . Beer, football, and putting my feet up.

(Photo  by Bald Punk – Scrappy D, the ‘D’ is for Doodles)

Here are all the post that tell about the last time I went to Staten Island: Seventh Episode – May 2009 (Bald Punk Rides Again)

Bald Punk The Explorer!

My Journey to the Edge of the World!

Staten Island BBQ Mayhem

Bald Punk Rides Again

–

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Nineteen – October 2009

Expedition to Sandy Ground, Staten Island

Historical Sandy Ground

Just A Car Ride To Staten Island

Looking for the ghost of a slave named Hardy (see more pics here: Mount Loretto in Staten Island)

Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS