1979 : coming home

courtesy of nick vail

I smelled the smoke before I noticed the charred walls, the remnants of ash, the damp floor or the wooden planks nailed up where the apartment door used to be.  All my life I was looking for a way out and now there was no way in.

I have a tendency to live in just-get-through-this-moment survival mode. Each bit of chaos pushes the previous bit out, so it’s hard to see connections. When there’s a lot of crazy in the air, it’s all I can do to just make the noise stop.

The screaming in my head went from 0 to 60 so fast it came flying out of my mouth.

“Oh my god, oh my god, ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” I’m yanking at the boards with my hands. That crazy fuck came back and burned up my apartment.  Fucking Red. Fucking Red Wolf.  Fucking animal. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod Ketzel! Ohmygodohmgodohmgd”

I’ve had Ketzel since I was 16. Mom named her, it’s Yiddish for kitten. It was what she called me until the cat showed up. I don’t care what happens to me really, but taking care of the cat, that’s my job, my real job. That cat is the only place I feel safe.

I pull at the boards harder, faster, bloodying my fingers, tearing my nails.  Broken bits of plywood and door clatter wildly on the sooty mosaic floors of the hallway.  Where is everyone?  Why isn’t anyone coming to help me? I don’t feel like I’m crying, but my face is soaked with tears. If he hurt the cat I’ll kill him, I’ll find him and kill him.

I’d opened enough of a hole in the door to reach through and let myself in. My apartment was untouched.  It wasn’t Wolf at all. I’d find out weeks later that an electrical fire had devastated my neighbor. The fire department had broken down my door. The apartment was fine, except for the door…  and the thousands of cockroaches that covered my floor.

A hundred shades of black, brown and red glittered on the floor, not an inch of white linoleum showed. My ears filled with the crisp rustling of hundreds thousands of cockroach wings & shells brushing against thousands of cockroach shells & wings as they stepped over each other, searching for food and a little personal space. Every single roach in the building, every roach on East 7th Street, all huddled in my apartment for shelter from the storm, safety from the fire. Their delicate exoskeletons tinkled against each other as they climbed tables and chairs, devouring Ketzel’s food, body surfing across her water dish. Ketzel, normally happy to chase, catch and devour any and all comers, watched from her perch on the kitchen sink. Baffled by their overwhelming numbers, she looked to me, confusion on her small furry face, for further instruction.

One minute I’m walking down the wild side, next thing I know I’m ankle deep in cockroaches. How could that possibly happen? Obviously, I thought to myself, it is not actually happening. This is stress, a hallucination. You’ve had two really bad days, Red Wolf, the beating, the police, losing your job, the motel window, no food for two days. This is normal.  Just relax, calm down.  None of this is real. There are not this many cockroaches in the city, no less in one apartment. You just need to sleep it off, hit the reset button.

I dropped my dance bag in a corner and wedged the remains of the shattered door closed, crunching roaches beneath my feet with every step. Vomit rose in my throat. Audio hallucinations. It’s fine, just part of the package, nervous hysteria. Just calm the fuck down. Climbing up into the loft bed, Ketzel tucked tightly under my arm whispering her best Scarlett O’Hara into my ear, “Don’t think about this right now. If you do, you’ll go crazy. We’ll think about this tomorrow”. I kick off my boots, peel down last night’s clothes, dropping them onto the bed with the others already piled there and curl myself around the warm cat fur and escape into sleep as she purrs into my neck, “Home. You’re home. And after all… tomorrow is another day.”

Perhaps I should’ve questioned why the cat seemed to share my hallucination, but I didn’t. I did, however, wonder where she’d picked up that southern accent. We were, after all, both Long Island pussy.

Posted September 21, 2009 at 11:19 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, East Village, the abyss. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.