then dropped from the wall and walked down the hill to the shore.

He walked along the shore looking across the bay at the Staten Island shoreline. He watched and listened to the waves slapping lightly against the seawall and whirling between the rocks, leaving bits of wood and debris amongst them when it ebbed, the next swell picking them up again and bobbing them on its peak before breaking on the rocks and slapping the seawall, then folding back on itself and whirling between the rocks as it returned to its source, once again leaving behind the unwanted debris.

He stopped, leaned on the railing running along the edge of the seawall and stared at the water… hearing the clang of the ferry mooring winch, the bell buoys, the horns and whistles of the ships in the bay… thinking of the sadness, loneliness, (but none of the adventure) that has always been associated with the sea… feeling a connection between himself and that loneliness…

He looked down at the rocks and the small crabs crawling over and between them, remembering the previous summer when he and his friends sat here for hours catching them, throwing most of them back, saving a few to scare the girls with…. But it all seemed unreal now… not as if it had never happened, but as if it had happened in some remote age or different life, there seeming to be no connection between then and now. Nor did he find any joy in the vague memory, feeling only more saddened and depressed.

He lifted his head and looked at the Narrows… then gazed toward the sea. The horizon seemed strangely significant, but trying to define it only confused his thoughts more….

Once (it couldnt have been too long ago) he and his friends came here on a gray day when the water was dark and whipped with whitecaps, the waves crashing against the rocks and seawall, the spray leaping above the railing and cascading down on them as they held fast to the railing, moving instinctively with the swaying of the ship, the boy yelling orders to his crew as the ship lurched dangerously close to the rocks in the violent and uncharted sea. He refused to turn his back to the biting spray but remained steadfast at his post, ignoring the water as it lashed his face, barking the crucial orders that would bring the ship safely through the storm…

Many times he thought happily of that day and whenever the wind blew and the water in the bay kicked up and the spray lashed the wall, he would try to get his friends to go with him to the shore, but something always prevented it and so he never relived it except in his mind, remembering each wave and tasting once again the salt as he felt the spray sting his face.

He tried reliving it now, and though each time in the past the old joy and excitement not only returned but increased, he now remembered only that it had happened and nothing more. That day was dead.

He turned from the bay feeling deserted (for if he could find no joy here or even raise its memory, where could it be found?) and walked back to Third Avenue. The plaintiveness and tragedy of before were completely inside him now and he felt the sadness of the world within him, feeling every tear that had ever rolled down a cheek flooding his being, and though a part of him tried to fight this sadness the effort was weak. It seemed right for the worlds misery to flow through him because he was, in some unknown way, responsible for its pain.

He stood on the corner for a moment wondering what there was he could do…

where he could go…

feeling completely isolated from the people walking by yet sensing a new relationship between himself and them.

He turned and instinctively walked toward home, feeling strangely conspicuous among the people, as if he were wearing a mask that advertised his feelings. He looked at the people, expecting them to stop talking and smiling and laughing and stand there, just stand there and stare at him.

He lowered his eyes and walked a little faster (vaguely wondering why they were laughing—could he laugh?). Surely Mom can help. He could always run to her and put his arms around her, tell her what was wrong, what was troubling him. She would comfort him, reassure him. Maybe that was all that was needed, just to cry and have Mom kiss him, hug him, and everything would be alright, nothing changed, nothing to fear????

The boy stopped and looked across the avenue at the entrance of the apartment house, his eyes tearing…. He did not hear the noises of the cars, the trucks, the trolleys, the people, but an etherized drone…

the newsstand next to the doorway whirled and the traffic on the avenue blurred into a meaningless mass…

Why couldnt he run across the street and up the stairs to Mom? Why couldnt he move????

Tears fell from his eyes, his lungs and chest felt like they were collapsing.

Was he sitting?

Standing? lying anesthetized, strapped to a table and slowly losing consciousness with a mask clamped tightly on his face listening to a repetitious drone of final words

loud then soft

loud then soft, dragging, spinning, dragging…

The drone whirled to a highspeed whine

poles reversing

orbits tilting flashing suns and planets spinning away

colliding, bursting

showering spermlike sparks….

A groan of overwhelming agony screamed through him and rattled in his throat. His head jerked up and he turned and staggered to the corner…

then fled in panic down the street past the people standing and talking, past the walkers and the women with their baby carriages, past the trees and the parked cars, and past the yells of ball players in the schoolyard…

The Coat

Harry loved his coat. He had gotten it toward the end of winter and it saved his life. The winters on the Bowery were tough under any conditions, but without a coat the winters were deadly, bodies picked up each morning, some frozen to the ground and having to be chipped loose. But Harrys coat became more than comfort, more than protection against the cold, even more than a life saver… it was his friend, his buddy… his only companion. He dearly loved his coat.

It was long, reaching almost to his ankles,and heavy, and he could wrap it around himself almost twice and when he raised the collar he felt completely protected from the world. It was an Army surplus coat that he had gotten from the Salvation Army, one of the last ones they had. He loved it right away. But keeping a coat on skid row during the winter was not easy. He had to be alert. There was always some person, or group, ready to take it from you and they were willing to kill you for it.

But now the weather was getting warmer and he could relax a little. He didnt get careless, but it would be progressively easier to protect his coat. He had seen men sell their coats when the weather warmed, for enough for a bottle of wine, but he would never be that foolish. Winter always returned. He had spent part of one winter with newspapers wrapped around his body trying desperately to keep out the cold, each day an eternity, but that was only a memory he kept alive during the heat of summer when keeping the coat seemed such a burden. Winter always returned.

During the cold weather he often worked as a dishwasher at night. When he first got to the row a couple of old-timers tried to show him how to panhandle, how to size up a mark and know whether to lookim in the eye and tellim you need a drink, or try the painful look and old vet approach, and all the variations. And they warned him that the most important thing was to know who not to hit. They have a look in their eye and theyre liable to killya. You gotta stay clear ofem… And Harry would watch them panhandle, always staying south of Houston Street—the cops dont botherya down here, but north of Houstons bad news—but Harry just could not go up to a stranger and ask him for money. He even had a difficult time, finding it almost impossible, to ask for his money after a nights work. He had been that way all his life and had given up trying to change.