Great Kills Review - Winter 2008

Great Kills Review

Winter 2008 – Volume II, issue 1

Jade Faul

New York

“Hey, you kids!” the cop calls out from his car window. “Move along now!”

What I don’t want is confrontation, so I get up from the bench. It’s late at night, but for the city lights in the sky it’s more like day. I guess this is typical here, solid orange sky where a black and white speckled backdrop should be. This is New York, a land without darkness.

After rising, I fall forward on my right foot to stare up at the skyline, but I remember that I cannot look vulnerable, so I put my head down to be at eye-level with anyone who should approach.

Currently-K gets up from the bench and Rat-Man spits in the air.

“That’s fucked,” Currently-K says. “I can sit on the bench if I want; I fought in Bosnia.”

“Piss on it,” Rat-Man says, “Let’s move on; our lady here hasn’t seen it all yet.”

“What more is there?” I say.

“What? You can see every fucking thing, little girl; this is New York.”

“If ya don’t see it here,” Currently-K says, “you ain’t ever gonna see it.”

We move along the concrete path and I gaze around. Everything is so big and colorful. I am like a figure popping out of a painting; surreal. I move myself to the edge of the sidewalk, on the outside of the guys. I intend to stay there, but Currently-K grabs me, curling his fingertips into my arm, and then he pulls me to his other side, moving himself on the outer edge instead.

“No,” he says, “you ain’t for sale, baby.”

He’s not looking at me when he speaks; he’s staring ahead, watching. I think that’s what I find so amazing about him. In a world of people passing without seeing, he’s the true observer.

As we approach shadows, another cop car rolls slowly towards us. What now?—I wonder. I know that if that cop could see through my purse at this moment I’d be fucked. Still, the car goes on by and we keep walking. I’m not for sale. And I’m not high—that’s my story if any cop should ask, anyway.

Then we hear the sounds:

GAG!

Then,

SLOSH!

We pass by a couple, a man and a woman. They are both skinny and creviced in the face, but I know that their ages combined cannot equal sixty or even fifty five. The man is bent over a watery-wet splash on the sidewalk and the woman is knelt, picking through the liquid, searching.

Rat-Man stares; they don’t notice him; they don’t care; he doesn’t care either—

—But I do.

When we are far from them, Rat-Man looks says: “Man, did you see that guy’s whore picking the rock pieces out of his yak?”

“Yeah, I saw those couple of crack-heads, man.” Currently-K puts his arm around my shoulders. “You’re really seeing shit now, baby; how does it feel?”

I can’t answer him, so I just hum softly under the sounds of traffic; the lights still shining.

It’s getting late, our high is fading away and it’s been so long since we started to roam. I can feel my feet becoming calloused by the hours of walking. We’ll go on back to Central Park soon, back to the big tree where we’ll dig bits of green from our pockets, separate the lint balls and then put it all together to make a decent pack. Then, we’ll smoke out of a glass one-hitter and forget about what we saw—and, also, what we may become.

About the Author

Jade Faul is completing her MFA at Minnesota State University, Mankato. Currently, she teaches English Composition and Introduction to Literature at Southern State Community College in southern Ohio. Her work as appeared in The Blue Earth Review, Inkling, and Oracle.

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