The Devil Arrives in NYC
The figure is dark, sitting at the ledge of 85 Broad Street, looking out upon the city. He is wearing the proper attire for such an occasion--a dark blue suit, smelling of freshly cut wool, as if just pulled from a pasture, a smell that might convince some young thing to quench her thirst, a real thirst but one spawned from a perception of the smell of wealth by someone never wealthy, or perhaps of power, a raw word conveying more of powerlessness than anything else, and a complete misunderstanding of the beasts’ hides so sacrificed for this silhouette of nothing more than us. So, he stands, wandering around these thoughts, standing on the roof of a building with more than most could understand. They shouldn’t. This shadow’s suit, not so typical of the place or of the time, cut with a European flair, nonetheless, can march through without a challenge, in this most conservative American setting. This dark fate, with a rich red patterned tie, a fairly seductive tie, really, one purchased not on Madison, but fine and handcrafted, no mark needed, and black leather boots that portrayed an air of mischief enjoyed so much by so few, had to merely watch a man to discover his will, or loss of one. The shirt, crisp and white, made of fine Egyptian cottons, felt good to the touch, his touch at least, one of long, bloodless fingers, bones and nails, sharpened for the fight by a beautician from the Bronx. He was driving beasts. He was ready to play. Quite prepared for an evening of fun. Making millions tonight. The relish, the appetite, is that millions made will be the loss of millions for others. What a glorious place, this New York.
The world’s capitals--Moscow, Paris, Tokyo, London, Shanghai, Cairo—bow in praise to the great grand world stage, New York. He stands upon the roof of the brown fortress, the place where he oversees his most cherished deals. Fuck Geneva. Fuck Tokyo. Fuck London. God-forsaken places wrapped with tradition and bad food. Fuck tradition. New York is built upon now, upon more, upon unsatiatable appetites. God, he loves it. He loves the money. He loves how these pithy little pieces of paper have so much power, how they, upon touch, hammer a man’s soul, press his passion for greed like fine virgin oil that slithers across his ever expanding hypertexted fantasies of needs.
God he loves money. And, at 85 Broad Street, he can smell it. Starched white shirts and panicked men. It smells of men, men who went to the finest schools, the bastions of history and learning, and then used their skills, their talent, their extended egos and minds to find the holes in finance, to turn a check, to make money. Screw the past, screw tradition. I want a Porsche. They deny it but they smell of it. They wreak of it. Sweat, envy, status and the ability to buy comfort.
It is as thick and old as the gray and crimson polluted skies that sit on top of me now, like a late aged, over made-up, fat fucking hooker. I like that. I like the idea of the sky riding me, pushing down on my stiff muscular pumped cock, making me cum despite the absolute gore of this fat, stinking whore. I like the fact that I can cum, no matter what. I like that because I know that the act, the act of masturbation, the jolt of cumming, brings me closer to the fuckers below me, the fuckers inside the building I straddle like the sky straddles me. I like that immensely. It is time for some fun.
He flicks his cigarette off the edge of the building and wanders back to the party downstairs.
The streets around Wall Street are dark and nearly empty at night and it is clear that these two, one dressed in an old world-cut suit covered with purple sequins, purple sequins on the lapels, on the arms, the legs, the top hat, a really odd fixture, the hat, antiquated at best, the kind Churchill wore at worst, or best, after all, Churchill could dress cool too, or so say the Madison Avenue types, and the other in tow, pulled by the other’s leash, in nothing less than rags, not even clearly clothes, thin soiled strips, with pockets of black hair peeping through, are in search of a scene, of people, of action! So they scurry down into the subway and grab the 1/9 to MidTown, to 42nd Street exactly, to, in short, Times Square.
They are clearly pleased in this mass of people and lights and no one seems particularly bothered or interested in their peculiar attire except for a few tourists who stop and point, and sometimes giggle, surely convinced that they are part of a promotion for one of the Broadway Shows. They are not, of course, but the false glamour becomes them. They smile and the first graciously removes his top-hat, the purple sequins glittering below the Broadway lights, for the ladies that pass, bending low so that the lapels of his jacket fall off his backside and dangle erect, well starched and quite impervious to the bluster of passer-bys, and he winks at them, as they stand there, entertained by this odd marketing event, or what they are sure is, at very least, a peculiar marketing event, until he smiles and they see his rotting teeth, black crumbling timbers, with decaying gray growths sprouting from the gaps between these dead teeth, held back, behind plump purple lips, swollen and marked with black blisters that they surely didn’t notice until he smiled, that they had really, truly, thought were quite normal, or just heavily made-up for the event, the play, that these oddly costumed men were from, or that they were less and less certain, they were advertising. Yes, once the women caught a glimpse of the first’s grimace, their faces dropped the usual muscular tensions associated with being on vacation, being a tourist, where you smile and shuttle from place to place, sight to sight, and they stood motionless, stunned, as he drank them in, pulled them toward his rotting, facial hole, holding them in the shock he liked so much, and slowly pushing himself up, returning his hat to the top of his bald, gray scalp, and closing his mouth, his fortress, their fortress, and doing so as they regained themselves and moved on, quickly pulling out the solutions to his grinning riddle, that this media hoax was creepy but also pretty, as promotions for some play, or movie, or something, to which they wouldn’t go, of course, since it was so dreadfully awful, and because whatever it was promoting would have to be so horrible that to go to it, to actually pay money for it, would not be their idea of a fun Saturday night, especially if it was some New York thing, probably some weird, off-off-off Broadway thing to which they certainly wouldn’t want to go to, especially with such big and wonderfully charming shows like Cats. Oh, these New Yorkers, they’d say, and wander on their way. After each of these little scene the second rolled over on his back, kept from rolling into the gutter and under the wheels of passing taxis, a yellow swirl of horns, metal, and rubber, by the first’s leash, and laughed hysterically at his companion. “You are such a sorry sap, you old freak. You can’t get the bitches that way. You gotta have money, man, charm went out with yesteryear. Get with the program!”
