Charlie and the New York Dream

My back hit the floor with an audible thud. 1

I looked up the flight of stairs, seeing Charles looming at the top of them, eyes full of adrenaline. Charlie Stans was the stencil of shitty personalities. He was quite built, and the Godfather craze hadn't quite worn off of him. He wore a gold chain and a white tank top. On colder days he wore a leather jacket.2

I glanced down at the once light-green tiled floor of the apartment building, now caked with dirt from countless shoe soles pounding against it. 3

I slowly got up.4

Charles, seeing this, started walking slowly, but with an air of caution, down the stairs. I backed slowly while checking for broken bones. 5

"Fucking prick! Bring it - the shit - on!"6

I was drunk all right.7

I glared at him, head and jaw jutting forward. He looked right back with an unsettling air of confidence, hatred even.8

"Move out of the fucking way now. Asshole."9

He spoke with a disdain of me, like a housewife, alone, talking to the dust balls in the corners.10

"Charlie, fucking Charlie. Fucking shitass. Fucking shitass." I was so drunk. "Fucking..." I crouched down a little, opening my hands, ready to grapple. "SHITASS!" 11

With this word, I leaped towards him, aiming my hands for his neck. He was ready for me though, and sidestepped, hitting my stomach and pushing the back of my head forward. I was able to grab ahold of the railing, but he still sent my face into a stair.12

"Bye now. Next time, know your place. Asshole."13

I looked back at him as he calmly walked away. His short, straight brown hair waved as he opened the door.14

"HANDS!"15

At first I thought it was him who yelled. Then I saw him pushed back through the door, the calm, compassionless look replaced by utter fear.16

"FREEZE!"17

When I saw the guns, despite my pain, I stood up immediately. The SWAT force pinned Charles up against the wall, and that was the last memory I got of him as I rushed up the stairs, stumbling.18

That night, I slept in the basement of our building. My shop was in the basement - I was a carpenter - but it was usually flooded. Especially when cops visited the building. The drug dealers flushed their contraband down their toilets, flooding my basement. At the time, I was grateful to have little bags of white powder floating around.19

The streets of New York were so beautiful and quiet in the mornings. The Jam, the "Rasta" club across the street, turned off the music around six, and you could see the guys stumble out, and the picture of sunlight hitting them reminded me of vampires. The occasional car drove by, and distant loud noises could always be heard if you listened closely. Never near- always off in the distance. 20

I was seeing this girl, Kristen. She used to meet me at whatever job I was doing, in the mornings. I liked to see her, but it broke the spell of the mornings. It broke that feeling you get of just... Self. And Sometimes, you could feel like you were the only one alive in the world. It can be just incredible.21

Not to say that Kristen wasn't great. She was nice, didn't understand me, but very nice. She wore round glasses that made her look like some sort of female John Lennon. Long, stringy brown hair, average weight - and she had this crazy smile. Not especially good looking, but her smile was great. She just really smiled- It wasn't one of those little, fading ones. When she smiled, she meant it.22

I guess you could say we were both made for the city. Anyone is made for the city, really, but we were especially cut out for it. The night buzz, the afternoon craziness, and the morning silence. The silence is what got me- still gets me, but really got me then. It was that feeling that nobody else existed, a surreal world that I was left to inspect. It's all I wanted, really, but I don't think it would have been good for me. 23

"Five."24

"dollars?"25

"Dollars."26

I fished around in my pocket for a dollar's worth of change. The Hispanic man behind the counter was the take-no-bullshit type that works, follows the rules of work, and that's all. You have to respect those kind of guys. The ones that work, and mail their family, off in Mexico or something, all the money. Keep just enough to get by.27

He put my paper and bag of chips in a bigger bag, and I took my coffee to face the morning. It was cold out, just the beginnings of winter. There was no snow, but it was still cold.28

The lonely street gaped on towards infinity, and I just stood there for a while, sipping my coffee. It was times like this when I didn't wish for anything. I didn't succumb to the usual wants of people, I just existed. I was there. I wasn't happy, wasn't sad, just wondrous, but without wondering.29

I decided to start work late that day. I went home then, which was half a block away. Kristen would show up at work, and I wouldn't be there. She would worry. She can worry.30

As I walked through the door, a gust of wind blew into the building, sending a plastic bag into a frenzy. It settled on the first step, and I just left it there, climbing up.31

As soon as I opened the door to my apartment the phone started ringing. It was Kristen. She wanted to know where I was. Why. When I would be back. Fucking W's. I hung up on her. I didn't want to be mean, I just hung up. I lay back in my chair for a moment. I could hear a boom box blare hip hop from the street. "2pac Shot, Hip Hop Mourns," a headline on the front page read. I looked out the window, to see the man with the boom box. He was standing there, looking down the street, statue-like. 32

I opened the paper. 33

Immediately facing me, a headline read "Mafia Melone, 25, Caught." 34

It wasn't the title, it was the picture. 35

The picture was of Charles. It said he was "Melone Piazzo," but he was Charlie. 36