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The rattled, pothole-ridden Bx1 ride on the Grand Concourse always left me wondering why the fuck the New York City Transit Authority couldn’t afford some shock absorbers for their buses. Like the crew members in Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, all the standing passengers on the bus would rock from side to side, similar to when those sea monsters would grab hold of that show’s submarine and shake it up like a bottle of Yoo-hoo.
I suppose I could have sat down, but the selection of seats weren’t to my liking. Behind me, there was a seat between a pair of yakking housewives, but I wasn’t keen about sitting in between their crossfire of gossip about Liz Taylor and Richard Burton. Shit, the whole bus could hear their conversation, which later shifted to their disgust at Jackie Kennedy, who was at the early stages of a relationship with some Greek billionaire only three years after her husband’s assassination. In their minds, if she was not going to remain a widow for the rest of her life, at least she could have picked someone who was presentable looking, if not movie-star handsome like the late president.
There was another seat available that was next to some granny waving two knitting needles around like a samurai. She was making some scarf, sweater, or who knows what, but all I knew was that with the ragged journey jostling the bus around towards my stop at Fordham Road, there was no way I was going sit next to her and wind up with one of those needles in my eye.
There were also seats available above the wheels in the back. Nobody liked to sit on those. Any New Yorker could tell you that those seats used to bang up your ass like Desi Arnaz did with his conga drum during Babalu.
I also took a pass on the seat next to the geezer with the cane in front of me. The old guy not only stunk from the too-heavy-for-August sports jacket he was wearing, but he also had a series of Bronx cheers coming out of his ass that was threatening to melt the windows. As it was, the breeze that came in from those that were opened, provided little relief to the sticky, late summer Saturday that had everyone’s shirts sporting large sweat patches below their armpits. The Transit Authority had yet to invest in the modern-day wonder known as air-conditioning. Perhaps there was no money left after the transit strike that crippled the city earlier in the year.
Next stop, Fordham Road.
Disembarking from the bus at the corner, across from Alexander’s always brought a tinge of excitement. It might have just been a department store, but the large, broad sign across the rooftop always gave me the same cosmopolitan feel as the big Coke sign in Times Square. Hey, what the fuck do you want? I wasn’t even sixteen yet. Alexander’s also brought the promise of its crisp, clean air conditioning which would lift you in its arms and carry you towards the escalators before you’re even halfway through the revolving doors.
It’s not that we didn’t have air conditioning at home. We still had the large window unit Papi bought when he was still with us, but since he had left and stopped sending checks over from Puerto Rico, Mami was strict about cutting back on expenses and only wanted it running at night when we went to bed. Besides, I think she liked sweating from the heat and losing the water weight. She had already shed about fifty pounds during the two-year period that followed the accident that killed my little sister, Dani. That, combined with the resignation that Papi was never going to come back, had stripped her of what used to be a sizable appetite, and her shape was returning to the hour glass that had caught Papi’s eye back when they met at the garment district in the late 1940’s.
But me, I wasn’t about to spend my Saturdays collecting beads of sweat in the crack of my ass in of our grief-stricken apartment, so whenever I had a little change, I’d escape to the excitement of Fordham Road. That was the grand destination of the opposite end of the Concourse. At my end, it was Yankee Stadium, but being that I grew up rooting for the Mets (no matter how much they sucked), the House That Ruth Built held no attraction for me. But at the other end where Fordham was, there were stores like Alexander’s and Sear s, along with palatial movie theaters like the RKO Fordham and the incredible Loew’s Paradise.
Times Square? Who needed it?
Radio City Music Hall had nothing—and I mean nothing—on the Loew’s Paradise. With its Venetian décor, Roman statues, and sparkling stars in the sky above the auditorium, you didn’t know whether to watch the movie or just soak in the scenery around you. That afternoon, I was planning to go there to catch the matinee of Fantastic Voyage, a sci-fi movie where a medical crew is shrunk inside some type of submarine to the size of an atom. They are then injected into a dying patient to cure him. I had seen the commercials with Raquel Welch in her skin-tight diving suit and I wanted something nice to think about later that night when I would retire alone in my bedroom. But first I wanted to stop by at the record department on the second floor of Alexander’s and pick up the new Percy Sledge single. I didn’t care too much for the white music that was out in those days—especially those fab fuckers from Liverpool that provided the soundtrack for my sister’s death. For me, it was soul—nothing but soul—which is exactly what was sucked out of our lives two years earlier.