They made their way from the 42nd street station up Broadway, passing 43rd, and arriving at 44th. At 44th, they crossed over to the island under the Coca-Cola, Pan-Am and Cup-o-Noodles mega signs and by the Ticketron hut, and they stood a moment, socking in the, smoky, bright, rich air. The first turned to a stranger, and grabbed him by the shoulder, hard, letting his fingers dig into the man’s flesh, pushing the cotton of his shirt down, into his flesh. The man gasped at the shock of the assault and the sharp pain, and turned toward the first. The first smiled, pulling his lips inhumanely wide, opening and smiling while the man quickly began to sweat from the increased pain and the spurts of blood that poured down his chest from the grip on his shoulder, all passing in a second or two, but long enough to see the first’s eyes, his red, fiery eyes and the absolute pitiless joy, the rising crescendo of man’s lost heart, robbed heart, as he quickly, deftly lifted the man by his torn, bleeding, and damaged shoulder, lifted him and then, with a grunt from the other, the first tossed the man into the air.
The man had yet to scream, or cry, or say anything. He was not in shock. His mind was working. He was watching the passing lights as he drifted up, past the Coca-Cola sign, past the Pan Am sign, past the Cup-o Noodles, and as he watched, he thought, no, he quickly knew, that we was going to die. These would be his last sights, his last moments. He knew that this strange attack on him, by this strange demon, would make the news. Something was dreadfully wrong, he knew that, as he drifted. Something was definitely out of whack. But he’d not figure it out. He’d be dead. It’s first victim, or so he thought. He wouldn’t even see himself on the evening news on which there would surely be complete coverage. Unless, of course, there was heaven. Shit, he hoped there was but, as his ascent slowed and his descent began, as his head quickly bent back, with his body, in a mid-air somersault, the Broadway lights twirling around him, spinning above Broadway, above the famed marquees, even above the Peep-Show Theatre to which, unbeknownst to his wife and children, he visited a couple times a week, if there was a heaven there could also be a hell, and he was surely destined to hell. The descent was quicker and he realized he was headed toward the street. He saw the street, the gravel that would kill him, and he noticed that no one noticed him, no one had turned to look up at him, even the two creatures were bowing for some Japanese tourists as he started down at them. He was really shocked by this. Something was certainly wrong. He sped toward the ground and, about thirty feet from impact, he saw that he wouldn’t hit the street at all. He was headed toward a Taxi that was speeding down Broadway. He could tell immediately that he was going to hit it, not the street. He rushed toward it and saw the driver, some beastly foreigner, he thought to himself, he saw the driver’s face, and the horror of his death struck him as he noticed that the taxi cab driver was oblivious to his descent, that he didn’t know that Ron Goodwin was about to crash into his windshield, dying instantly, for sure, and possibly killing this lowly driver as well. Ron was horrified as he hit. He was lucky he wasn’t killed.
The people, Ron would be glad to find out a few days later, when he awoke in a NYU Hospital bed, did notice his rise and fall and crash. He just didn’t notice those who were noticing him. Hysteria descended onto Times Square as quickly as did Ron. As soon as EGB tossed Ron into the air, he turned politely to a group of young women, professionals, New Yorkers, who were also walking with a young man, an important young man it would turn out, and bowed his stately bow, not shocking these professional as he had the tourists, but giving them pause none the less. EGB, well aware of the importance of this man, looked up at him and said “It is about time for the games to begin, don’t you think master?” Richard Kabir was quite use to this odd behavior. Having grown up in the Bay Area and spent sufficient time abroad and now having been living in New York for a few months, he wasn’t about to be startled by some grotesque loony. In any case, he wasn’t given much time to think about it. EGB turned away quickly and withdrew a thin staff from his jacket pocket and pointed it toward the MTV pavilion that was perched behind glass just above Times Square. Just as he did the six large frame windows surrounding the studio burst, just as Mike Rogers, the MTV VJ, was giving a live interview to Tommy Lee. The glass shot away from the MTV studio and fell in a cascade toward the crowd below.
Dorian LaGuardia
Circa 1998, NYC. Part of a book—“Plastic Ruby Apples”—that plays with themes from “Master and Margarita.” Write me if you’d like more!
