For Mr. Spector

By Elizabeth Dunphey

You have the most gorgeous voice I have ever heard, this man told me once, as he was walking up the steps of his apartment, groceries in hand.

His name was Jason Kerrigan, music lawyer. 

It was 1978, and I was standing outside my stoop with three or four of my seventeen year old friends, humming a few chords from Neil Young’s  “Lotta Love.”   It was an atypical choice.  My stunning raven haired Spanish friends all liked disco.

 But to hear this smooth and easy pop 1970’s number off my bee stung lips shocked Jason.  I was his girl. 

I often played a Motown song in my room, and fervently dreamed of meeting Phil Spector on a big break.  Phil Spector liked classy types.

The first girl was Ronnie, and the second girl was Lana.  The two poles of light and dark.  Lana Clarkson was the blonde.  That came later, in the 90’s though. That vibrant, posh looking, honey hair, the bright blue eyes and perfect teeth.  Miss America, basically.   

As for Ronnie Spector?  She was pure East Coast: just listen to “Be My Baby.”  She wore this thick jet mascara and her dark hair, Cherokee in origin, rippled down her back.   I loved her coolness. 

Ron loved Phil.  Her boy genius, with his glasses and studio.  And Phil loved her, deeply, maybe because of her voice, or her beauty, but he did, in a way that only pain could express at the end.

Back to 1978, Harlem.

Jason Kerrigan was half besotted when he asked my name.

“Bianca, huh?”  He wiped his eyeglasses. I noticed his eyes at once. Brown eyes.  I liked them.  “Like Bianca Jagger?”

“I wish!” I cooed.  “I’m just plain old Bianca Marcella, from Spanish Harlem.”

“You’re prettier.  How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Then I turned on my booted heels and ran away.  I just ran.  I fled from the feelings I could feel at once for him.  Despite his paunch, the glasses, the hair a touch salt n’ pepper.  I felt something.  And that mattered.

Maybe I’ll give you a contract!  Jason cried cheerfully to my receding figure.  The spring light glowed amber over the skyscrapers.

Right. I’ve got community dance tomorrow!  I shouted calmly back, running to my home, next door.

So, this community dance.  

This is how I got ready for the prom held in a hotel in midtown: hours.

I took a hot iron and flattened waves of my ebony hair to my hips.   It was silk.  Then I slipped on a green faux Halston, and under that Diane Ross style lingerie, straight out of Mahogany.  I hoped they played the Bee Gees that night.  And SOS Band.  Andrea True Love.  And maybe even a few folky choices, like Todd Rundgren.  I doubted that though.

As for the boy who took me, he was nobody and I felt nothing.  He was doing his duty.

Iago, I hissed.  We stood on the 6 train subway, and I leaned against his shoulder. He loved me a bit more, than I liked him.   In the car, I could see a reflection of us and our youthful Latin perfection.  Iago Lucio in a beige suit with a red bow tie.  And my slithery green dress with an orange yellow flower in my lush raven hair.
 
Later that night, after the dancing, the friends, the drinks, and the platonic kiss on the cheek, I raced home to her apartment to tell Jason.

Jason was waiting outside on the stoop. Waiting for me.  Waiting for us.

It was 11:00 pm at night.  I supposed he wanted to see my filmy beautiful prom dress.  He was dressed very 1970’S sleazy lawyer, in a silky disco button down blue shirt and amber cordoroys.  No eye glasses.

“Hey you” I crowed, spinning in a circle before him.  “Take a look!”

I was blushing.

“Say, Bianca, would you care to join me for a cocktail in Westchester.  I have a home there.  Well, Diane does.”

“Sure,” I gulped, not thinking, putting my house key back in my jean purse.

“Mind if I wear this dress?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jason  brought me back to Westchester, to his wife's pad.  They were always, always  fighting.  She was like ice to me though, on the occasions I had seen her.  Be it stress or gene pool, she had matured.

The place was a mansion actually, and the scent of that frosty WASPiness permeated everywhere.  From pictures, the lady -- Diane Brett -- was a rich English woman, and quite good looking, in that cold way.

Drink bourbon, he sighed.  You must.  Do it!