There was also another reason I enjoyed going to the record department at Alexander’s. She was tall, blond and about twelve years older than me. And though brunettes were more my type (like Raquel Welch), the blond cashier at the record department kept me company many nights when I was alone in my bedroom—although that night she would have to concede to Raquel (Man, that diving suit!).
She knew I was all gaga over her, too. But she was always pleasant and never embarrassed me about it. She easily could have laughed and made me feel like just some horny little kid. Instead, she did the opposite.
“Ooh, Percy Sledge. I love his voice.” She’d always say something like that, which would send me skipping out of the store like a toddler with an ice cream pop.
“She talked to me! She talked to me! I think she likes me!” I’d say to myself. But before that, I would respond with some witty little banter like, “Um...yeah, like, um, yeah, he’s good, yeah...” How could she resist a smooth talker like that?
Once I floated out of the store and landed on the balmy sidewalk, I crossed Fordham and picked up a blueberry Italian ice at the pizzeria next to the candy store. While licking along the rim of the paper cup, pretending it was the cashier, I spotted the latest issue of World’s Finest, the comic book that always teamed up Batman and Superman. On the cover, it showed them going against Bizarro Batman, Bizarro Superman and the Joker! No way I wasn’t going to get that!
In those days, the comics were only twelve cents. The problem was, after the Percy Sledge single and the Italian ice, if I bought the comic book, I wasn’t going to have enough left to take the bus home after seeing the movie. But damn, Bizarro Batman and Superman, with the Joker! Fuck it, I said, I’ll walk. I plunked down the quarter, pocketed the thirteen cents change and sat on the sidewalk to read the Caped Crusader and the Man of Steel’s latest exploits.
About ten pages in, just as the Joker got his hands on some kryptonite, who came out of Alexander’s? That’s right; the beautiful blond cashier came through the revolving doors looking through her purse, presumably on her way to take a lunch break. And there I was sitting on the sidewalk with blue lips, an Italian ice in one hand and a comic book in the other. Ooh, she was bound to be turned on now!
I quickly rose off the concrete, picking up the Percy Sledge record, which I had laid on the sidewalk, and dusted myself off. Thankfully, she hadn’t spotted me. But just on the chance, that she might come across the street where I was standing, I hid the comic book behind my back to try and maintain some cool points in front of her.
Once she got past the revolving doors, she pulled out a dollar (believe it or not, that was enough for lunch back then), but when she looked up from her purse to cross the street, some freckled, Irish-looking punk knocked her down and snatched her purse!
Oh, no you don’t, fucker.
The turd dashed in my direction but there were passersby between us that slowed my attempt to intercept him. But once I navigated my way around an older woman to avoid blitzing into her, I dropped the comic book, the record, my Italian ice, and charged after him. The bastard was fast as hell, like an antelope being chased down by a cheetah. Unfortunately for him, this cheetah was the stolen base leader at junior high school.
With a flying leap, I caught up to the shit bag and tackled him right in front of a cardboard cutout of Raquel Welch wearing that diving suit, which was placed next to the box office at the Paradise Theater.
Not giving the punk a chance to react, I pulled the purse out of his hands, ready to square off. But before I could get up and take the punk on, a heavy, sharp blow across my back sent me down on the concrete sidewalk.
“STAY DOWN!” shouted the police officer, pointing his nightstick at me while the white thief got away. Stay down? After the crushing clout I had just taken, getting up wasn’t even an option. I was too busy trying to learn how to breathe again.
“What is the matter with you?” cried the cashier from Alexander’s, who had just caught up to us. And with an unfiltered fury, in front of a crowd of onlookers and ticket buyers waiting to get in the theater, she berated the officer mercilessly for brutally attacking the only one who didn’t stand by to watch her assailant get away.
The cop couldn’t believe it. He even had the balls to question her. “Are you sure?” That’s right, fuckwad, the thief wasn’t the ‘porta-rican’. Even after he learned the truth, the prick gave me no apology. In fact, he gave me a warning, instead. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”
The cashier glared at the asshole cop before turning to me and rubbing her hand against my back. “Oh, my God, are you okay?” Still unable to speak, I nodded and handed her purse. She stroked the back of my head. “I’m Stacy. What’s your name?”
