Drop (23 page)
That noise. The sound of every praise I’d ever been denied bursting forth as the roar of a city. My shirt ruffled in their wind as I reached out for it, feeling myself grow big in places I’d assumed were hard and impenetrable. The main stage was forgotten: the acres of faces were on me now, the crop of arms wagged in my direction. Inflate me with your joy. If they could’ve seen my tears, they would have known they were thank-yous. Together we cheered as the symphony began to play, as the sky finally exploded in my honor.
Lightning pastels shrieked above us, electric rainbows streaked reflections along skyscraper walls, glass becoming canvas, sonic bursts bouncing off the buildings’ bodies like twenty-five-cent pinballs.
SKEEZ:
shooting up from the ground as a hopeful white light.
POW:
the drab nomad exploding into a nation of resplendent fires. They are brilliant, each dot its own sun, growing dimmer as they fall, until they arrive back at the surface as mere embers. Ash rained around me as I rode my metal steed, the orange glow eating at charcoaled paper. Above us stars were coming into creation, universes no less significant because of their size or brevity.
The amazing thing: that wasn’t the most stunning sight out here. What was above was brilliant, but what below was divine. Look at how beautiful we were. Faces turned to the sky, illuminated and glowing, screaming into the light. We were there, all of us. South Philly, North Philly, Germantown, West, Chestnut Hill, Main Line. Every culture, every shade, every class we had to offer, unified by eyes that cheered louder than mouths could, allied by the celebration of fire and birth, of destruction and life. All screaming because we understood what it was about: for one hour, on one night, we had beaten the world. For one moment, this was the place where existence raged brightest, where each instant was spent without past or future in consideration. We were the winners. There was no place else to be but here, no other land that could tempt us.
I took lots of pictures that night, several good enough to be used as promotional advertisements. I got them scanned, had the copy and layout planned for them by the time they came back from the processor. They all came out well; they were all work I was proud of, strong additions to pad my portfolio, but there was one in particular that rocked me. It was taken aiming down into the crowd from my statue-sitting vantage, a photo of a throng of faces, their skin and clothes bathed in the powder blue glow of whatever was combusting above them off camera. Mouths open like expecting chicks, retinas ravishing light, hands waving miniature flags as if they were trying to fan the fire. Something about their jawbones or clothes or posture: they were so easy for me to recognize, these people I belonged to. The tag line, bold and right justified at the bottom of the page, was all I wanted to say about it:
Philadelphia: Celebrating a Local Holiday
. It made everything I ever did before look disposable.
The morning after it was completed, I walked this and the rest of the creations into the Philly tourist board in the municipal building over on Broad, dropping it with the secretary and then heading over to the electric company to pick up phones. By the time I got home the message was on my machine: ‘Can you come in tonight?’ I didn’t make it until nine o’clock. The guy, Saul, was the only one left on the floor; his office was the sole light on.
‘It’s fantastic. It’s absolutely what we want. You don’t know how many freakin’ images of Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell I’ve had to see on this project,’ he told me. ‘This work was done by a real Philadelphian, someone who knows this place. That’s why we opened the bids to local independents in the first place.’ Saul was about the same age as I was, mid-thirties. I recognized him from the schoolyard of Henry H. Houston Elementary, but didn’t tell him so. He had my favorite ad in his hand.
‘There’s love in this piece, y’know?’ he said, nodding at me. ‘There’s love.’
‘So I didn’t get the job.’ Rat poison. Sara Lee. Send my ashes to Brockwell.
‘Chris, relax. They just want to see another example of your work,’ Saul was saying. ‘Listen to me on this. Usually they would just request another look at your portfolio—’
‘They’re overseas. I won’t get one back for a couple of weeks.’
‘Right. I understand that. I explained that to the board; they understand that. That’s why I’m asking you to put together another sample of your concept so they can make sure. We’re a city-funded organization. Money’s tight. We only get so much for the year and they just want to make sure we’re not wasting it. I don’t think we would be, but they just want to know that.’
‘So I invest more money, more time.’
‘This is what’s going to happen: you shoot one of the ideas you submitted in your proposal, how’s that? Then, when the board accepts it, you can just include the expenses in the final budget. That sounds fair, right? You need the money quick – that’s not a problem. I’ll cut the check the second they give the okay. All you have to do is get it in by a week from tomorrow, Friday, and everybody’s happy.’