He played some songs on his piano all throughout the balmy spring night.  I let the strap of my green gown slip.  My dusky olive skin exposed at the shoulder, and he clearly noticed. It was an arresting difference in skin tone and I felt hot with the love Ronnie Spector had for Phil.  This moment was mine.

Halston, he said.  I recognize that from Diane’s closet.

And I smiled, saucy:

It's a fake Halston.

Oh, for you, my darling, only the best.  Perhaps, more to drink?

Stop plying me! I winced.

Sorry. He shrugged and said: I hate to seem so creepy older man.

We kissed in the light of a dim song by the Stones, and I rested my black maned head in his lap. I felt his love for me.  And I felt so in love with the moment I could die.  On his wooden wall was a poster of a model, with wavy blonde hair. 

Who’s that?

My first wife, Ali.  She was a model.  Midwestern girl.  Making a name for herself now.

It was nearly the 80's, when that look would rule and end the regime of Son of Sam stalked brunettes on the street.  The ethnic De Niro movies would die.  The street would simply fade.  It would end, all like this sultry warm night in June.

Goodbye, honey, he said to me, reaching to push back my damp hair.  I guess I’d like to take you home -- but I’m a bit drunk.

I tried not to look sad.
I can do it, I told him.  

I boarded the train from Westchester.  It was mostly isolated with a homeless lush on board.  I stood up firmly, when the spot hit the right destination.  Nobody was gonna mess with me.  My mascara was running.  I would have something to tell the girls.  I, the prettiest girl in the hood, had scored.

And yet I had to keep mute.

Walking against the blaze of skyscraper lights, I hummed the last tunes to Neil Young, and knew this was part of some electrifying memory, in the constellation of my life, one night at a time, somehow forever.

Elizabeth has modeled, written stories forever, and loves winter.  Read more of her in the Eunioa Review and Milk.

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Just Don't See It

I slowly turn the handle of the back door and give it a gentle push.  It’s unlocked and it painfully creaks open.  The dark kitchen of this bungalow is wallpapered in flowers with the counter covered in fancy beer bottles.  It smells like marinara sauce and potatoes.  I see the dining room table is layered with dirty laundry and the TV is on mute.  There are a lot of consumer electronics.  I hear the tapping of plastic.  As I round the corner, there’s a large man built like a defensive end.  He’s in pleated khaki pants and a short-sleeved plaid shirt.  So focused on combing his short hair that he doesn’t notice me.  “Hey Paul, just droppin’ off yer car.”

“Oh, hey man.  Thanks!”  Paul maintains eye contact with himself in the mirror.  “Everythin’ go awright?”

“Thank you fer loanin’ me yer car!” I reply.  He loves his car and I’m honored just to be trusted enough to drive it.  “It went as well as it could of.  Whatcha doin’?”

“Getting’ ready fer a date.”

“A date?!?  Good thin’ I returned yer car.  Anyone I know?”

“Jonathan from church.”

“Short, skinny guy with dark hair?”

“Yeah.”  He elongates his reply with a sense of victorious joy.

“First date?” 

“Yep.  ‘Nd we’re goin’ ta da Riverside fer dinner.”

“Then I’ll take off since yer busy.”

“Nah, I’ve gotta coupla hours.  Grab somethin’ from da fridge.”  So, I get some microbrews and crash on the couch.  Last night’s hockey game is replaying on the screen.  I can’t even tell you how many hours I’ve filled playing video games and shooting the shit with Paul over the years.   We met in high school not long after his dad died and was figuring out who he was.  I was an outsider for the reason my parents couldn’t afford brand name clothes.  With a little conditioning, both of us gained mean dispositions.  Our mutual angst brought us together and “safety in numbers” made us inseparable.  Paul fell into the recliner and asked, “Are ya happy ta be back home?”

“Well…  I didn’t really plan on it.  So, I really haven’t thought ‘bout it.” I said.  My sole goal as a kid was to get out of this town and here I am.

“Oh, you’ll like it.  So much has changed.”  Paul talks about this redneck town as if it were Paris.  “Lots of great new places.”

“Yeah, saw they bulldozed much of da main drag when I got inta town.”

“See!  This place is completely dif’rent than it useta be.  Do ya see it?  Most people ‘round here don’t.  Act like nothin’ changed.  That it’s da same town.  But, it’s not.  All da old stores are in new places.  ‘Nd we have coffee shops ‘stead of just old people diners.  Everythin’ that was old is gone.  But, people just don’t see it.”

