The Artful Trade

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Away

The platform was empty except a beggar wearing a dead man’s suit. Under his tattooed arm he carried a violin case. All around him were people desperately trying to get where they were sure they needed to be. Each with a timetable, a schedule, and a train number. The city has always been a numbers game. Lives there are measured by salaries and bonuses. People gauge themselves by age and weight, by their credit scores and debts, by dress sizes or the number of shots needed to go home alone again on a Friday night. Failure is measured by the number of unpaid bills stacked up beside a bed. But success is measured in square feet. Dreams, like apartments, are studio-sized small or circus-tent big. They are a pair of shoes that no longer fit or your daddy’s wingtips, too big to wear. For Dabo, the payout was fifty to one. But he had beaten the numbers game even before his feet touched the city’s soil. There were 6 million dead and only a handful of survivors. It was this terrible ide...

Chasing the Light

I was not much older than a boy. A runaway living in a third floor walkup in Hell’s Kitchen. Looking for whatever work I could find to pay the rent and keep my belly still. Morris was a last call shape up worker. Unreliable because of the three day drunks he sometimes went on after his son died and his wife left. But the city took him on in a pinch and then he convinced them it was a two man job. So they let him hire me, just a kid, on the cheap. Off the books. But the project manager made it clear. I was supposed to make him show up on time. The runaway babysitting the soul scarred drunk. Both of us trying to rewire those townhouses and ourselves before we were burned to the ground by the slow fire of a faulty connection or memory. Both of us trying to earn back the light we each had lost. “It’s all wired up wrong.” he said again and again. “All of it.” We spent that summer changing out substandard wires some low life contractor had used to wire up a line of refurbed shells i...

Confetti

Confetti There is an ancient Irish legend I heard as a boy. The story goes that God created mankind and angels. Men wandered the earth and angels the heavens. Both man and angel were alone. Seeing this God broke man’s heart in two and gave half to woman. He cut the human heart in two so that together they might solve their loneliness. But he left the angels hearts intact…unbroken. Only a broken heart can ever hope to become full. So these creatures remained, small and empty, locked up in the eternity of themselves. They knew nothing of what it is to flee into someone else eyes or offer shelter in your own. To become larger than your own want. Most quietly endured that existence.But there was one kind that watched humanity from afar, then drawn to it came to dwell among the living. This kind of angel fell in love with humanity. But there was, as always, a price. Beneath the human beauty,intoxicating and irresistible,was the acid of living. Its irrevocable flaws. Its sorrow, its inh...

Hard But Sweet

Hard But Sweet “Its too hard,” the small boy said to his grandmother. “I know,” she answered. “But once you get past the hard, it’s sweet. Go on now. Try.” The boy bit into the apple again and again until he reached the sweet center of it. The old woman lived in a three room walkup off 10th Avenue. Her daughter had fallen in love with a sailor on one of the merchant marine freighters that came through the west side. The daughter was just 17 and at 17, she confused lonely with love.The sailor was the kind of man that looks for a door to get out in every room he ever walked in. He was in another port looking for another little bit of lonely by the time she felt the first kick. The lonely in the girl masqueraded as love thenA changed into worry when her letters were all returned. Her mother held her hand and told her, “Young is mostly dumb. No crime in that. There’s no help for it except living a little bit of wrong into you, so’s you know dumb next time.” The girl cried each nigh...

Saving Christmas

Saving Christmas There was a panhandler that for years stood at the center of Times Square. One of the forgotten souls, a little off and dressed in rags, he had the air of someone that had found their purpose. Each day deep into the night he chanted his creed to the crowd passing by, ignoring him. “Living is hard,” he cried out. “Living is beautiful… The hard is trying to make you beautiful." By the time I was 23 I had already lived a good bit of hard into me. Beauty had begun to seem beyond my reach. I would try each night to sleep but after a few hours would go out and walk the city streets, just hoping to exhaust myself. That year, in mid-December, a blizzard blew in, 5 degrees, a foot of snow on the ground. It was the first fall of the year. With snow and love the first fall is always the purest. The heart of the city is never ready for the cold. City people bury themselves in apartments, turns the locks and pray for spring. And for a time the ceaselessness of the ...

Red Light Town

Red Light Town I lived for a short time in florida. A tiny town with just one traffic light. At one end of the town was a tool and dye where just about everybody worked. At the other other end was a church and behind it a yard with gravestones, all the names worn away by weather. In that part of the country there are wide swaths of unincorporated land and in the summer the thunderheads roll in off the ocean. Often a lightning strike hits some brush and starts a fire that burns hard and wild for a time, until it burns itself out. You can see them from the turnpike at night. Wild fires blazing away nearly out of sight until there's nothing left to burn. The tool and dye started losing business then laid off the people in waves. The graveyard shifts got smaller and the graveyard bigger. And that street ran just one way, from the plant to the churchyard. I knew a young couple there. He made their living with that tool and die kind of life. When they finally shut it down and chaine...

The Light of the World

The Light of the World “The operation saved your sight,” the doctor explained. “Without it you would be blind.” He paused, looked away, then added, “It’s not all good news, I’m afraid. Without what we removed… that diseased filter… seeing will eventually become painful. Even unbearable. It will take years but eventually it will feel like burning. But at least you’ll see.” He paused.“You may even be able to see… more.” Worried, I asked, “More? What do you mean?” The doctor touched me on the shoulder. “Most of us see the world through a lens darkly. It protects us. We never see the world as it really is. Yours was damaged. It’s very rare but it happens. You know Joyce, the Irish writer? He’s the most famous example in the medical texts. Joyce had fourteen surgeries before they finally understood the trouble. Near the end he said that simply opening his eyes each morning was like filling them with acid. He suffered a great deal.” The doctor hesitated. “He called it a light all ar...

Higher Power

Higher Power Years ago, as a much younger man, I worked for a short time on a fishing boat off the Cape. The job was mainly hauling nets and pouring the catch into holds and cleaning the decks. But this was near the whale routes, so every once in a while, when the sea was quiet, I could feel something great and close — but always hidden beneath the surface. The waves would shudder slightly, and though I could never see it clearly, there was the feeling of a presence larger and closer than it should be. Powerful but hidden. Terrible and beautiful at once. Sometimes if I looked at just the right moment I could see its shadow. And every once in a great while the shadow would come crashing through the surface — visible for just an instant before being pulled back below. When I was growing up, my folks had a house near the transformer that was the main electrical line into town. It was a large steel tower draped with thick cables. Most of the time it was silent, just a presence. But...

Chain Lightning

Chain Lightning The old man, like every old man, carried a drought in his eyes. He had lived long enough to know that sometimes the rain just quits. And he knew doubt grows and fears get loose at 3 a.m. He came to expect the ache in his back and trust in his sweat to be a different kind of rain. Like there was a storm in him. A kind of dry lightning. He had seen droughts before. But this year seemed different. The ground was harder. So was living. His wife, so sick, smiled once like she was remembering him on one knee, promising to give her everything he would ever have. But here he was, doubling up, both knees now, begging God for Time. And though God listens, Time never will. After she was gone, the drought felt like it would finally dry up the last drop of his dreams. The corn went dry, then so did hope. It cracked down the middle. Like it was all stalk. But after every dawn-to-dark day, he would clear away his one dish and step out the front door. He’d walk into the rows un...