‘What happens if everybody’s not happy?’ I ask, but Saul doesn’t have that answer. I do. No London job because no plane ticket money and get-settled cash. No electric company job because if I cut another day I wouldn’t have one. No staying in my hovel because getting this done meant blowing the rent and food budget just to pay folks a fractional down payment of what I would owe them later. Searching trashcans for food professionally and arm wrestling bums for corner rights.
I put the red disk that held my Lionskins dreams in a manila envelope and went by Alex’s place, dropping it in her mail slot when I knew she wasn’t home. The disk was broken in two and said ‘Sorry’ in black Magic Marker on both halves. Four days went by. Nothing. I thought of calling, telling her that I had this shoot, that it could be a big gig for her, a portfolio maker, but didn’t. It would just insult her further, me pretending that money was an appropriate enticement for her reappearance. Accepting her absence, I prepared to photograph this sample ad myself.
I scheduled the shoot for Monday, the only sunny day forecasted for the week. We would do it at Love Park, lots of space; if you came early enough there was nobody there but the few homeless dudes who slept in its bushes, and great views: besides the LOVE statue, you had the tower of City Hall behind you, the Parkway’s Fountain of Angels and the Art Museum in front. I found a stylist in the back of
Market Edge
who gave me a low fee that I could pay later, and he even knew a model I could book through him. They would be coming down from New York together. Minimal risk, maximum potential, that was the idea.
Tuesday, five
A.M
. After fifteen minutes a trolley finally wandered up to 46th Street to take me downtown. A pathetic, waddling thing, I sat with my equipment bags willing it to become rapid transit, cursing myself because I knew I was supposed to
be
there at five. That moment of dawn, when the universe gave you better lighting than any mechanical device could manage, was only 40 minutes away. With rain clouds scheduled to arrive before lunch and make a guest of themselves for days to come, there was no way I could blow this time. Arriving in City Hall, I ran up gray stairs and left an exit gate spinning in my wake, jogging the short distance to the park, where they would be waiting for me. ‘I’m here!’ I was prepared to say. But outside was empty. Just me, Love Park, and a hot dog vendor.
Around now is when Alex would tell me to stop bugging, to remind myself that those guys were driving all the way from Brooklyn, that they were doing me the favor of bringing the extra equipment, too, so they could be a minute or two off. Actually no, they really couldn’t, but it was too late to fire them now.
Growing tired of torturing myself with the sight of an empty road, I walked off to pick up trash. For the sake of the photo, we could at least pretend we kept good house. Checking back to the street after every bend down, no parked car appeared. In ten minutes I’d already filled the mesh can affixed to the Love Park ground, and still no show. No life appeared at all: it was too early even for rats. Then, standing in the hedges, while reaching for an empty Krimpet wrapper, I heard something. Splashing coming from the fountain in the level below.
There he was, my poltergeist, standing up to his shins in a pool of his own saliva, rabid froth pouring from his mouth and covering his body in white foam. But that was wrong, that wasn’t it. Those were soapsuds coating his flesh; I could smell the perfume from here. The yam-skinned man was taking his morning bath, admiring the views as he scrubbed himself down. It was a sane version, this one, escaped from madness and enjoying a moment of freedom before he was rediscovered. Splash, splash, splash. Putting the wrapper in the bag, Yam-man heard the crinkling and turned up to me, every bit of him dripping as he looked to where I was standing in the hedge. We stared at each other, alone out here, motionless except for the wind on my bag and his body’s dripping. Then, ending the draw, I waved. Yam-man waved back at me, lowering his salute when he reached for the dishwashing detergent sitting on the fountain’s edge. I watched him pour the yellow liquid onto the hairs of his chest before I walked back to my bags.
I should have had food with me for all the participants, but the kiosk across the street, with its smells of eggs and butter, of pork fat burning endlessly on a steel grill, would have to do. Too preoccupied with paying the others, I forgot to bring extra cash for myself. A pocket check revealed no MAC card and only four bucks in change, enough to buy a cheese and egg sandwich with ketchup and onions: the way I liked it. It was big, it came on a hoagie roll, the yellow substance of its contents overflowing on to the foil. To wash it down, a bottle of chocolate milk had been recruited. With my last quarter, I picked up a soft pretzel to serve as an appetizer, and I was walking back to my pile of equipment, proud of my bounty, when the stylist pulled up in his purple mini-van. He got out alone, slamming the car door behind him and walking towards me as if I had caused some problem.