“Maybe they just don’t see it as ‘change’ or better than before.”

“Whadya mean?”

“I dunno.  I mean, maybe things haven’t improved fer people here.  Ya go ta school ‘nd learn ta be obedient, loyal, ‘nd unquestionin.’  Ya follow da rules, do as yer told; yer suppose ta get ahead.  So, ya start yer life ‘nd da ugly ol’ factory is gone.  So are da good payin’ jobs yer parents ‘nd grandparents had.  What’s on the ol’ factory site?  Just a cell phone store ‘nd a coupla chain restaurants with less-than-minimum wage jobs and no benefits.  ‘Nd who profits from that?  So, ta just get a mediocre job where all ya do is push papers, ya hafta go ta college.  That means student loans ‘nd who profits from that?  So, ya graduate with tons of debt ‘nd are lucky if ya get a job yer overqualified fer.  Most likely underpaid ‘nd work like a dog ta make ends meet.  Who profits from that?  Ya need ta get a home ‘cause da landlord keeps jackin’ up da rent fer a tiny rundown apartment.  So, ya getta mortgage ‘nd who profits from that?  So, da company ya work fer wants better highways, airports, schools, ‘nd so on.  But, they don’t wanna pay fer it.  In fact, they threaten ta leave if we don’t giv’em tax breaks and subsidies just ta stay.  None of this is free.  So, how do they pay fer it?  By raisin’ taxes and fees on regular people that hafta pay from their shitty jobs.  ‘Nd who profits from that?  At da end of da month, ya have no money ‘nd ya hafta put groceries onna credit card payin’ 17% interest.  ‘Nd who profits from that?  ‘Nd that’s if it all goes well.  If ya have a car accident or health issue, well yer more valuable dead than alive.  ‘Nd we all know da only reason ya could be poor is yer stupid, right?  ‘Nd who profits from that?  In yer “golden years,” ya’d like ta retire.  But, yer pension was eliminated ‘nd Social Security keeps gettin’ cut.  So, just ta stay in yer home ‘nd not burden yer family, ya end up as a store greeter until yer body gives out.  ‘Nd who profits from that.  At least all yer hard work will better yer kids’ lives, right?  Well, hold on.  All them loans and credit card debts need ta be paid first.  If ya end up inna nursin’ home, how much of yer nest egg will be left after paying $6,500+ a month?  Certainly nothin’ fer da children ta inherit.  So, I can see why people don’t understand things are gettin’ better ‘cause da question really is: better fer who?”

“Nah, that ain’t it.  People just like ta complain.  This place is great ‘nd they just don’t see it.”  Who knows?  Maybe he’s right.

“Hey Paul, I’m gonna take off since yer date’s ‘bout ta arrive.  Good luck!”

“Okay man.  Thanks fer comin’ over ‘nd droppin’ off da car.”  I wondered down Hume Avenue heading toward the river.  Just a shadow on the street with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

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Ramblin' Man

It took 20 minutes of sitting in an abandoned store to decide to come to this crummy town.  The only remarkable thing about this place is that people still live here.  Nothing but dollar stores and cookie cutter sprawl.  I turned down a road that is a labyrinth of identical houses on cul-de-sacs.  The only way to reach your destination is to remember to take the second street on the left and count four houses on the right.  A real residential “House of Mirrors.”  I pulled into a driveway and eventually knocked on the plastic door.  A disheveled, thin, old man answered the door in a tattered baby blue bathrobe.  He’s sickly and held onto everything for balance.  I tried to appear positive and failed when I said, “Hey Gran’pa.”

He’s alone.  Grandma been dead for quite a while.  A child of the Depression, he grinded himself into the ground at the factory to put his children through college.  It was that hard labor that exposed him to the carcinogens that gave him the kidney cancer he was diagnosed with two months ago.  He raised me and always seemed to know what he was doing.  It’s why I’m here.  It’s why it’s so difficult to realize there is no cure.

“How ya doin,’ pa?”  He stubbornly pushed me away when I tried to help him to his recliner. 

“Not bad.  Just threw up.  You?”  And, he honestly meant that he was doing alright.  “Find any work yet?”

“Eh.  I’ve had some leads, but nothin’ that’s panned out yet.”

