1 My dad’s apartment buildings were not his number one asset, but he had a lot of them, and they made him a lot of money. They didn’t buy my chou little apartment in the East Village, and they didn’t buy my art, but my dad often said before Bernice that they were my nest egg. That anything I needed in the future when he wasn’t around would come from them. I guess he didn’t know how right he was.
At first, when I was a kid, my dad had owned places in old neighborhoods, the ones he told me not to go to. He never even went there, just had other people who took care of them. He didn’t have to deal with any complaints, which he said was good because the people who lived there were the people who tried to get free rent any way they could.
Then time went on, I grew up, and the city got better, like I said before. My dad turned a lot of his crummy old buildings into really nice ones. The people who lived there were the sort of people he wanted to rent to, not had to rent to.
Bernice came, and my dad lost a lot, that was for sure. So it was his duty, and my duty I guess, too, to salvage anything we could.
One day, I was sitting on the couch watching the OLED screen, and Tina came rushing into the room. She was in her workout clothes. She works out about a billion hours a day, I swear.
“Evann,” she said. “Turn on the news. Turn it on right now.”
I turned on my wristscreen and went to the New York local news. I saw a building there, but at first it didn’t make much difference to me.
“What am I even supposed to be seeing?” I said.
“That’s your father’s building,” she said. “One of them.”
“Oh,” I said. The camera was focused in on a group of people gathered around the door. “What are they all doing there?”
“They’re living in it,” she said. “Can you believe that? With no heat, or hot water, or anything; they’ve been living there like animals all this time. They must have destroyed everything in the place by now. I feel sorry for your father’s renters.”
“Still?” I asked. It seemed like ages since the storm. Little pockets of revitalization had popped up, but not this far out in Brooklyn, not yet. I assumed those parts of the city were ghost towns, all abandoned except for what was destroyed. But here these people were.
“There’s more, Evann,” Tina said. “Wait until the news camera pulls out.”
I waited. Finally, there was a wide shot of the building. I drew in my breath. There was this amazing painting up on the wall of the building. As soon as I saw it, I thought of my Basquiat that had been destroyed when those people took over my co-op. I saw all the things in it that hallmarked greatness—true, real, magnifique brilliance. I had to have it. But there was no question about that. It was already mine.
“Tina!” I shouted, grabbing her. “We have to preserve that painting! We have to have it removed and preserved!”
“How would we do that?” she asked.
I couldn’t contain myself. “Are you stupid?” She flinched and I felt sorry, but only for a moment. “There are two ways to preserve street art. Either we use a gel to have it transferred onto a canvas, or we remove the wall. The gel is okay, but the real beauty of the original should be kept intact, with the original canvas. So we have to remove the wall. Haven’t you ever heard of that?”
“Well, no,” she said, still looking hurt. Stupid, I swear.
“Tina, I have to call Daddy now. I have to talk to him. We have to make plans. We need to hire people, and get moving before it gets destroyed.”
2 It was hot out, but the wind was whipping around two days later when Daddy and I stood in front of the building with Mayor Bradley and his bodyguards and the line of riot police and the helicopters. We didn’t have to be there. I certainly didn’t have to have Pollock there, but there he was, in the bag on my shoulder. The police could have taken care of it all. But we all wanted to be. Mayor Bradley was sucking up to my dad, as usual, my dad wanted to look out for me, and I wanted to see the painting up close. It was even more glorious than it had looked when I first laid eyes on it. There was a jagged, reckless beauty to the dark parts and was offset by the smooth lines and peace of the light ones. The artist was clearly a master. I wanted to cry standing there. I didn’t of course. I had to look nice. I was dressed in a nice black button-down dress because it was a somber thing, kicking all these people out, but I also had to look fabuleux in case any of the news cameras got a glimpse of me. The cops were talking through a bullhorn, but it didn’t seem anyone was listening. Every now and again we saw heads peek up above windowsills, so we knew they were still in there. We didn’t know how many. We didn’t know if they’d put up a fight.
The front door was barricaded with all sorts of scraps of wood and metal. Apartment doors, chairs, couches, anything you could think of was pushed up against the entrance. The police would have to fight to get in. I thought about those people in there. It would be better for them to leave. Living like that must have been hell. We were doing them a favor, really. My father had already donated a bunch of money to the shelters they would be going to in New Jersey. We were doing the best we could, really.
Finally, after a lot of talk from the police with nothing happening, Mayor Bradley grabbed the bullhorn.
“We’ve asked you nicely, we’ve offered you a place to go,” he said. “Now I am warning you. These premises do not belong to you. The owner wants to take possession of them. You are being given fair warning that, tomorrow morning, we will vacate the premises by force if necessary. I strongly suggest that you take your things and exit the building by choice.”