Sunlight never reaches the sidewalks on Walker Street between Broadway and Church.  The cast-iron mercantile buildings on the north and south sides are covered in graffiti. Paint peels. Rust prevails. Small vans double-park, their rear doors open. Pastel invoices flutter in the pockets of the men loading and unloading yard rolls covered in milky plastic ordered by the textile-jobbers who own the cast-iron buildings. 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 from the coffee shop around the corner on Broadway where a red cat sleeps in the window and the elderly blond waitress knows their name and can take a joke, unlike their wives. Nobody is terribly much in a hurry. Textile-jobbers come out of their shops, sign invoices, say a few words, feel the cold or the heat, go back inside.

Two blocks north, on Canal Street, tractor-trailers bound for Long Island creep from the Holland Tunnel to the Manhattan Bridge. It’s a slow crawl. Occasionally, the drivers lean on their horns, more out of boredom than impatience. Pedestrians and sidewalk vendors provide entertainment. Vendors stand over their tables, adjusting their cardboard boxes filled with washers, nuts and bolts, batteries, screw drivers, rolls of duct tape and masking tape, ballpoint pens, tiny coils of copper wire, pocket protectors, corks in several sizes and short pipes only a plumber can name. By 1978, when this story begins, this area of Lower Manhattan has acquired the name Tribeca. 

On a cold November day, Charles Clubb, aged twenty-six, walks south on Broadway in his navy pea coat, collar turned up, wool watch cap pulled down, snug blue jeans and dusty work boots. His face is pale, his forehead creased, his moustache bushy. He has a long torso, and short legs. His steps are small, his posture erect. One bare hand clutches the strap of his grey satchel hanging over his left shoulder. The other hand is dug into his pea coat pocket where he discovers the hole in the 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. Jerry, another waiter at Scrambles, said Herb Schwartz has lofts. Go down Broadway, cross Canal, keep going two blocks then turn right on Walker. That block, somewhere, is Schwartz Textiles. 

Charles waits for the traffic light at Canal to turn green, then steps down from the curb. He walks in front of a big truck, noting how many trucks are on Canal Street.  The first cross street below Canal is not Walker, so he keeps walking south. The next cross street is indeed Walker. Charles turns right. Walker is narrow and dark.

Looking for the name Schwartz, Charles studies the cast-iron facades with their zig-zagging fire-escapes. He steps on the steel doors in the pavement, the cracked lavender glass rectangles in the sidewalk. He enjoys the words in black and gold letters on the shop windows — jacquards, brocades, denims, percales, baize, ramies, chenilles. He notes the faded fabrics, probably draped in the same arrangement in the same window year after year, there being only so many ways to drape so many yards of fabric. Having moved from one uncertain home to the next, Charles finds these sunless, neglected, unchanging window displays mesmerizing and, somehow, encouraging.

Charles has been looking for the right space for his theatre. He’s 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. No retail.  Georgettes, chintzes, blitzes, corduroys, ticking. Wholesale only. Denims and muslins. There it is — SCHWARTZ TEXTILE CUTTING CO. DIE CUTTING – SLITTING – CLICKING.Slitting and clicking! He can’t wait to tell Bill. His last letter from Bill said he was going back to the National Theatre.

Charles presses a buzzer. Waits. No sound. He knocks, his back straightening, as a short man approaches from the gloom, a cigar in his mouth. A bell jingles as the door opens. Charles takes a deep breath and says he is looking for Mr. Schwartz.

The man nods.

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 use the word theatre. He says that he’s looking for a quiet place to write during the day. Mr. Schwartz, wondering why a writer needs two thousand square feet, takes out his cigar and says casually, as if he were offering a few yards of muslin, that he’s got twelve hundred fifty square feet on Church around the corner.

Charles asks if it is 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 tubes of fabric tipped in the corner. Nobody has swept this place in a hundred years.

Mr. Schwartz comes around his desk, wearing a coat and hat. He is holding a ring of keys. He opens the door. 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!”

Raised to respect his elders, Charles walks silently a few feet behind Mr. Schwartz. At the corner they turn right. This is Church Street. Across Church is a substantial brick building, maybe thirty stories high consuming the entire block, with a revolving brass door.  Postal trucks are parked in front of this building, and around the corner on whatever that street is.

Mr. Schwartz steps up to a door surrounded by plywood. “313” has been spray painted on the plywood in red.  Mr. Schwartz tries several keys until one works. The area at the foot of the stairs is filled with odd pieces of lumber. There is a radiator to the left and scraps of lumber in front of an elevator door to the right. It smells moldy. 

As Mr. Schwartz sets foot on the stairs, he 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 had never seen a lock in the middle of a door before with metal bars on either side. When the key turns, the bars contract.

“Police lock,” says Mr. Schwartz.

Mr. Schwartz can’t find a light switch. He walks towards the windows, in front of which are stacked rows and rows of large cartons. 

Charles is absorbing — high plaster wall maybe sixty, seventy feet long runs front to rear, maybe fourteen or fifteen feet high. Narrow floorboards, laid on the diagonal, cover most of the floor, but there is an area in front where the boards are laid lengthwise. Exposed pipes hang from the tin ceiling. There are three large, wired-glass windows in the front. Outside the left window is a fire escape. Each window is different. Across the street is the enormous brick building.

