From The Bicycle Boy, A Death in the Neighborhood

PART ONE
November 20, 1978
Walker Street between Broadway and Church
late morning

Wintry sunlight reaches the fourth and fifth stories of the commercial buildings on the north side of Walker Street between Broadway and Church. Sun doesn’t reach the street level. The dark storefronts of the textile jobbers display their owners’ names on the shop windows in black and gold letters. Graffiti covers the fluted cast-iron columns. Paint peels. Rust prevails. Small trucks and vans double-parked all along the block, their rear doors open to reveal half a dozen rolls of fabric covered in milky plastic. Pastel invoices flutter in the pockets of the delivery men loading and unloading yard rolls. Steam rises from the take-out coffee cups held by the drivers, who would rather sit on the Siamese connections than in the cabs of their trucks so they can bark at one another, smoke, and enjoy the bialy or the egg sandwich they just picked up from the coffee shop around the corner on Broadway where the elderly blond waitress knows their name and can take a joke, unlike their wives. Nobody is terribly much in a hurry. Shopkeepers come out, sign invoices, inspect the transactions, say a few words, feel the cold, go back inside. Two blocks north on Canal Street the interstate tractor-trailers creep back and forth between the Manhattan Bridge and the Holland Tunnel. Drivers lean out their windows, staring at the sidewalk bins filled with duct tape, washers, nuts and bolts, batteries, screw drivers, ballpoint pens, tiny coils of copper wire, pieces of pipe only a plumber can name. Winter is coming. Steam escapes from the manhole covers. This is Lower Manhattan below Canal, sometimes called “downtown,” before downtown was capitalized.

Charles Clubb, aged twenty-six, walks south on Broadway in his navy pea coat with the collar turned up, wool watch cap pulled down, snug blue jeans and dusty work boots. His face is pale, his forehead creased, his eyes small. He has a moustache, a voluptuous mouth, a long torso and short legs. His steps are small, his posture erect. One bare hand clutches the strap of his gray satchel over his left shoulder. The other is dug into his pea coat, where he discovers the hole in the pocket lining has gotten bigger. He reminds himself not to put the key to his girlfriend’s loft in the pocket with the hole because that’s the last thing he needs now – to annoy sweet Julie, who has put him up for the past two months until he can find his own space — which, today, he just might succeed in doing if he can find Walker Street, which Jerry at the restaurant said was below Canal. Jerry also said Herb Schwartz owned a lot of buildings below Canal. Herb Schwartz on Walker between Broadway and Church might have a loft.

While he waits for the light to change at Canal Street, Charles stares at the nearby bins on the sidewalk — a box of pocket protectors next to a box of corks. The light turns green. He steps down from the curb. The first cross street below Canal is not Walker so he keeps going. The next street is indeed Walker. Charles turns right. Walker ends at Broadway. There is no other way to turn.

Looking for the name Schwartz, Charles studies the cast-iron facades, the fire-escapes, the steel doors in the pavement, the lavender rectangles of glass embedded in the sidewalk — what are those for? — shop windows stenciled with black and gold letters advertising jacquards, brocades, denims, percales, baize, ramies, chenilles. He studies the dusty, faded fabrics draped in the same arrangement in the same window year after year, there being only so many ways to drape yards and yards of fabric. Having moved constantly from one uncertain home to the next, Charles finds these sunless, neglected, unchanging window displays mesmerizing.

For two weeks Charles has been looking for a space for his theatre. He has seen garages on the Lower East Side, an abandoned sweatshop on the fourth floor in a pee-soaked alley in Chinatown, a dark, ground level block-long space on Crosby Street, but every place has been either too expensive or smelly or scary or dark or — wrong. He can’t describe to Julie or to Jerry what he’s looking for, but he’ll know it when he sees it.

Every shop has multiple signs. No retail. Georgettes, chintzes, blitzes. (What are blitzes?) Corduroys, ticking, and muslins. Wholesale only. Denims and muslins. There it is, on the north side — #40 — Schwartz Textiles Die-cutting, Slitting, Clicking. Would you believe? Slitting and clicking? He can’t wait to tell Bill. Bill is rehearsing a play right now at the Royal Court Theatre.

Charles peers through the dirty window in the door. He sees a desk at the rear. Charles knocks, his back straightening as a short man, in no hurry, approaches from the gloom smoking a cigar. A bell jingles as the door opens. Charles takes a deep breath and says he is looking for Mr. Schwartz.

The man says he’s Schwartz.

Charles says good morning, then explains he is looking for a loft with two thousand square feet.