“Ya need ta pound the pavement ‘nd knock on some doors.”

“It doesn’t work that way.  Ya hafta submit yer resume online ‘nd hope that yers gets selected instead of da hundreds of other chumps that apply.  ‘Nd, ya gotta hope that no one gets special treatment ‘cause they’re da bosses’ kid or friend too.”

“That’s why ya gotta get in their face.  Make ‘em tellya ‘no’ in person.”

“Alright.  Anyway, how are yer treatments?”  I changed the subject since he hasn’t applied for a job in over a half century.

“All dem goddamn pills make me sicker than a dog.  Can’t hold nothin’ down.  Not even soup.”  I looked over at the coffee table and it’s been transformed into a pharmacy. 

“Anythin’ I can help ya with?”

“Na.  Just havin’ company is good.  How’s that girl of yers doin?”

“Ah…  Alright, I guess.”  His head tilted forward with an inquisitive stare.

“Alright?  It’s never good when ya say it’s ‘alright.’”

“It’s fine.  Nothin’ ta bother ya with.”

“Bother?  What da hell else am I doin’?  What, ya got inta a fight?  Do somethin’ dumb?”

“Uh…  Yeah…  We kinda just broke up.”  Grandpa’s head leaned back in the chair.

“Sorry ‘bout that.  Sure ya don’t wanta go inta details.”  He always gets the same look in his eyes when something doesn’t work out for me.  It’s sympathy; not disappointment (which may be worse).  “So, where ya livin’ then?”

“I can probably stay on a friends couch ‘til I get a place.  Call in some favors.”

“So, ya don’t have anywhere ta go?  Where’s yer stuff?  Take one of my extra rooms.”

“Oh, I can’t do that?”

“Why not?  I ain’t usin’ ‘em.  ‘Nd it’s not gonna be pleasant with me fumblin’ ‘round the place.”

“Are ya sure?  How much doya want fer rent?”

“Be quiet.  I’m no landlord.”

“Well, I’ll do all da chores ‘nd all then.”

“No worries.  I gotta nurse fer that.”

“Then she can focus on taking care of ya instead of doin’ da dishes.”

“Ah…”  He dismissively waves his right hand at me.  “So, where’s yer junk?”

“In da car.”

“Go get it ‘nd bring it in while I go take my medicine.”  He got up, again refused assistance, and headed to the kitchen with pockets full of drugs.

In-and-out of the house.  Box after box stacked into the spare room until it looked like a storage unit.  I took a seat on the twin bed with its old plaid comforter.  It’s been a while since I’ve stayed in this room.  The dresser top is still full of knickknacks that span several decades.  The desk is dusty with a few reference books neatly aligned in the right corner.  There’s nothing on the crème colored walls.  The room would look like a set of an old movie if it weren’t for all my crap.

As I glanced out the window, a doe and two fawn emerged from the bushes.  The doe chewed on some flowers while the spotted fawn chased each other around.  I blankly stared at them darting around.  Where do they live?  There aren’t any woods or anything else natural for miles.  Ostracized by speeding traffic, barking dogs, and high fences.  How do they survive in this hostile environment?  They don’t belong here, but where else can they go?  And, as quickly as they appeared, they vanished.

Anyway, everything was unloaded and I was finished daydreaming.  I had to drop off the car.  As I passed the living room, I saw my grandpa sleeping in his chair.  I left him a note that said, “Thanks for letting me stay.  Dropping off the car.  Back in a while.  –Luke.”

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History of Walnut House

By all appearances, John was a success.  As we know, appearances are more important than facts.  He looked the part of an American businessman standing in the muddy road waiting for his family to arrive.  John dressed, acted, and delegated as expected of an executive.  But, today, he will live like one.

In this Protestant community, it was insisted that homes have a simple design.  The exterior of 443 Walnut Street appeared to be a plain farmhouse painted sage with gold, purple, and blue accent colors.  Opening the heavy walnut door and walking through the vestibule was an impressive stairhall.  A grand and ornately carved staircase welcomed visitors.  Wasteful ornamentation showed others that he’d “made it.”  Having walnut wood shaped continued John’s dynastic wealth and this house was its temple.  Carpenters from his furniture factory were hired to elegantly design doors, wainscoting, and window trim.  The gem of the house was the back parlor that featured a large fireplace and mantle made up of figures of Greek gods, like Atlas with the weight of the world on their shoulders.  The parlor had a side door and could be locked from the inside for secret society meetings.

