SHADOWS IN YORKVILLE

by Rob Schwartz (Fiction)

[From the Editors - why we love this: Bukowski-esque, Rob Schwartz's piece delves into a world that is more common than many like to admit. With really solid dialogue and great pacing, Shadows in Yorkville is a glimpse into a reality that lingers just beneath the surface of polite society and is, for many younger people, a reality of their day to day lives.]

He hears them but does not see them. Kids. Maybe his age. Maybe slightly older. Slightly bigger, slightly tougher. He shudders. It’s winter. Dusk. The clock says 4:23 p.m. The air feels much later. No wind this evening, just a chill. He walks east. Their voices echo. As he crosses Second Avenue on 83rd Street the voices get louder. Picks up the pace, passing a Korean deli, a dry cleaner and then a row of brownstones and tenements. As he makes his way towards First Avenue, he sees three kids turn from the avenue to the street. Shadows, really. They’re too far away to make out any more detail other than a husky kid, a tall thin kid and a short kid jawing and gesturing. They seem to have triumphed over something or someone.

He keeps his head down. Doesn’t want to be seen. Thank God he’s on the other side of the street. Time seems to go into slow motion. He’s two-thirds of the way east on his side of the street as the three boys are now equidistant from him. The tall one and the animated one are locked on each other, but the husky one looks left and sees him across the street. The husky one’s eyes are mostly pupil covering a rim of blue, now squinting.

He picks up the pace even further to get away. Doesn’t look back. Only looks ahead and sees the light conveniently turning green on the avenue. He makes a run for it. If anyone were to assess his behaviour, they would see that he began to run to make the light and get across the street. If one were to look at this situation, they wouldn’t see the fear: only the need to make the light across to the corner. Then it’s all the way to York Avenue and 83rd where he takes a right and stumbles down to 82nd Street into the building lobby.

‘Corey, you alright?’ says his doorman.

He puts his hands on his knees and tries to catch his breath.

‘What’s going on? You ok? Corey?’

He sleeps in and rolls out of bed the next day, a grey Saturday. His mother is in the breakfast nook drinking coffee and reading The New York Post. He walks to the other entrance of the kitchen and reaches in the cabinet for a box of Life cereal, a bowl, spoon and finally the fridge for some milk. Armed with breakfast he sits down.

‘I can make you some eggs.’ She says without looking away from the paper. Her reading glasses are perched on her nose.

He half-answers with a combination of words and a grunt that sounds like, ‘No thanks.’

‘Look at this,’ says his mother. She starts reading from the paper. ‘Waitress Robbed Near Church. A 24-year-old restaurant worker was attacked and robbed late Thursday on East 88th Street. Police said the woman was walking home from her shift when she was surrounded by several youths near the Church of the Holy Trinity…’

Corey says nothing. Cereal box reading.

‘Blocks from here.’ says his mother. ‘A waitress, walking home from her shift. Of course, she has cash.’

Corey keeps his eyes on the box and chews.

‘Here. On the Upper East Side,’ She says. ‘Can you even believe it?’

She puts the paper down and looks at Corey. Reaches over to fix his bed-head. He moves away.

‘I was just fixing your hair.’

‘You don’t need to. Gonna shower soon.’

She sips her coffee. A bit of lipstick on the rim. Lines around her mouth. Creases around her eyes. All marks of divorce, city living, paychecks that don’t quite cover enough. She goes back to the paper.

‘It says, ‘several youths’ here. You know, we were talking about that 84th Street Gang in the office. Have you heard of them?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘Really?’ His mother puts down the paper down. ‘I was speaking with Denise Pellegrino from my office, remember her? Pretty brunette, she has a young daughter.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Anyway, she was talking about this gang of rough kids on 84th Street and I said, that’s the problem with the West side. It’s still Frontierland over there. But you know what, she corrected me. She said the gang was from the Eastside.’

‘Yeah.’

His mother stares at him for a few seconds. ‘Yeah? That’s all you have to say?’

‘What do you want me to say, Mom? They’re a gang. They are roaming around our neighbourhood. It’s what gangs do.’

‘They are?’

‘Are what?’

