And there was Rivington Street. Chickens in the hallway then, and lots of drugs, nights so filled with sound you couldn't tell if someone was being killed or having great sex, and late, late mornings, ghostly quiet. The transvestite upstairs liked to throw food off her fire escape and scream out to people below, friends and strangers and some only she seemed to see. Bart moved through it all easily, chipping away at the menacing plaster walls, pulling out the newspaper-insulation beneath, replastering and then add ing a fesh coat of cheap paint. He and his roommate working hard to make the place livable. And they did. An oasis.
I haven't been back there in a long time, not even in my thoughts. Of course, it's different now, inhabited by models and film students; all they bring with them and all they expect from their surroundings. I wonder where Bart's neighbors went. What happened to the chickens. An old quandary for the city. Who has dibs on what is considered home. The winter was cold. The summer was hell. Still, there was something about it, like walking through an hallucination, scuffles or mad laughter breaking out for no apparent reason, spontaneous combustion, sharp or melodic Spanish fragments richocheting off the buildings, and the air so still it made you light-headed. Strange that it had such an enticing quality, has even now. I suppose we always knew we were visitors.
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