Two Years in New York (Michael Mohr's "fictional memoir" chapter 9)
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Chapter 9
Two things happened between the final week of August and early September which rattled me. I’d been living in the new apartment for about a month. I’d been busy working on a book editing project, which was good because I needed the extra cash. Everything was going fine with the tenants in El Cerrito. Sophia and I had not seen each other again yet since our coffee date, but we’d been texting on and off. The messages waffled between flirting, pretending not to flirt, complaints about Chad, AA stuff, my shock at the horror and beauty that was New York, Art, literature, aesthetics, the meaning of life, chaos and randomness, politics, etc. She was becoming a friend. Yet more than a friend.
I had started to get a feel for the land, my East Harlem neighborhood. I often walked south along 5th Avenue, smiling at 128th, aka “James Baldwin Street.” Baldwin had been a favorite author of mine for years. His short nonfiction tract, The Fire Next Time, about becoming a teenage preacher in late 1930s Harlem had changed my life.
Often, I trekked five blocks south to 125th, and then walked around eyeing the culture. It did in some ways remind me of Oakland, only it was bigger in a fierce urban way. Often, too, I’d keep going one more block, down to 124th, where I’d enter Marcus Garvey Park, which had open lawns, concrete pathways, boulders, and an old fire lookout at the top I enjoyed climbing up to. I liked the park but it was rough. In the mornings I saw sunlight glinting off used heroin needles on the ground. I was usually heavily in the minority of white people.
Once, walking back down from the fire lookout, I ran into two men with a young woman. The girl might have been eighteen, nineteen. The guys were early twenties. One guy stood in front of her and had his hand down her pants. Her pants were pulled partially down her thighs. She looked distressed. The other guy stood behind her, as a watchout. When he saw me—the guy looking out for interlopers—he didn’t say a word or make a gesture; he just glared at me with eyes so full of rage and hate that I turned around and walked off. Of course I wanted to help the girl, but what could I do? What if one of them had a knife or a gun? After I left I thought of calling the police. But what would that solve? Would the cops even come? Did they care? Plus, I told myself: What if the cops did come; then what would happen the next time these guys saw me in the park or in the neighborhood? They’d surely know who tipped off the police. I was one of the minority of whites in the area. So, I let it go.
Other times I walked to the hipster coffee shop on 129th, sitting around for hours and writing in my journal. I’d order English Breakfast tea with milk and sip while I wrote. All the familiar warmth and coffee shop sounds calmed me. I met some interesting writers and creative people here. We chatted and exchanged cards, emails and phone numbers. Or else I’d go to Lenox Sapphire on 127th and catch live jazz or drink coffee or eat their Moroccan food. I enjoyed passing Sylvia’s Soul Food restaurant on Lenox between 126th and 127th, a classic Harlem staple. There was the Corner Social and Red Rooster and Starbucks, right next to the 2/3 train on 125th. Other times I’d head west passing Adam Clayton Powell, Frederick Douglass, Manhattan Avenue, etc. I never felt completely safe, but I never felt totally terrified either, so I walked around more or less alertly but freely. Even at night. Sometimes, also, I walked down to the northernmost part of Central Park at 110th Street and walked around a small body of water called the Harlem Meer. (This would later become a sanctuary during COVID.)
On one particular night I pushed my luck. I don’t recall anymore where I’d been; all I know is that, wherever it was, I returned, around midnight, on the eastside. I think I took the 6 local because it was too long a wait for the 4/5 express. This meant it made each and every stop. From downtown it was alright, but once the train started getting into the 90s, the energy shifted viscerally. The late-night hood crowd. I can’t remember if it was a weekday or a weekend.
What I do remember is getting off, finally—at 125th. It was dark out, a deep shade of black. I walked out on the east side of Lexington.
The McDonald’s was closed but crawling with lurkers outside, standing around. Mostly large, sketchy-looking men. A few eyed me skeptically. I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on getting home as soon as I could. That was the rule of the game here, in this neighborhood—no eye contact. Frankly, that was the way it was, though less menacing, in all of Manhattan. Look down. Look away. Look at nothing. Focus on the middle-distance. Whatever you do, don’t catch someone’s eyes. Don’t humanize others. Don’t try to be kind or friendly. These are foreign gestures in New York City. I’d realized they weren’t for no reason: They were a tool for survival.
I kept my pace medium after I passed the lurking men; I knew if I started jogging or walking really fast I’d only arouse their intrigue. I was like a mouse walking by a dozen giant cats, paws hyper, eyes alert, claws sharp as nails. It didn’t have anything to do with race; I’d had the same feeling walking around working-class white areas in Boston. Ditto sketchy small meth-saturated coastal towns along Oregon, Washington, California. Same in rural Maine, when hitchhiking a decade ago. It was about poverty, not race—that desperate, violent look in their eyes. I had things, they saw that. They had nothing, and I saw that. They wanted what I had. I didn’t want to give it.
