Doug Hoekstra
THE TOWN CRIER
I live on the corner of East 2nd and Avenue B, across the street from an abandoned brownstone. A bunch of squatters used to camp out there, until the cops moved in and set up shop right on the street, in one of those mobile homes you always see at construction sites, wooden handicapped ramps leading them in and out like donuts on a conveyer belt. The red light is on, so to speak, a 24-hour watch to protect somebody's property, which makes me wonder exactly who owns that building. There are side benefits, however, like the fact that I never have to lock my car anymore. In New York City--can you believe it? What a trip . . . .
Anyway, it's a funky neighborhood and pretty quiet most of the time, except for the occasional Puerto Rican hot rod zooming down the block blaring salsa music out of two monster 20-inch speakers mounted in place of the back seat, woofers pounding away in orgasmic motion if you could see through the smoked glass windows. Oh, and there's this old guy who sits on the steps of that abandoned building, shouting an endless string of babble to the passerbys. Day in and day out he spouts a geyser of information, everything from current events to historical dissertations, waving his crooked fingers in accompaniment, as he conducts the movements of the street. He starts about nine in the morning and doesn't stop until after five, and you gotta hand it to the guy, I don't even think he breaks for lunch. I know, because I work out of my home and this has been one hot summer, so my windows are always open. In fact the wooden frames are swollen and jammed in place, and along with a barely detectable breeze, his rap comes steadily streaming in. Sometimes I look out and see him working it hard, his pockmarked face raised to the sky waiting for The Big Guy's thunderous applause, I guess. Everyone in the neighborhood calls him "the town crier."
This friend of mine who works at a record label lives upstairs and the last time we hung out, I suggested that he should tape the crier, lay a hip-hop groove behind it, and put it out. He'd have a number one on his hands. I gave the idea away, can you believe it? That's just the way I am. I don't know, he'll probably never use it. But, I heard it right away, and as the summer gets longer and hotter, it makes more sense. Ladies and gentlemen, the town crier, putting on a show, the town crier, baby here he goes.
I cry for Puerto Rico, you know it should be a state
I cry for politicians and what they'll never say
I cry for this nasty weather, you know, it's fallout from the bomb
I cry for Belafonte and the day-oh-day-oh song
Boom shucka boom, I can hear the heavy bottom riffing off a staccato drum line, carrying the words downtown, where beat boxes all over Tompkins Square will pick it up and lift it across the millennium. I see the town crier on their shoulders, their knees bent in a loose and jangly soul dance that'll circle the city like a gravitational force. Scratch that shit, it'll fly in L.A. too, and all parts in-between, because the so-called "disenfranchised" roll off the treble on their stereos and get the message.
I weep for the landlord polishing his gold
I weep for the baker and his day old jelly rolls
I shed tears for the victims, the rights of the accused
I shed tears for the women and children being used
Dylan used to rap. Chuck Berry, too. Drop the coin right into the slot, yougottahearsomethingthat'sreallyhot. Blues cats before that. Man, I don't know why so many of my middle-aged white compadres are so afraid of these words and this music. I guess they want to hold onto their "classic rock" forever, polishing their past until it shines brighter than it ever did before. You know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of the days when everyone's parents were digging on Pat Boone and Frankie Avalon, living in fear of the future and its messengers, wild men like Jerry Lee and Little Richard, who had their rap down and weren't afraid to use it. It makes me wanna holler. I'm on the fifteenth floor and it makes me want to take the stairs, one step at a time, stopping at each and every landing to knock on the door and climb inside and open up the windows. Wait! Stop everything, I hear some sisters in the background, some oohs and aahs laying down a bed of roses for the crier, and the old man bringing it home for the climax. He's got this bravado, see, but it ain't forced, and it ain't about bitches and dope, it's about knowing what's there to be known. It's like the Hudson, baby, it goes on forever, the rain to the river to the ocean.
I cry for St. Paul and every sinner's death
I cry for the Lord and I talk to Malcolm X
You can cry for what you want, or you can face reality
The Town Crier is my name, sometimes they call me Crier D
Okay, so I got carried away. I jacked things up a little, but for the most part, these are his words, he's got a million words and the scary thing is most of 'em make too much sense. Sometimes I think he's half-prophet, half-crazy person; other times, I think who isn't. It seems as if I've been sitting at this desk for two years straight, tapping on the keys, snacking on cold pizza from the night before, doubting and dancing and trying to make things happen, yet I've never made more dough than I have this summer. I owe it all to the crier, pushing the groove, standing between me and the ghost of laziness. The crier works it hard each and every day and I feel like I've got to keep up with him.