“Nicky,” I replied, the name barely crawling out of my throat.
Stacy smiled. Her high-wattage teeth and golden hair looked like something out of a shampoo commercial.
Raquel didn’t stand a chance.
***
About the Author
Born in Spanish Harlem and raised by Puerto Rican parents in the South Bronx, Carlos Colón was a storyteller from the start. He began in his pre-teens by writing comic strips for his parents and continued throughout school writing dramatic short stories in his English classes. Teachers immediately took notice nicknaming him Hemingway and encouraging him to the point where he eventually graduated from Lehman College, CUNY with an English degree in Creative Writing. That same year, 1979, his play "Jerome" won Honorable Mention for the Jacob Hammer Memorial Prize. Since then he wrote several screenplays for Hollywood producers but unfortunately never saw one reach the big screen. Nowadays, Carlos is living out on Jersey Shore, serving as a singer/songwriter/front man for the retro rock n’ roll Jersey Shore Roustabouts band, one of the most in-demand entertainment acts of the New Jersey/New York/Philadelphia area.
Sangre: The Color of Dying is Carlos Colón’s first published novel, introducing readers to the foul-mouthed, urban-vampire vigilante , Nicky Negrón, a tragic anti-hero who is haunted by loss. Readers have already taken to the Nicky, who has alternately been described as haunting, hilarious, horrifying, and heartbreaking. As a result, Sangre: The Color of Dying, which was originally intended as a stand-alone tale, will now be followed up in late 2017/early 2018 with Sangre: The Wrong Side of Tomorrow, a sequel that will take readers deeper into the haunted psych and tormented afterlife of Nicky Negrón. Also being discussed are current plans to adapt Sangre as a feature film and television series
Other HellBound Books for your delectation
Available from www.hellboundbookspublishing.com
Feeder/I Am Joe’s Unwanted Penis
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James H Longmore
An awesome bizarro double bill...
'I am Joe's..." is an affectionate homage to the much-loved Reader's Digest series 'I am Joe's.', and a darkly humorous and bizarre parody of the Bruce Jenner story, this story is told from the point of view of a dismembered penis.
Feeder is a dark, disturbing peek into the world of gainers and feeders; grotesquely obese individuals and the people who facilitate their growth for the lascivious pleasure of both parties.
Man Eating F*cks
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David Owain Hughes
A dark, incredibly entertaining excursion into the delightfully twisted imagination of David Owain Hughes....
An average teenage girl and her father find themselves caught up in a brutal nightmare at their local recreational centre, when an age-old enemy comes stumbling out of the woods to crash a heavy-metal gig; a gig that has all the promises of being killer. This is one blood-soaked gig you won't want to miss!
Praise for Man-Eating F*cks from Ty Schwamberger (author of The Fields, Deep Dark Woods & The Death of a Horror Writer.) "Man Eating F*cks is old school horror, but with a new, blood-soaked twist! David Owain Hughes effectively creates enjoyable and lethal characters in this tale that is sure to keep you up at night. This is the type of tale that you need to read with a light on...I'm serious. You better put your seatbelt on 'cause you're in for one helluva ride. Look out, Hughes might very well be headed to the major leagues after this twisted tale! Highly recommended!"
The Erotic Odyssey of Colton Forshay
By
James H Longmore
A stunningly imaginative bizarro tale in which Colton Forshay dreams himself into a bizarre sexual dystopia, a world in which nothing is as it should be. Sickening sex acts and sexual violence are the norm and in which the currency is deviant sexual acts.
At first disturbed, then intrigued - and aroused - by his dreams of this other world, Colton is drawn deeper in and begins to spend more and more time there; so much so that his wife forces him to visit a psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist encourages him to explore the dream world - and our hero goes on an odyssey with his dog/son, Eric, to discover the disturbing truth behind his dream world.
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Dark Musings
by
Xtina Marie
The perfect companion piece to Light Musings – The dark side of Xtina Marie's poetry delves into intense emotions: heartache, loss, hurt, pain, rage, and a dangerous consuming love which can drive one insane. Dark Musings is not a collection! The author returned to the centuries old practice of Narrative Poetry—the telling of a story through poetry. If you believe you are brave enough to explore the savage emotions of the human heart; Dark Musings will test your mettle.