Around 127th, looking back to make sure I was alone—I was—I crossed the empty, deserted street to the west side of Lexington. There was nobody around now. It was like an urban desert. The emptiness was itself sort of sadistic, as if it were saying, Careful. A sense of paranoia and fear laced my racing heart. I kept turning around making sure no one followed me. No one did.
Then I made a big mistake. I should have just headed west down 127th or 128th, back to 5th and then up to 130th and home. But I didn’t. For some bizarre reason—call it my Freudian death wish—I decided, of all things, and at all times, to walk all the way up to 131st Street, where the street ended, bumping into Harlem River Drive, paralleling the Harlem River. I guess I wanted to see what it was like going all the way to the end of Lexington. Stupid idea, obviously. What can I say? During the day it would likely have been fine. But at past midnight?
Right at 130th, there was an intuitive poke in my solar plexus. A sense of beware. I hesitated, but crossed anyway and headed north to the next and final block. As I passed the corner, I saw a shadowy, vague figure move from deep in the shadows. Anxiety. Keep going, I told myself. Don’t look back. But I did look back, and when I did the figure emerged briefly from the shadows. The only way to describe the person was to say this: From what I saw it appeared to be a massive male tranny. He might have been 6’4. Giant body; rippling muscles. He wore a torn red dress which looked like it’d been found on sale at a Salvation Army. I saw for just a moment the gleam of the street lamp against his eyes. I couldn’t be certain but I think he smiled at me, for just an instant.
I pumped ahead, this time faster. Fuck it. I didn’t care if he saw me speed up. I was frightened. The problem was, when I reached 131st, hearing the low rush of light traffic on the highway, smelling, vaguely, the river, I saw that it was closed-off here. There was a massive construction site, obstructing anyone’s passing on either side. Fuck. That meant I had only one choice, and a terrible one: I had to walk back.
Alright, I told myself. You can do this. You’re strong man. If you need to you can run. Or fight back. This almost made me laugh. The guy was easily twice my size. His muscles were the size of my neck.
Swallowing, taking in a big breath of finally-cooling-down late summer air, I started walking back. At the corner of 130th, the man emerged from the shadows again. In my stupid fear, I ignored my rational mind which told me to head another block or two south, and instead took a sharp right on 130th and moved west. The hairs on the back of my head stood up. Something ominous behind me. Finally, I glanced back. Sure enough, the red-dress-wearing-giant was in full view, trailing maybe thirty yards behind me, dress flowing, following me. In the next street lamp I saw that he wore purple and blue makeup and eyeshadow. He clenched and unclenched his huge fists which were balled up at his sides. He didn’t speak. We hadn’t exchanged a word. All silent, malevolent gesture.
Then I received a second shock. About halfway down the block—still on 130th between Lexington and Park Avenue—I spotted a second figure. A man, sitting along the empty sidewalk. He saw me. His face was in the shadows a bit. This guy was dressed conventionally. He stood as I approached. He was huge, like the other man. He didn’t talk. I passed him and sensed deep terror now. I moved a little faster.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
But I did. They were now together, in unison, following me. I realized they might be trapping innocent people like this on purpose. The whole thing might be a trap. One guy on the corner, the other down the block. Wait for someone to walk by, drunk or small or a woman, and then chase and grab. Or hurt. Or kill.
I sped up. I reached Park. I wiggled zigzag-like across Park and then started walking even faster. I went for maybe half a block. I looked back. They were on me still, like glue. And they were gaining. They walked but they were bigger and taller than me so each stride for them might have been two or three for me. Panic was beginning to seize me. My guts became gripped in a vice. That internal squeeze. I worried that if I just broke down and ran they’d do the same and, still two-and-a-half blocks from my apartment, with nobody else around, it would be a risk. And that risk could end up very badly. Perhaps permanent. I didn’t know what they wanted: Money or blood. Or something else?
I saw the MetroNorth train which ran over a bridge as you crossed from Park to Madison Avenue. Under the bridge it was covered in deep shadow. I thought, Ok. Here’s my mark. When I get absorbed by that shadow under the bridge, I’ll wait a second and then sprint. I wanted to glance back over my shoulder but I didn’t. Not yet. I just kept moving. The bridge was getting closer and closer. Hope started to filter into my consciousness, bit by terrified bit.
Ok. Here it was. I crossed Park. I entered the shadow. I looked back. They were close, closer than they had been before. Maybe a quarter of a block behind me. And walking extremely fast now. I couldn’t tell for sure but the regularly dressed man seemed to carry something in his right hand; it may have been a knife.
I said a quick Serenity Prayer in my mind, breathed, looked back one last time real quick, and took off, sprinting out of the shadows.
