Michael Bunker: WICK

He looked up at the sky and tried to estimate the hour, then figured how much further he could go before he’d have to find shelter for the night. He had hoped, when he started out in the morning, to make it to the George Washington Bridge, but he’d badly overestimated himself and he’d spent too much time sightseeing. He was just over halfway there—maybe three-fifths—and it would be dark soon. He didn’t relish walking through Washington Heights late at night, particularly without knowing exactly what he would find when he got there. He was flying mostly blind, and the area was known to be questionable, even on a good day. No need to turn this into a suicide mission. Maybe I should just stop at the Y , he thought, and start again fresh in the morning.

As he sat and caught his breath, a young black man, somewhere around 14 years old, Clay guessed, came rolling up 5th Avenue from the direction Clay had just come. He was riding a longboard skateboard, and the syncopated sounds of the wheels striking the cracks of the sidewalk were deeper than one might have expected. Kerthump, kerthump… kerthump, kerthump. Clay watched him as he stepped off the board at the curb and flipped the end up to his hand, carrying it like a cane into the small park. He walked to the foot of the statue and looked up as if he was trying to peer over the open lid of the grand piano the composer was standing at and into the heart of the strings. He was tall, with thin hands and sharp cheeks, and had the earliest beginnings of what might eventually become dreadlocks, his hair twisted in tiny knots at the roots. The earbuds in his ears were obviously playing some song with deep syncopation like the kerthumps of the skateboard wheels, but it sounded, from where Clay was sitting, like jazz rather than hip-hop. He drummed his fingers on his skateboard and then became self-aware and noticed Clay looking at him, causing him to flash a sheepish smile and set his board on the ground and push off in a running start. Clay turned his head to watch him as he moved across the walk between the tree lines and jumped over the curb and crossed the street and headed west along 110th.

Clay scratched his face and felt the beginnings of a beard, just the hint of stubble from this morning. He lifted his arms above his head, felt his shoulder pop and his back muscles ache, then he stood and shook out his legs.

Clay walked up Malcolm X Boulevard and into the heart of Harlem. He was tired of cataloguing trees and fallen branches. There weren’t even that many around here. For once, it seemed, nature had spared those who were often hardest hit by the problems of the city. The electricity was running, people were going about their business, and life seemed as close to usual as possible. He was glad to be walking under a broad expanse of sky, even if it was turning to a bluish hue as dusk began to settle behind the still grey clouds.

As he came to about 120th Street, he dipped into a small bodega. He walked through the store towards the back to get a bottle of water from the cooler, and he could hear a conversation over the racks, near the counter, between two flirtatious youths.

“Oh, come on, you know you want to… give me your number, baby…”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to give if you don’t leave me alone, Papi… the back of my hand!”

“There, see, you called me Papi. Come on, baby. Give me your number.”

Clay came around the aisle and saw the young man from the statue leaning over the counter on his elbow, flashing his most confident smile. The girl blushed and noticed Clay and turned away from the young man to help him. “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just trouble, that’s what he is,” she said.

“With a capital T,” the youth chimed in, and then, noticing Clay from the statue, seemed to straighten up a little.

“You’re the guy from Duke Ellington.”

“Yes. I am indeed, that very same guy. How are you?”

“Good, I’m just trying to get a little notice here. Hey, where’re you walking with that backpack?”

“Home. Where are you going with your skateboard?”

“The same, and I guess I better be off. Where’s your home, mister?”

“Mister? Now, don’t be calling me mister. I’m not ready to be called mister just yet. I’m going to Ithaca. Upstate. Ever been there?”

“Nah, but my mom has a friend in Woodstock. Is that anywhere close?”

“Ehh. Not really, about a 150 miles.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t get out of the city much.”

“Well, you should, there’s a whole big world out there.”

“Yeah. That’s what I hear. Maybe I’ll get a backpack and head out myself one day.”

“Well, there are worse things to do.”

With that, Clay paid the bill, smiled, and walked out. As he did, the youth, too, gave up his flirting and grabbed his board where he’d left it leaning against the door.

He walked out just as Clay opened the top to his bottle of water and leaned his chin up and back to take a swig. He gave Clay a little wave that made him seem much younger than the conversation they’d just shared, and then turned back up the street.

He dropped his board and took a running start, landing thick on the deck, then he rolled across the sidewalk. (Kerthump… kerthump.) He gave his board a little jump as he rolled off the curb and out in the street, where he was promptly hit by a car.

Clay had been the first one to reach him. The car itself had come to more or less an immediate stop, but the driver was so stunned by the body flying onto her hood that she’d been paralyzed into inaction. The boy, for his part, had rolled up onto the windshield and had come sluggishly to a stop before jumping down from the hood and trying to act as if nothing had happened. The board was broken under the wheel of the car, and the boy’s painful grimace as he hit the ground showed that more than his pride was hurt. He hopped on one foot as Clay reached him and lifted him up to support him while helping him onto the curb. A small crowd gathered of a few straggling pedestrians who stretched their necks to see if anything was worth seeing, then moved on when it became apparent that no blood had been spilled.

Clay sat the boy down on the ground and inspected his foot. It appeared as if the ankle had been sprained badly, but there didn’t seem to be any broken bones. The ankle was tender when he offered resistance and already it was beginning to swell and turn slightly blue. The boy wouldn’t be able to walk.

“Oh, my mom’s going to kill me,” the boy said. “She just bought me that board.”

“Oh, I’m certain that she won’t do that. That would be murder. Up you go, come on,” Clay said. “Let’s go, I’ll help you walk. Lean on me.”

“But mis–” the boy caught himself.

“Clay.”

“But Clay, I don’t want to stop you from going home.”

“I’m going that way, anyway—”

“Stephen.”

“Stephen… I might as well stop a murder.”

They hobbled along the street, this odd pair, like two soldiers escaping the front. Never leave a man behind, Clay smiled to himself. Always leave yourself a way out, and never leave a man behind. He wondered what others around them thought. Normally, he was a believer in what Eleanor Roosevelt once said: you wouldn’t worry what other people thought of you if you only knew how seldom they do. But, in this case, from the looks they received as they straggled along, he felt it safe to make an exception.

Turning west on 132nd, they limped for half a block before coming to a narrow space between two buildings that opened through a gate. “She’ll be in here,” the boy said as he left Clay’s shouldering support and tried to make his way into a garden. Clay followed closely, with his arms out extended as though he were carrying some gift to meet a queen.