‘I know, he’s not here, he did not even show up, I waited for him for over a half hour but he didn’t come, I couldn’t even get him on the line till twenty minutes ago, I do not work like this.’ Stylist Man told me as he put an open cell phone into my free hand.
‘What the hell are you talking about? You recommended this guy!’ I yelled at his back, him holding up a hand to shield the back of his head. I put the phone to my head. It smelled like it had been deep-fried in activator. A voice said, ‘I’m so sorry—’ before I had a chance to hang it up. I should have never hired a New Yorker to pose as a Philadelphian.
‘Christopher, don’t fret.’ He had taken a seat on the closest bench and was stretching his legs. ‘I have a few contacts with models in Philadelphia. I brought their numbers. I’ve already been calling. Eventually, someone has to pick up on the other end. I’m sure we can get someone by noon. I won’t even charge you for a full day shoot. I promise.’
‘It’s going to rain! At noon, it will be raining here! And even if it doesn’t, later they’ll be too many people walking around here for what I want.’ Stylist man flinched again, and regaining confidence, motioned for the return of his phone.
I went down by the fountain to eat, to think. It was ten after six. The stylist made calls from his cell phone, waking pretty men across the city who might do the job. The light was still good. It could be a sunny day; maybe the dark clouds would get lost in transit. We might still have a little over an hour to work with. So I sat, unwrapping my food, trying to think only of how good that grub was going to feel between my teeth, on my tongue, and then going down. I had the sandwich in both hands, ready to bite an isolated moment of bliss, when I heard that fool splashing towards me.
‘Why you here?’
‘I was supposed to take pictures,’ I explained for no reason.
‘Pictures, pictures,’ Yam-man said, stepping out of the fountain. Water streamed off his legs into dark puddles of concrete that looked like shadows, clear bead diamonds dripping off his body to join the darkness. Naked, his skin was a thin elastic membrane hiding cabled planes, sheets of muscle defining themselves in places rarely seen, transforming from wires to balls as he wrung his hair in his hands, popping in small brown mounds as he shook himself dry like a dog. I covered my food and eyes. When I looked again, he stood before me, shoulders back like bad news, chin forward like future dues, water evaporating off arms that looked as if they could carry whatever was placed in them. Even this life he was living.
‘Gimme some money, man.’
Seeing the vision, I put my food down. ‘You want some quick money?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah. Gimme some money.’
‘I’m not just going to give it to you. I got something I need you to do. Some quick, easy work. What’s up? You want to earn it?’
Yam-man stood, dripping, looking at me for a moment with his head slightly cocked, then said, ‘Nah’, and walked away from me. Back into the fountain, his soap in hand. I went after him.
Yam-man knew I was coming as soon as I splashed into the water behind him. Revealing a startled look over his shoulder, he began wading out of my way. When he saw I was getting closer, he started running, staying inside the fountain circle as if his feet wouldn’t work on dry land. I splashed after him, struggling to keep my footing on its slimy bottom, but gaining still, and after a few times around the circle I was nearly on him. I dived forth, catching his legs, and we splashed down together.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he asked. I’m sure that question had been asked of him countless times before.
‘I want to give you money. I want to help you out.’
‘Well, gimme the damn money and leave me alone.’
‘No. No charity. You take care of yourself this time.’
The yam-skinned man was the perfect size; even the shoes fit him. He was so good in that suit, his dreads clean and brushed to order, looking like a redbone Frederick Douglass. This was the man somebody had wanted him to be, the one some mother had imagined. As people started walking by to work, you almost expected him to join them, to grab a suitcase from under a park bench and follow. You could almost believe that somewhere there was an office and a set of responsibilities he belonged to. Click click, make it last forever. And didn’t he love getting his picture taken? Turn this way, a little, a little, good. So many people focused on him, he blossomed with the shutter’s every clench. Prancing about as if he were the only monument in this town worth noticing. Once I got him to keep his teeth hidden while he smiled, we were grooving. I could see the billboards already. When I saw the Polaroid proofs, I could already hear Saul’s voice telling me that I had the job, I could already feel that check being passed into my hand, could see myself looking at it, knowing that my imprisonment was over. So clear was this vision that, a week later, when I went over to the meet with Saul and all of that actually happened, I felt as if I was living a rerun. It was anti-climax for me. Those Polaroids in my hand, I already understood that I was gone.