For the next 32 years, John saw lots of changes.  In 1893, a duplex was constructed immediately to the north for the families of two of his oldest children.  In 1896, another duplex was erected to the east for his other two offspring.  Piece-by-piece, he sold his old farm property for new homes.  It was a wise investment as the population boomed from 16,000 when he bought the land to 87,000 when he sold the last parcel a couple of years before his death in 1901.  John’s wife passed in 1904, but the home remained in the family until 1930 when it was sold to Gordon.

Gordon’s parents immigrated from the Netherlands to join a Calvinist community.  They had plenty of Guilders when they arrived and started an inn with its famously exclusive club.  The business grew into a property management company that Gordon eventually inherited.  If he learned anything from his parents, it was how to get something for nothing.  With the acquisition of Walnut House, his staff was immediately instructed to divide the single-family home into four apartments.

In the 35 years Gordon owned the home, he only visited it three times.  Gordon squeezed every cent he could from the property putting as little as he could toward upkeep.  As the quality of the home declined he’d exploit his tenants more.  Rents would unexpectedly jump 30% or more (especially during the World Wars).  He charged extra for every child resident.  He’d bill for improvements never made.  By 1965, Walnut House was so neglected that Gordon gladly accepted an offer from St. John’s Hospital to bulldoze it for a parking lot. 

Developers, institutions, banks, and their politicians planned to raze 960 acres of the neighborhood for a couple new high-rise apartments and fields of asphalt.  As wrecking balls arrived, so did the protesters.  Neighbors bought neighbor’s homes with cash as banks refused all loans in the area.  After many lawsuits and threats, the area was designated a historic district and protected. 

As the hospital could no longer demolish Walnut House for car storage, it decided to sell the property to Dan, a recent college graduate, in 1969.  Walnut House was in rough shape four years earlier.  Allowed to disintegrate further by the hospital, it seemed a lost cause.  The roof, which probably needed to be replaced in the 1940s, was little more than rotted wood and tar.  A large portion of the north side collapsed allowing the elements inside.  Rain would cascade from the attic gently down the stairs and walls, and pool in the basement undermining the foundation.  A small fire destroyed the original kitchen and much of the exterior siding was rotten.  Dan moved his few possessions into the back parlor, which was the only habitable room.

Dan started his life at Walnut House.  Repairs made to the roof were paid from his new low-level finance job with an auto parts manufacturer.  The exterior was rehabbed with help from his recent bride.  The landscaping and new windows were installed at the time of the birth of their first daughter.  The family moved about the house as walls were removed and plaster repaired.  The kitchen was gutted and replaced with the birth of their second daughter.  Important milestones in their lives were tracked by the painting of a room or refurbishing a historic detail.  With the house restored to its original grandeur, it was difficult for Dan to move to the suburbs in 1986.  But, he refused to sell the house.  He rented Walnut House with the intention to return once his daughters left for college.

I had just been accepted to grad school when I was looking for an apartment.  Like most college towns, anything decent and close to the school was out of my budget.  That was until I saw Walnut House with 3-4 bedrooms, 2 baths, modern kitchen, in a walkable neighborhood for slightly more than a studio apartment in the “student ghetto.”  While skeptical, I made an appointment.  After a long meeting with Dan, he let me rent the home.  He was willing to sacrifice rent money for someone with good credit and would not destroy the house.  Plus, a hefty deposit for insurance. 

The cast of roommates changed as often as a soap opera.  The only constant was my conducting research or writing papers at my salvaged banker’s desk.  That and ordering pepperoni pizza from Tommy’s down the street where I befriended the entire staff.  My girlfriend moved in when her lease was up and organized all sorts of parties with various themes or activities.  Random happy moments with my roommate and her boyfriend trying to assemble a sound machine for an engineering class.  The walk home from Dusty’s Saloon when our designated driver was insulted and ditched us (misunderstanding).  It felt like “home” and I thought about giving Dan an offer for Walnut House.

