Prologue

[Prologue]

Surprised ya made it. Don’t get scared now, ole Bubsy don’t hurt nobody. ‘Sides, ya wanted me to describe the City to ya right? Make ya feel it. Heh! New York Fuckin’ City, most famous town on terra firma. Home. Mine for the last forty seven summers, I swear. Here? Nah! This my summer home. Heh! Live seasonally in my walk of life.
Winter.
Bitter. Cold.
Stealing, competing, dying.
Woke up next to frozen bodies a few times.
FuckingJackFrost.
Shelters? Ain’t no better. More bodies than beds. Thieves. Rapists. Lunatics. Ain’t safe. Cops? Sticks. Shields. Chase. Beat. Flee. Two choices for ‘help.’ Pigs. Rehab? Jail Cell? Yearning, drifting, unchanging. No high in rehab. Bid? Meals, bed. Bathing. Smoking. Fucking. Hit the streets refreshed. Vacation! Heh! Apartment? Outta budget. Me? Sleep in tunnels from October to April. Abandoned stations. Empty platforms. Bombers come decorate. Don’t bother Ole Bubsy though.
Summer?
Heat. Humidity.
Slapping. Strangling. Suffocating.
Pass out from heat exhaustion once.
Dread.
Too hot to breathe and just fell. Can’t store possessions. Bags. Lift. Carry. Watching. Targeted. Fighting. Always wear it all. Burden. Heh! Jumped in park by gangs most times. I found this haven. Isolation in chaos. Sleep upon piled clothes. No one ever comes. Hide shit under bushes while gone. Check? Nobody. Ever. Unthinking. Unseeing. Uncaring. They’re extending Riverside Park. Change. That’s what Bubsy thinks. Fairway? First marker. Providing. Serving. Gentrifying. Soon, Bubsy gone get evicted so laughter and swings can move in. Bleach. Steal construction parts. In the meantime at least, dig? Sell metal for scratch. Heh!
This shit jar look full?
Nah, can fit two Manute Bols.
Empty in River.
Ole Henry Hurdson’s. Heh! Stomach not strong, eh? Watching waves kiss the rocks on the base of this highway works. Even waves from Jersey wanna come to New York.
Younger? Fantasize islands. Laughing, swimming, tanning. Mental escape from Wisconsin winters. Cold. Left fifty years back. Never looked back after flight. Before ya was born? Heh! Maybe. Livin’ the dream now. You not talkin’ to no liar. Bronx only connected one.
City.
Historic. Unique.
Living. Dreaming. Working.
People the same everywhere though.
State.
Caponized without: Bronx the prostate, where it begins. Queens and Brooklyn. Forever joined; balls. Where both laughter and tears drop. Thinnest vessel binds. Manhattan. Massive dick. Fucking, loving, raping. Spreading hedonistic ideals throughout the world. Babylon. Staten. Abandoned Island. Drifting, floating, symbolizing. Cum adrift in the Hudson the ejaculate of continual planetary coitus. Heh! Orgasmic eergy fertile breeding ground for interesting stories though.
City is more than potholes, pedestrians, piping steam, sewers and streets. Listen! The City is breathin’. All the time. Just gotta listen to the phases:
Inhaling three years ago when budget cuts kept street repair teams from repavin’ a stretch of road;
Lungs stretchin’ and inflatin’ when water freezes and thaws in the little crack as summer and winter dance over the asphalt for a few songs. The crack splitting with every courtesy;
Pausing as the tormented middle schooler flees, salvaging her dignity, traffic speeding to the yellow light, trippin’ in the pothole that grew from the crack;
Exhaling as the construction worker rushes the amber light, Good Years screeching along the asphalt three feet too late, as the hovering light glows scarlet above, dilatory about three feet beyond safety. A puddle of blood filling the pothole;
Inhaling again when the sirens blare curve compact cars and shifts SUVs, sculpting traffic, shaping the days’ events for hundreds of drivers and uwitting pedestrians.
Artists, barbacks, bartenders, brides, bus drivers, car drivers, children, cock teases, cops, cousins, cuckold, cuckolder, cuckolded, customers, DJs, hoes, housewives, immigrants, lovers, MCs, parents, pimps, poor of spirit, rich of experience, salesmen, students, transplants, teachers. We know them all. Even the babies. Good? Maybe bad. Searching, confronting, dying. In the gray city, all denizens rest along the continuum of hues between black and white. Human.
Watch ya step! Fuck! Knocked over the jar. Shit’s everywhere.

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Coming Saturday, February 28:
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Coming Tuesday, March 4:

2

Coming Wednesday, March 5:

Book II: The Jungle (pt. 1)