Charles turns to the rear. Three more wired-glass windows. Under the staircase is a raised platform with a deep sink. Charles looks out the rear window – the backs of brick buildings, scrawny trees, maybe sumac. Small radiators are mounted on the rear wall. Charles turns around. 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 down front where he is counting cartons. He counts quickly, then he opens up one carton, takes out a detachable starched shirt collar. He opens another carton—starched cuffs. His cigar has gone out. He seems disappointed by the contents, but Charles is delighted by these quaint costume pieces. Jerry said if you like the space, don’t dither, never mention 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. This space should go for at least four, maybe four-fifty. He glances at Charles’ 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, eye tooth protrudes over his lower lip.

“Might I 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, sees debris along the wall—a broken table, a small metal machine, heap of canvas, old boards.

“When might I begin cleaning up the space?”

Mr. Schwartz shrugs.

“Get rid of all 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 toward the door, Charles realizes there is no toilet or stove or refrigerator or tub. Just the big sink. Jerry said he would probably have to put in his own fixtures.

They step out to the stairwell. 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 not promising to fix the stairs.

At the bottom, Mr. Schwartz inspects the few pieces of mail that have accumulated on the radiator. He puts one envelope in his overcoat pocket. He leaves two other envelopes. Maybe there is another tenant.

On the sidewalk, Mr. Schwartz tells Charles to come get keys tomorrow, the key to the building and to the second floor 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 stub in his mouth. Down the block to his left somebody is selling Christmas trees. A truck goes by. Then a yellow cab. A vendor pushes his Sabrett cart in the middle of the street. Charles looks up. His theatre will be next to MINTZER MERCANTILE CO. PROMOTIONS, JOBBERS, CLOSEOUTS. His mail will be pushed through that metal slot. His address will be 313 Church Street, second floor. In the far distance, he can see the World Trade Center. That way is south. That way is north. He walks north, noting the name of the cross street, Lispenard.

He walks by Church Street Surplus where he bought his pea coat — one block away! 

He enters.  The tall man he thinks is the owner is behind the counter on the left. Every costume he could possibly need is right here – one block away. Climbing the ladder, pushing the coats one by one along the pipe, will be tedious, but he doesn’t mind tedium, and the inventory is endless—military coats, Victorian mourning coats; hunting jackets; canvas work jackets; denim jackets, flight suits. Around the corner hang bathrobes and vintage dresses, the jackets of ladies’ suits, 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, military undershirts and long thermal underwear. There are barrels of buttons. Cotton quilts folded on steel shelves, printed tablecloths, army blankets. The owner wasn’t eager to make money the day Charles paid fourteen dollars for his pea coat. He is content running his shop his way. This shop has permanence, and Charles wants permanence—for his theatre and for himself. 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. 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. Maybe Karen will design sets.     

Charles goes back outside. The post office across the street will be convenient when he mails postcards announcing his productions, when he sends his father in Galveston a birthday card, an airmail letter to Bill.

What subway lines? He thinks the A and the 1, 2, 3. He imagines his audience getting off the subway, trying to find 313 Church Street. In this neighborhood, at least, the blocks are short.  He imagines strangers climbing the stairs of 313 Church Street – stairs which he will repair — opening the door on the landing, meeting, as he just did, that long room – no, room is the wrong word.

Charles, maybe it wasn’t like this at all. But this much is true: the second floor at 313 Church Street became your home and your theatre and then our theatre. You told me about all the cartons full of starched collars and cuffs.

I imagine those cartons spending their last night on the second floor. How, the next day you carried them one by one down the stairs, dropped them onto the freight elevator which descended interminably slowly, finally stopping with a shudder. I can see you carrying them to the driest corner of the basement and placing them side by side in rows. After several trips, I see you turning off the light. Those cartons would now spend the rest of their life in the dark.

And what about the plaster walls and the tin ceiling and the wood floor? After a lifetime of absorbing and reflecting the blare of truck horns, wails of sirens and shouts of people, they must now also absorb and reflect Charles’ footsteps, his voice, the clink of his two glass plates being washed and laid to dry on the towel beside the sink, his gargling and spitting in the sink, the strike of his match, the muted thud of his Guinness bottle on the worktable, the carriage return of his Smith Corona, keys tapping, page after page of white paper being rolled in and out, the rumble of swivel chairs as they roll over the diagonal floorboards, the blade of his paper cutter slicing cardboard and paper, the trickle of water running in the industrial sink, loosening the rust in the pipes. And once his theatre gets going – all those voices and footsteps! And what about the ancient dirt on every surface, the fallen motes, flakes of paint and plaster, bits of thread and fabric and crumbs of cardboard which have laid undisturbed for a very long time? Once Charles puts his hands around the broom handle, their slumber will be over. Little do they know how rigorously and incessantly this tenant will sweep. Poor dust, once at peace, dislodged, swept and swept again and again into a pile, jostled into a dustpan, tipped out of the dustpan into a brown paper bag, the dust swaying inside the bag taken downstairs then outdoors—outdoors!—swaying more as Charles strides to a dumpster and tosses the bag up and over. Seasick, frightened, ancient dust landing on a smelly heap, slowly settling down in a dim, airless place, confused, uprooted. Because Charles is putting down roots. This will be his last home on earth.