There he goes on this dim March day, the sidewalk scant gray, the sky bleached blue, Brooklyn sad and tired, and me with only a window to look out on the street where anonymous cars pass with the sound of motors that have no meaning, only scorn. There goes Ely, the retarded kid, blank dumbfounded expression on his mask-like face, his eyes like he's in shock, his shoulders as though great weights thrust down upon them. His mother, worrying, leans out the window across the way, her forearms padded by the pillow she lays on the sill. The two of them making a forlorn pair. Where is his father? Could be dead. I know he's gone. Though maybe he was never there. A mystery, this world.
Ely in his clueless prison, me in my cell room. I have a side street view. Not worthy even of looking out on the Avenue, where the people pass more openly and free. The alley is for those apart. On the periphery. The ones like Ely. Or Reggie, who walks by now, talks out loud where nobody is. Not being answered. Although maybe so in his own way.
Why have they put me here? That bird who dropped me from the sky, the man with the funny cap who drove me here, whiskers so coarse I could feel them in my mind. He tricked me good with that sleazy smile as he pulled the suitcase that lay beside him and carried it into the building: this large block of brick, only hollow with people living inside. And so many doors, like a maze, like some cruel game, me not knowing which door is mine. So I follow the stubbly-faced man up the stairs: cold, white, hard, and bleak, scrawled names and scratches on the yellowed walls. We stop before a door, shitty brown, like all the rest with little peepholes and a peeling gold decal that announces the number 10. And this is my "home." A peculiar word. You open your mouth and exhale, your cheeks expand. It should be comforting, a word that could protect you. But things deceive.
Like what they tell me in school about this God that put us here. He is supposed to be good, but between God and good there is a great emptiness. And I feel cheated. The lady that lives here with her crazy eyes. My mother. Did God put her here too? Why? To mock me, pain me, confuse me? But with no one else, she has to do. So I run around the house yelling mommy mommy mommy and she is there to ask me what is wrong. I want candy, I want chocolate, I want chocolate milk, a milk shake, mallomars, milk duds, I want to go outside to the park, to watch the ducks, I want to go see the frogs in the reeds with their big bulging eyes, just above the water line. That is what she is there for. To be the answer to my wants. But it's never enough. And every day I am betrayed.
Because certain wants she can't satisfy no matter how I cajole, plead, demand. These desires hit a wall with the outside world as hard and unmoving as the walls to my building, as impenetrable as Ely's forehead. And even the street is a wall, limiting me, keeping me restricted, held at bay, telling me I can go no further. And the ugly sky. It too a wall but different because it's unreachable. I hear its mocking voice: "I can enclose, I will enclose, I will always enclose, but you will never cover me." Building after building, like giant stalwart soldiers, stand guard as I make my escape to the park.
Oh the park where the trees and wind blend in a wondrous music where the sun plays with the leaves and all is sparkling and bright and makes me spellbound, where I can be alone and happy, alone but not isolated, where I hold toads and salamanders and feel their animal spirit that seems to enter me and calm me and I get all groggy from their inner tranquility. I want to bring them home and keep them, but mother doesn't allow, so when I need peace I sit beneath a tree and cup these animals in my hands. And although I feel them wanting to escape, jabbing me with their tiny extremities, I hold them despite their tiny sufferings, for they are temporary and, compared to the relief they offer, I deserve the right to contain them.
Ely returns and sees me stare at him. I am a face behind a window and I see he does not know what to make of me. I watch him stand there, his mouth neither smile or frown. Suddenly, a change comes over his demeanor as though a wave from far away or deep inside takes over. He does not know what to make of it, but is buffeted by unseen forces that make him reel and sway and struggle to stay on his feet. With effort he stabilizes and his mouth widens, his lips twist like licorice sticks, and seem to grow broad, and then he hollers out my name: R O N A L D. The sound travels down the alley way, grovels along the ground, rises screeching and disappears like a frightened dog: R O N a l d.
But then boomerangs back at me. r o n A L D.
Ely, shut up, I say in response to his voice, harsh and grating, as though he is hurling part of his fury. My shout stops him cold and suddenly he's frozen in air, his mind disentangling what I mean. Centuries pass until some kind of knowing makes its way through his mind, then, finally, he comprehends, reaches down, picks something from the ground, and hurls it at me. A rock comes flying at my face. I turn to avoid it, but get hit hard by my ear.
Damn you, Ely. I'm going to get you.
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