Expressionless, Mr. Schwartz lets him into the shop, closes the door, thinks southern, polite, probably not a troublemaker. Charles remembers not to say he’s looking for a place to live and doesn’t mention the word theatre. Instead, he says that he’s looking for a quiet place to write and the name of the restaurant in SoHo that employs him. Mr. Schwartz, wondering why a writer needs two thousand square feet, says casually, as if he were offering a few yards of muslin, that he’s got twelve hundred fifty square feet on Church, second floor, around the corner. Charles asks is it raw space?
Mr. Schwartz smiles. What do these kids mean by raw?

Charles asks would it be convenient for him to see this space now?

A phone rings. Mr. Schwartz goes back to his desk in the dark corner. Charles stares at the long tubes of fabric tipped against various walls. Nobody has swept this place in a hundred years. The windows are filthy.

Mr. Schwartz reappears with his fedora, overcoat and a ring of many keys. He goes to the door and opens it. Jingle bell. Charles follows. The door closes. Jingle jingle. As they step down to the sidewalk, the rear door of a truck across the street bangs shut. Someone shouts for “Louie.” A deep voice shouts back, “Baby, I’m all done!”

Not sure how to converse with this man, but raised to respect his elders, Charles walks silently a few feet behind Mr. Schwartz.

At the corner they turn right onto Church Street. On the opposite side of the street is a substantial brick building, maybe thirty stories high, consuming the entire block with a fancy entrance and a revolving brass door. Further — is it north? — are postal trucks parked on the street. A sign saying Mintzer Mercantile dangles on a chain from a fire escape. Schwartz stops in front of the next steel door surrounded by plywood. “313” has been spray painted on the plywood in red. They climb two steps. Mr. Schwartz tries several keys. Finally, one works. The area at the foot of the stairs is filled with lumber. There is an elevator door and a radiator. It smells moldy. Charles coughs.

As he sets foot on the stairs, Mr. Schwartz tells Charles to stay to the right, mumbling the word broken. The sides of the stairwell are covered in tin panels. On the first landing Mr. Schwartz tries several keys before one works. Charles never saw that before — a lock in the middle of a door. When the key turns there is a strange sound.

“Police lock,” says Mr. Schwartz, pocketing his keys as the door opens and he looks around for a light switch, can’t find it and walks towards a heap of cartons down by the front windows. The room is dark, damp, still. Charles says nothing. It is not the sort of room in which you speak casually.

There is a long plaster wall running front to rear, maybe fourteen or fifteen feet high, maybe sixty, seventy feet long. Narrow floorboards, laid on the diagonal, cover most of the floor, but there is an area in front of the long wall where the boards are laid lengthwise. Why? The ceiling is covered in the same tin panels as the stairwell. Pipes run across the ceiling. There are three large wire glass windows at the front. Outside the left window is a fire escape. Each window is different. Charles walks to the rear. Three more windows. Under the staircase, is a raised platform and a deep sink. Charles looks out the corner window – the backs of buildings and scrawny trees begging for light, he thinks the trees are sumac. Small radiator pipes are attached to the wall. In the corner, a heap of rotting gray canvas. Charles turns around. Not one speck of color in the entire space except, at the front, across the street, the orange blur of that big brick building. The stage could be at the front, or in the middle. The audience could sit over there, or there, or all around.

Charles joins Mr. Schwartz in the front where he is counting cartons stacked against the wall. He counts quickly. There must be over a hundred small cartons. Mr. Schwartz opens up one carton, holds up a detachable starched shirt collar and grunts. He opens another carton – starched cuffs. His cigar has gone out. He seems disappointed by the contents of the cartons, but Charles is delighted by these quaint costume pieces, which he interprets as a sure sign his theatre will be here. Jerry said if you like the space, don’t dither, never use the word utilities and offer cash.

“Sir? Might I ask what is the rent?”

Mr. Schwartz squints. Sir? This kid is a relic. Opening another carton – more collars and cuffs — he computes what he gets for similar spaces on Walker and White Streets where he owns several other buildings. Should go for at least four, maybe four-fifty. He glances at Charles’s cold red hands hanging at his side. Gloves on Canal Street go for a buck. He tosses a collar back in the carton.

“Three-fifty.”

Charles smiles. His crooked eyetooth appears on his lower lip.

“I’d like to move in before January,” he says.

Mr. Schwartz shrugs at all the cartons. A basement is mentioned. Charles offers to take the cartons to the basement in exchange for taking occupancy in the third week in December.

Mr. Schwartz changes his opinion of this polite young man who now sounds English, not southern, and who bargains.