I heard the scuffle of their shoes on the asphalt behind me. One of them yelled something but I was too in the moment to get what he said. I just ran like Hell. I passed half of Madison. Approaching I saw 5th Avenue, which was often a busy street, a main Manhattan artery that cut through much of the city from uptown to downtown.
As I closed in on 5th a gaggle of cars were rushing south one-way and fast. I glanced back. The two men were maybe thirty feet away. I didn’t have time to wait. I said Fuck It and jagged wildly across 5th. Several cars honked; one guy yelled something at me out the window. I heard a tire’s screech. I didn’t look back. I stopped at my apartment, my hands trembling, searching my pocket for the key. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK I cursed under my breath. I was too panicked.
I found the key. I jammed it into the hole, turned, and shoved myself into the building. I slammed the heavy black metal door. It shut loudly with a reverberating, clanking thud. I stood there a moment, breathing heavy, sighing, watching out the small rectangular window to the street. I kept expecting to see the men. But minutes passed and no one appeared. An insane urge welled up within me—my inner masochist again—to step back outside and see, check if they were really gone. This kind of Thanatos-based compulsion, urge, was what had nearly destroyed me in my teens and twenties.
I turned around and walked up the twisting stairs, back to my apartment. I walked in. I held Lucius. I looked out the windows at 5th and 130th. I didn’t see anyone there.
*
A week-and-a-half or so later I woke up around 7:30, typical for me. (Often it was more like eight, eight-thirty.) I did my routine, making Irish Breakfast tea. I ate some granola with yogurt. I used the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and read for a while. My plan was to write and then check my emails, see if any new book editing work had come in. Maybe go out after that, hit Sober Authors—it was Wednesday—or just wander round Times Square or Greenwich Village or the East Village or something. I always needed to get out of the apartment at some point. I was a man who needed fresh outside air. Freedom. Perspective. Movement. Walking outside helped me think, helped me relax. I worked things out in my mind.
Around 8:45, my phone buzzed. That was unusual. No one called me this early. I saw that it was my neighbor who lived downstairs right by the building front door. Latisha. We’d met the first time I came to see the apartment. She was in her mid-forties, successful (she worked for the NFL), and had come to Harlem half a decade ago from her native Dalles, Texas. She was attractive, with long straight black hair and dark, intelligent eyes. And she was very nice. We’d chatted after I moved in, downstairs, a few times for ten, fifteen minutes apiece. Something must be wrong. I pressed “accept.”
“Latisha?”
“Heyyyyy,” she said, trying to sound cheery but with a clear edge in her voice. “Sorry to bother you this early.”
“What’s up?”
She sighed. “Well. You know how I told you the first time we met that it’s really safe in our area?”
My gut dropped like a broken elevator, six flights way too fast. “Yeah.”
“I just wanted you to know. Sometimes shit happens.”
I paused, decided not to respond.
She cleared her throat. “I was woken up this morning at three AM by NYPD pounding on my door. Everything was alright, but they wanted to let me know that…” here she slowed and then stopped, hesitating. “Well…they wanted me to know that…a tenant here was apparently robbed at gunpoint inside the building last night.”
“Hold on,” I said, blood pounding in my ears. The two men chasing me flashed back into my brain with a terrible vengeance. “You mean to say that two men entered our building, and held up a tenant here? Last night?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Around 2:15 the police said. The men must have been casing the place. How else would they know when a tenant would return to the apartment? Unless they just happened to be walking by.”
Unless it was the two men who chased me! No, I thought: That’s ludicrous. Isn’t it?
“Wow. Ok. Well. Thanks for letting me know. That’s fucking scary. I mean out on the street is one thing. But inside the building?!”
“I know,” she said, sighing again. “And I called Emir this morning. I told him what happened. He doesn’t give a shit. What a dick. Guy lives in Jersey and doesn’t even have to live here and he just wants to get paid. He won’t even put a sign on the door saying what happened so other tenants know. Prick.”
Emir was our shitty, shady property manager. He was more like an Italian don. He would sometimes show up pounding on my door at random times saying he needed to do this or that, without warning, because I’d made the tragic mistake of telling him I worked from home. He always acted like everything was casual. I could imagine his voice on the phone, his Turkish accent, telling me I was “over-exaggerating” the threat or not to “worry so much.” He was a dick, for sure, and we had a conflicting, toxic relationship. He seemed to epitomize everything bad and narcissistic and fucked about Manhattan. He seemed to remind you: We’re all on our own in this town. Every man for himself. Social Darwinism.
I sighed this time, loudly. “Alright. Thanks for telling me, Latisha. I appreciate that.”
“You bet. Stay safe out there.”
We hung up.
“Ok,” I said out loud, to Lucius, who gazed at me with his head cocked. “No more being outside late in Harlem. A little after dark, maybe, but only if I take the train home on the west side. No more gallavanting around as if I’m in Ojai. This is the real deal. Guns, knives, huge men. I want to face New York. But I don’t want to get shot or stabbed.