Like John in 1869, I stood in front of this beautiful Victorian home.  By all appearances, I was a failure.  Playing the part of the fool, I stood in the graveled street wondering what I could have done differently.  The last of my possessions crammed into a hatchback I borrowed from a friend.  Whatever didn’t fit in the vehicle was tossed to the curb.  Every so often, my ex-girlfriend would look out the window to see if I was gone yet.  I made one last round to make sure all my stuff was out, put my key on the front table, and drove away not sure what to do.

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Hot Wheels

This damn car.  An ugly, purple, piece of shit family sedan.  Smoke billowing out of the engine and dragged along a guardrail.  I can see the flickers of a fire underneath as pieces fall to the asphalt.  The tires melt at a surprisingly slow rate.  I just sit on the side of 57 watching this damn car turn to ash.

This is the best I could find for under $4,000: a 2007 model with over 90,000 miles.  There were quite a few scratches and rust spots.  The rear passenger side hubcap was missing.  The interior was well worn with extensive cigarette burns on the driver’s right hand side.  Most of the features didn’t work: a couple electric windows didn’t roll down, radio didn’t turn on, heating and cooling were busted.  But, the engine was recently rebuilt with the invoice to prove it.  Brought it to my mechanic and he gave me the thumbs up.  All-in-all, it was in my price range.

I’ve been biking and mooching rides to work since the car accident.  That old diesel hatchback had 150,000+ miles and could have gone another 150,000 if it weren’t for the crash.  The insurance company totaled the car because of its age; not condition.  No rust and only minor wear and tear issues.  A great 17 year old car with quality German engineering.  My aunt sold it to me cheap five years ago when she wanted a newer model of the same car.

What a difference from the purple sedan.  But, it did get me from point A to point B.  If it was hot, I’d roll down one of the working windows.  If it was cold, I had an extra pair of gloves and a hat ready.  I had to correct a few mechanical issues for safety reasons: replaced a tire, fixed taillight, and plugging up a power steering leak.  It wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t quiet.  And, it certainly wasn’t smooth.

I ran a few errands on Court Street before getting on 57 toward Clifton.  I had a job lined up because of some previous work.  Good money too.  As I’m driving, I noticed a funny smell, which isn’t too strange in this part of the country.  It was like a tire fire.  Didn’t see anything burning in the vast expanse of flat farmlands.  Traffic was pretty heavy with cars racing south in the left lane and semis to the right with me.  Thought it was a vehicle ahead of me until I heard “fa-WUMP!” and saw a plume of dark grey smoke shoot out of my grill.  Before I could think “what the hell,” the interior filled with a noxious fog.  I rolled down the working windows.  I see in my side view mirror semis switching lanes behind me.  My flashers are on.  I start to pull off to the shoulder and tap my brakes.

Brakes.  BRAKES!  WHERE THE HELL ARE MY BRAKES!  I can’t stop the car.  I press the gas, to keep pace with traffic, and it doesn’t work either.  There’s an off ramp ahead.  I pull over and hope gravity slows me down.  I de-accelerate from 70mph.  If there’s no cross traffic, I’ll run the stop sign and coast into the diner parking lot.  Things look good.  I’m slowing down and the road looks clear.  I check to the left again and there’s a semi barreling toward the intersection.  Time for plan B.  At 25-30mph, I purposely plow the side of my car into a guardrail to bring it to a stop.  I pop the hood and take a seat on the side of the interstate to watch it burn. 

“Excuse me, sir.  Have ya bin drinkin’?”  I turn around.  I’ve been there for about 20 minutes when the officer arrived.  I reply, “It’s 10am.”

“Have ya bin drinkin’?” he re-asks knowing the time and how many people drink and drive here no matter what time of day.

“Na, my car caught fire ‘n I had ta crash it ‘cause my brakes stopped workin’.”

“Ah…  These cars are known fer that.”

“Known fer what, specifically?”

“Lose their controls when they have engine problems.”  That’s terrifying.  Does Ralph Nader know?  Won’t buy that brand again. 

We banter watching my car burn into a 3,700 pound piece of charcoal.  The fire department came and let it self-destruct in a controlled manner.  After an hour of blocking the intersection and all the rubbernecks slowing traffic on the freeway, they dragged the carcass onto a flatbed tow truck.  It ended up at a junkyard near my intended destination.  So, it made it to point B without me.  I walked the other direction, taking the old country roads, for my long journey home.     

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