Charles, emboldened, points to the debris he now sees along the wall — a broken table, a small metal machine, heap of canvas, old boards — and asks if he can begin cleaning up the space? Mr. Schwartz shrugs.

Charles points to the debris.

Mr. Schwartz says, “Get rid of that and you can occupy the second week of December.”
Charles holds out his cold right hand. “Charles Clubb,” he smiles.

“Herb Schwartz.”

As they walk towards the door, Charles realizes there is no toilet or stove or refrigerator or tub. Just a big sink. He remembers what Jerry said — that he would probably have to put in his own fixtures.

They step out to the hall. Mr. Schwartz turns the police lock, which sounds like a jail cell door. They talk about where to put the cartons in the basement as they go down the left side of the stairs, Mr. Schwartz points again to the broken stairs, not promising to fix them, just pointing them out.

At the bottom he inspects the few pieces of mail that have accumulated on the radiator. He puts one envelope in his overcoat pocket. Charles asks how many other people live in the building and learns there was a painter on the third floor, but he moved out.

Out on the front step, Mr. Schwartz tells Charles to come get the keys tomorrow, the key to the loft and the key that opens the padlock to the basement. And bring cash.

Not sure what to do when somebody bows, Mr. Schwartz pushes both hands in the pockets of his overcoat and walks away, his hat too small for his head, his unlit cigar in his mouth.

Charles feels ecstatic. Does he feel anything else? Is he having second thoughts? He stares at the brick building across the street. To his left somebody is selling Christmas trees beyond the big brick building. A truck goes by. Then a yellow cab. A vendor pushes his Sabrett cart in the middle of the street. Charles looks up, reads the metal sign hanging from the fire escape: “Mintzer Mercantile Co. – Promotions, Jobbers, Closeouts”. He reads “313” spray painted in red on the plywood above the mail slot. His mail will be pushed through that metal flap. His address will be 313 Church Street. In the far distance he can see the World Trade Center. That way is south. That way is north.

When he gets to the corner, Charles notes the cross street — Lispenard has a nice ring. Canal, Walker, Church, Lispenard. This will be his neighborhood – a few blocks south from Julie’s loft and a few blocks from Scrambles where he works. But can he coax an audience up those broken stairs, into that long gray room? Room isn’t the right word. He walks north towards Canal.

He bought his peacoat at Church Street Surplus. He goes inside. The shop is not as warm as he’d hoped it would be. He nods to the tall guy behind the counter on the left. He pretends to be looking for something specific and walks to the back. Every costume he could possibly need for his theatre is right here. He looks up at the row of tuxedos hanging near the ceiling. It will be tedious work climbing the ladder, pushing the heavy coats one by one along the pipe, but he doesn’t mind hard work or tedium and the inventory is endless — heavy military coats in gray, olive green, dark blue, Victorian mourning coats, hunting jackets, canvas work jackets, denim jackets. There are even flight suits. Around the corner hang bathrobes and vintage dresses, the jackets of ladies’ suits. Further on are wool plaid shirts and flannel shirts, shelves of khaki trousers and blue jeans. Bins overflow with men’s long ties and bow ties and satin slips and heavy oatmeal-colored undershirts and long thermal underwear. There are barrels of buttons. There are cotton quilts folded on steel shelves, printed tablecloths and army blankets. The owner wasn’t all that eager to make money the day Charles paid fourteen dollars for his pea coat. He is relaxed and content running his shop his way. This shop is unlikely to move. This shop has permanence and Charles wants permanence – for his theatre and for his costumes. He can hear Bill saying if it takes ten years, then it takes ten years. What a stroke of luck to be one block from the Church Street Surplus. Bill will approve. Julie will smile. What about Johnny?

Jerry, at the restaurant, who told him about Schwartz on Walker – buy Jerry a drink. Buy Jerry’s wife Karen a drink. Buy them two drinks. Hell, buy them four. Karen is a painter. Ask her to design sets.

Charles goes back outside. Across the street is a post office – very convenient when he mails postcards announcing his productions, when he sends his father in Galveston a birthday card, an airmail letter to Bill in London.

Charles needs to be able to tell his audience which trains to take. He thinks the A and the 1, 2, 3. He imagines his audience getting off the subway, looking for 313 Church, perfect strangers climbing the stairs which he will need to repair, opening the door on the landing, meeting, as he just did, that long wall.

I see Charles that day bundled up in his heavy pea coat, standing on the street corner, dreaming — dreaming how he will get his actors to pronounce every word clearly, understand what every word in every sentence precisely means.  In how many big cities all over the world is this moment happening?  Young artist comes to the big city to pursue their dream, stands on street corner — dreaming?