‘Roaming around our neighbourhood.’

‘Isn’t that what your friend just said?’

His mother frowns. Bites her lip. ‘What do you know? What have you seen?’

‘I haven’t seen anything.’ Corey is done with his breakfast and the conversation. ‘I just mind my own business.’

She looks at him. His hair and eyebrows are darker. His shoulders are more pronounced, but he’s still just a boy. Her boy.

‘Well, I hope you’re being careful,’ she says after him as he walks from the kitchen.

Corey and his friend Joel emerge from the S train up the stairs to the heart of Times Square. Corey fears, loathes and is somehow excited by this part of town. The marquees and theatres feature the lowest of low brow. Porn theatres, strip clubs, headshops and arcades. Hates it and loves it.

He’s on a mission, but he and Joel need to explore a bit. First up is Playland. This is New York’s most complete and seediest arcade. Pac-Man, Centipede and Asteroids in front, along with rows of classic Bally pinball machines. Further back there are pool tables and Skee-Ball. Even further back? Unknown. He’s never had the courage to venture back there.

Kids and teens are all around the video games. Rough looking hustlers and Navy sailors shoot pool. The boys brave a half hour to play some video games. But as the time wears on, the crowd gets sketchier.

They walk a few doors down into a well-lit store called Electric Circus. It’s filled with posters and souvenirs, and there’s a head shop to one side featuring all you’d need to smoke whatever you wanted. Anything from hookuhs to classic pipes to marijuana paraphernalia. Joel is a budding Deadhead and wanders over to that side. Corey sticks to the posters. He begins going through the carousel. Farrah Fawcett in her famous red bathing suit. Natasha Kinski, naked but wrapped by a boa constrictor. Corey then stops at the next poster. Bruce Lee. His shirt off in a defensive pose. His body lithe and muscular. He’s ready for whatever was going to attack him. Corey wonders what it would be like to be that fearless.

‘Enter the Dragon,’ says Joel as he adjusts his glasses with a finger pushing them back on his face. ‘Awesome movie.’

‘Never saw it.’

‘I’ll have to see if it’s on HBO. Meantime, I got some rolling papers, so if we cop some shit, we’ll be ready.’

‘That’s not what we’re here for.’

‘Yessir, mein Commandant.’ Joel makes a mock salute. ‘Let’s hit up Kaufman’s. It’s where I got my flak jacket,’ says Joel. ‘They have knives and shit in the back.’

It’s easy to spot Kaufman’s because it’s the only store that has two cannons from the 19th century jutting out onto 42nd Street. Inside it’s a dizzying array of army green, khaki and brown.

The store is quiet save for a few shoppers. There’s a bearded vet talking to the owner. As Corey and Joel walk in the owner looks them up and down.

‘No sale items, fellas,’ He says. ‘Discounts are priced in.’

Joel and Corey look at each other and then look back at the burly owner.

‘We wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Joel says.

The guy stares at Joel, shakes his head then goes back to his conversation.

Corey and Joel stroll around checking out the items: gas masks, food rations and paratrooper boots. Joel tries on a WWII helmet. It makes the tall kid look even goofier. Corey tries on a Vietnam boonie hat. He looks the part of a scared soldier.

The vet gets what he needs and the owner comes over to the boys.

‘You guys looking for something in particular, or just killin’ time between peep shows?’

Both boys straighten up.

‘My friend here is in the market for some hardware.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ The man has a salt and pepper beard and burly frame. He wears a green T-shirt with a skeleton sporting a red beret. AIRBORNE, it says on it.

‘We’re looking for a, um, knife.’

‘What kind? Buck. Swiss Army, Ka-Bars…what are you looking to do?’

‘Protection,’ Corey blurts out.

The owner eyes them up and down again.

‘You guys from the Island?’

‘No, Eastside.’ Says Joel.

Before the owner can respond, Corey jumps in.

‘I’m looking for a switchblade.’

The owner’s eyes narrow on Corey. He then looks around the store. Then back at the boys.