Sometimes I take a break and walk a couple blocks to the corner store to pick up an extra bag of bagels. I tell the clerk they're for the crier, and since he knows him, too, he usually throws in some free cream cheese. When I drop the bag off, the crier looks right past me, like I'm not even there, waving his arms, keeping everything in motion, constant, flux, the words, boss, the words. I did this maybe three weeks straight before I started thinking, I'd never seen the man eat, maybe he's just pitching the bagels. So, the next time I went through this routine, I spied on my man. I got home and went over to the window and saw a gray charcoal-splattered pigeon eating a bagel from his hand, a very cool sight to behold. The crier was holding one arm steady, thrashing with the other while he hollered out something about how Pete Rose should be in the Hall of Fame. The pigeon had one eye on the wildness, but stayed calm, popping up and snatching pieces of the bagel with its beak, probably cooing softly beneath the crier's steady rumble. I checked it out for awhile, and as the crier moved into a rant on the diamond cartel in Africa, a buddy joined the pigeon. Pretty soon, the bagel was gone and I went back to work. What a trip.
Anyway, I tapped away all summer, soaking in the crier and the cops, watching it all from my window when I wanted to and turning over lots of work when I didn't. Everything was smooth as could be, until one night when I fell asleep with the windows open, as usual, and was rudely awakened by the early morning sound of jackhammers ripping up the street and shaking the buildings with an earthquake-like intensity. I grabbed a robe and stuck my head outside to see what was going on. The cops' headquarters was intact but they were either huddled inside with their earmuffs on or out somewhere having breakfast. It was way too early, about 9 o'clock, and the skies were overcast and gray, which made the whole block look like it needed Prozac. I could tell the day was gonna be a drag. Across the street, I spotted the crier doing his thing, but I couldn't hear a word. His arms were waving and his mouth was moving, but the construction was so loud, he probably couldn't even hear himself. From a distance, I saw that his face was all scrunched up, like he was in terrible pain, the personal kind, much worse than disgust over the sewer system or a Cuban blockade or whatever big issues he might have on his mind. It bummed me out. You know, when you stop to think about it, he's somebody's son, he's part of a family somewhere, and maybe he's even somebody's father. Who knows how he wound up here? I don't even know how I got here! It's like that Talking Heads' song, "this is not my beautiful home . . . how did I get here?" You know what I mean? Anyway, it doesn't matter, the thing is this guy gave the neighborhood character and connected everybody in a weird way, like a corner deli or a newspaper stand, the man was dependable. Everybody knew him, we could talk about him or talk to him--he never answered back, but that was okay, we could always listen up.
Until now, all because of some annoying street repairs we didn't need in the first place. There were about a dozen construction workers circled around a big hole in the pavement, two had jackhammers in their hands, while the rest milled about and supervised. I guess the ten were there to make sure the other two made the hole bigger. Some kids on bicycles rode by, close to my building, and looked over their shoulders at the construction site as they passed. The crier was still out on the stoop, but his arms hung limply at his sides and his mouth was closed. His shoulders rippled back and forth like a pigeon ruffling its feathers, and I suddenly realized he was sobbing. The town crier was crying, I mean, it sounds funny, but it wasn't, it was a trip, and it broke me up. I couldn't take it anymore, so I pulled my shade and went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. The jackhammers kept hitting the street, splitting it into pieces and digging a bigger, deeper hole. The walls rattled, I was rattled, and when I opened the cupboard, I saw the coffee cups shaking like paper birds, beautiful and bent, never made to fly. That was a week ago and I haven't seen the man since, a hard time tapping, if you want to know the truth. The town crier, baby, listen to him cry.
Doug Hoekstra says: "I was educated in Chicago (B.A / DePaul University) and Nashville (M.Ed. / Belmont University). My short fiction and non-fiction has appeared in numerous literary journals, and as a singer-songwriter, I have seven CD releases (various U.S. and European independent labels) to my name. Currently, I live in Nashville with my wife, novelist Molly Hoekstra, and son Jude Aaron. If you need still more info, there's always www.doughoekstra.com "