‘Come with me.’ He says. ‘I got some stuff in the back.’ The owner has a noticeable limp but he moves pretty good. He then calls out to someone. ‘Rudy, cover the store,’ he says. ‘I’m going to the cage.’ Out of nowhere, an older, thinner vet-type with a long pony-tail comes out of the back to mind the front.

The owner leads the boys to a darker area in the back. On the right there’s an actual cage with all manner of army surplus merchandise. If you were going to start war you’d no doubt come here first. On the left, there’s a display case featuring knives. Everything he mentioned, from Buck to Bayonet. All glistening with different handles from pearl to wood to black onyx. Further to the left there are other weapons including several pairs of brass knuckles.

The owner walks around the case and immediately drops down to fetch several switchblades. He lays out a black felt mat on the glass counter. He’s holding three knives.

‘Now,’ he says, ‘these, these are Italian. Real Italian, not that Pakistani garbage.’ He winks at Joel. He places the first knife down with reverence. ‘This here’s a Beltrame. Eleven-inch stiletto. Runs you two-fifty. Been making these in Maniago since before doubya-dubya one.’

He sets down the second blade. ‘This one’s your Campolin. Nine-inch, stag handle. Still handmade, still the real deal. Seventy-five bucks and it’ll last longer than you will.’

The third knife hits the felt with less ceremony. ‘And this, a Schrade Presto. American-made. Does what it’s supposed to do.’

Corey takes it in. His heart is pounding.

‘Guh ’head.’ says the owner. ‘Pick one up. Feel it.’

Corey goes for the Beltrame. It feels perfect in his hand. Not too heavy but still substantial. Powerful. The owner takes it out of Corey’s hand to show him the action. He shows off the button with his meaty palm, then with his plump thumb he flicks it open. The blade instantly swinging from its holster with a precision, metallic thwack. The owner pulls a red bandana from his pocket and wipes the blade. He shows it to Corey and then he thumbs the release, folds the blade back into the handle with the heel of his palm.

‘Beautiful,’ he says as he hands it to Corey.

Corey holds the knife and pushes the button. The action is instantaneous and satisfying. He can’t help but smile. The owner points his big finger down, indicating that Corey should put the Beltrame on the felt. The owner then picks up the Campolin and hands it to Corey. ‘You’re a natural kid,’ he says. ‘Try this one.’

Corey takes the Campolin in his hand. It feels good too. He places his thumb on the button and again an instantaneous and satisfying spring into action.

‘Feel the difference?’ asks the owner.

‘Yeah,’ Corey lies.

‘Now, this Schrade is damn good for the price.’

Corey holds it for a second, then puts it down.

The owner then straightens up and proudly stands behind the counter with his hands resting on the glass. It’s only then that Corey notices he’s missing a ring finger. Still, neither he nor Joel ask about that.

‘You said, the Beltrame was on sale?’ says Joel.

The owner stares at him like a shark eyeing a swimmer.

‘Give us a minute, sir.’ Corey and Joel then step back to confer away from the display case.

‘I’ve got $50 bucks,’ whispers Corey. ‘How much cash you got?’

‘About sixty or so.’

‘Loan me twenty-five.’

Joel calls out to the owner, ‘You say the Campolin is $65?’

‘Seventy-Five.’ The owner snaps back. ‘No tax with cash.’

‘I thought I’d bargain a little,’ whispers Joel.

‘Gimme the 25 and I’ll pay you 35 next week.’

They agree on the Campolin and give the owner the cash. He counts the bills. Then ceremoniously folds the knife back into its body and hands it over to Corey. Corey flicks the blade again. Then struggles a bit with to put the blade back.

‘Palm to close,’ the owner says, demonstrating the move.

Corey flicks the knife open again. Closes it and then finds a place for it inside the breast pocket of his jacket.

The next morning, Corey answers the phone in the kitchen.

‘There were three of them and they jumped me,’ says Joel.

‘Where?’

‘After we split, I went for a slice at Enzo’s. They were in there.’

‘84th Street guys?’ Asked Corey.

‘I don’t know.’ says Joel. ‘Three of them.’

‘What’d they look like?’

‘The looked like kids who beat up other kids.’

‘What’d they do?’

‘Held me down, punched my head,’ said Joel. ‘Took 40 bucks. And my slice.’

‘If I were there, I would have taken out the knife and made them give us their money,’ Corey took out the Campolin from his back pocket. He flicked the blade open. Then closed it quickly, remembering that his mother was home.

‘One of them was that big kid,’ said Joel.

‘Ritchie McNamara?’

‘You know him?’ said Joel.

‘I’ve seen him at Schurz Park.’

‘He told me if I go to the police, he’d break my hand with a hammer.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I got a lump on my head the size of softball.’

‘Well rest up,’ said Corey. ‘I’ll see you at school.’

Corey hangs up the phone.

‘Was that Joel?’ says his mother.

‘Yeah.’

‘You spent the whole day with him yesterday and he wants more?’

‘That’s Joel.’

She goes back to watching TV. He goes back into his room and shuts the door. He looks at himself in the mirror, then drops down and does 15 quick push-ups. Looks at his reflection. Removes his shirt. He opens the drawer and reaches for the knife. Flicks opened the blade and braces himself. Bruce fucking Lee.

There is a part of Yorkville that has not changed. A strip along 82nd Street of row houses and brownstones. If you block out the high-rises and cranes from your view, you can almost imagine what life was like 100 years ago.

Corey walks this street. Slows his pace. His hands are still cold. He shoves them into his jacket pockets. Right one empty. The left one, a crumpled dollar bill and a subway token. He walks past a building where someone has left a window open and the scent of garlic wafts out. He keeps walking.

He puts his hand on his inside chest pocket and feels the shape of the knife through the fabric.

It’s late afternoon. The sun sets on the Westside casts long shadows off Second Avenue.

Up ahead, he sees a figure. It’s hunched over. His first instinct is to cross the street and ignore it. Probably a homeless guy or a junky. But for whatever reason, he’s drawn to it. He walks closer and starts to make out the form. It’s not someone random. It’s someone his age. There’s blood pooling around his scuffed adidas Superstars.

Corey hears a slight moan. The boy looks up. Blood hardened around his nose. Corey recognizes him. A shudder goes through him.

‘You ok?’ Corey asks.

‘Got jumped.’ He winces.

‘I can see that.’

The kid moves his body and shows a blood-soaked hand covering an open wound on this stomach.

‘We gotta get you to the emergency room,’

‘Just…get…me…home.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘87th and First,’ says the wounded boy.

‘Ok. But you need a doctor.’

‘Scumbag cut me.’ he says. ‘Gimme your jacket?’

‘You’re in no condition to mug me,’ says Corey.

‘No…wrap it around…the…wound.’

Corey removes his jacket. He moves around the kid and fastens the garment as best he can to tie off the gash near his stomach.

‘You’re Ritchie McNamara,’ says Corey.

‘You know me?’

‘Everybody knows you.’ Corey says. ‘You’re the head of the 84th Street Gang.’

Ritchie sucks in some air.

‘The crew who jumped me were 84th Street guys,’ says Ritchie.

Corey doesn’t understand. Ritchie slowly stands up. A few drips of blood hit the pavement.

‘I’m not one of them.’ Ritchie says softly.

‘Let me get a cab,’ says Corey. ‘Get you to Lenox Hill.’

Corey runs down to Second Avenue. After a few traffic cycles, he flags down a Checker. He gets in and guides it down the street. But when he gets to the bloody stoop, Ritchie’s not there.

Corey has the cab drive around the block. Then up First Avenue. Then down 87th Street. No sign of Ritchie. He shoves a wad of ones into the window tray and gets out.

It’s getting dark. He starts to walk to his apartment. The wind off the East River picks up. He’s cold when he suddenly remembers that Ritchie has his jacket. He immediately reaches for his back pocket and realizes his knife is also in the jacket.

Corey stops. Off in the distance he hears kids shouting.

For once, he doesn’t run.

About the Author

Rob Schwartz writes from New York City. He has written for Madison Avenue and Hollywood. His fiction has been published by THE WORDS FAIRE and forthcoming in Vine Leaves Press. A recent essay was performed at Writers Read. He is currently working on a collection of short stories.