QUEENS

APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

Here is a poem that celebrates the diversity of the borough of Queens, NY. Written in 2016 by local resident Michael Kusen, it was originally posted on the Queens Public Library website.  In the years that followed, Michael has recited the piece at several venues in celebration of National Poetry Month.

RAFAEL'S STORY

It’s safe to say, growing up in any part of NYC is a unique experience. Particularly during the 1980s, before gentrification set its overpriced anchors.

While I was attending one of NYC’s magnet high schools, I had no clue I was living in an era which now lives in mythos. My hat was hung in the borough of Queens, but from an early age, I learned how to navigate the big, bad rotten apple.  

After learning how to commute on the NYC subway system, it was time to discover all that Manhattan had to offer. Uptown, midtown, downtown…this was right before the Crack epidemic.  Manhattan looked almost attainable. Through my curious eyes and a free student train pass, Manhattan became my playground.

The main playground was Greenwich Village. We’re talking about the years from 1984 to 1989. NYC teens flocked there after school and during weekends. Back in the ‘80s, the main starting point started at 8^th Street. Before the days of Hot Topic, 8^th Street was known as a trendy area. The stores there sold anything from pointy witch shoes to obnoxious tee shirts. Businesses of bygone days were Postermat, Flip, and Patricia Fields. Afterwards people ate at a pizzeria that had a design only feasible during the early ‘80s. The seating arrangements were set up against the walls in a zig-zag order. This had nothing to do with studying statistic charts. It was purely aesthetics. This meant you had a choice of picking a regular table, or stepping up and chomping your slice down at the table above and a little to the left.

Only a few blocks away, was Washington Square Park. During the warmer days, breakdancers would put on shows near the huge fountain. Closer to the French inspired arch was the Punks, Skinheads, Death Rockers (now known as Goths), squatters and other outcasts. They would constantly get harassed by tourists to pose for photos. The Punks, Skins and Goths soon grew hip and turned this into an opportunity to make extra cash. They demanded a dollar per photo. This cut down the tourists’ interest in half. Sometimes the Punks made a bit of pocket money for chips and cheap beer. Some squatters resorted to stealing, but would occasionally bring along their pet rats. The huge vermin would be the same size as a small dog, yet these rats became beloved pets. The squatters living in abandoned buildings from Alphabet City would successful domesticate the street rats. In 2019, one might find this strange, watching subway rats wadding on the tracks while waiting for the M train.

Broadway had Zoot, Unique, Antique Boutique, and further towards Canal Street was, Canal Jeans. All these stores, along with Flip and Postermat gave away promotional buttons. These promotional buttons had logos from each store. Back in high school, we would pin the buttons onto our army surplus bags, which we wore with a Bundeswehr tank top. Yes, I had that vintage German army shirt. Anyone who didn’t want to look like a ‘Guido’, a Metal head, or a Rapper from the outer boroughs leaned towards this look. That way it gave off the impression that you hung out in Downtown Manhattan. You see, back in those days, everyone didn’t shop at chains like Zara or Old Navy.

If one was feeling particularly edgy, you could take a stroll down to St. Mark’s Place. First sight was of a street mural above a corner newsstand. It was an image of a somewhat androgynous man wearing an eyepatch as a cigarette dangled out of his mouth.  It was a simple, yet strong graphic. The outlines were in bold white against a black background. As you walked down, you discovered where to purchase Punk , Goth and Glam Metal threads from stores like the original Trash and Vaudeville, Endz, and The Pit. You could buy used records at Sounds, and sip beer below at the Grassroots Tavern. Manic Panic was where I learned about hair dyes like Directions. Later Manic Panic created their own brand of hair dye. At the end of the street was yet another newsstand that sold egg creams. Around the corner was where I brought my first import album. It was at a tiny record store which sold Hardcore, Goth and other underground Rock records called Freebeings.

A little past St. Mark’s was the building they used as the photo for the cover of Led Zeppelin’s classic album “Physical Graffiti”, released in 1977. But no one cared about that during the ‘80s.

Feeling adventurous? You could creep up to Avenue A. That’s where all the squatters and hardcore kids really hung out. It should be noted that the original NYC ’77 style Punk evolved into different sub-genres. The main splits were mostly Goth and Hardcore. The Hardcore kids and squatters would gather at Thompkins Square Park. I knew I would never have survived the rough Hardcore and Skinhead scenes.  It didn’t matter; I was more inclined towards the darker batcave imagery. One time I saw a mother and daughter team shoot up heroin together on a park bench. At night you could check out such Lower East Side dives like Pyramid Club, Downtown Beirut, Mars Bar, and Lucy’s. Before rich kid Jennifer Levin got killed by “Preppie Killer” Robert Chambers on August 26, 1986, some of us sneaky teens managed to get into some these places without being asked for ID. Aztec Bar was notorious for never inquiring proof of age. I should know. It was one of the first bars I drank at, and I was only 15. Anything past Avenue A was still unchartered. Remember; the real estate vultures had yet to feast upon the area.

In the middle of such surroundings, I met someone who would be one of my best friends during high school. Our teenage friendship was instantaneous. Whenever he walked into a room, sunshine followed. With a tall, slender build, a very short afro, light brown skin, long vintage men’s wool coat, and a permanently attached smile, it was easy for Carlos to stand out. We bonded over music which is now considered Post Punk. My favorite bands at that point were stuff like Siouxsie and The Banshees, The Cure, Sisters of Mercy. Think of it as basically Goth 101. Rafael was more into Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys, and the more electronic danceable groups. We got to know each as we cruised through West Village records stores, like Record Runner and Bleecker Bob’s.

Rafael was warm, kind, whimsical, and extremely generous.

His life at home in the Bronx was anything but.

Rafael lived with his elderly mother who only spoke Spanish. Where his father was, nobody knew. There was never a word spoken about his paternal side. Maybe his father existed once upon a time back in the Dominican Republic. His older brother was never around. When he did occasionally show up, the brother would exhibit shining examples of what we now call “toxic masculinity.” Both Rafael’s mother and brother disproved greatly of his homosexuality. His mother was disgusted, but she depended on him too much. The phantom brother would swoop in to verbally abuse Rafael. The homophobia and misogyny was passed off as crude humor. Luckily for Rafael, his brother was too busy proving his manhood on the Bronx streets.

Unless one lived with Rafael, a person would’ve never known about his bleak compass. Instead, he would insist on taking me out to lunch. After school, he prided himself on introducing me to various eateries. Thanks to Rafael, I learned about delicious vegetarian dishes. On a fresh spring day, we munched on sunshine burgers in the East Village. Sometimes lunch would be at Yaffa Café, sometimes Dojo. Other times we would causally hit up local falafel places on the west side. Afterwards we would walk down 8^th street holding hands. Rafael loved to hold hands. There was no romantic attachment. We were just lost in our own world. Our conversations consisted of British New Wave bands, film, and imported Punk influenced clothes we couldn’t afford. There were moments we acted rather silly.

One time Rafael and I spent a warm summer sitting on a rock in Central Park. He laid across the rock as if he was on the sands of Malibu. Suddenly, he lifted the upper part of his body to plant a sweet kiss on my lips. Being fully aware of his sexual orientation, this act took me by surprise. When I looked back at him, he just smiled. Just as nonchalantly, he laid back upon the rock where we were high up, away from other casual park habitudes.

Looking back, Rafael wasn’t trying to seduce me at all. His only intention was showing me love for our friendship. That’s all he wanted. Rafael was free spirited like that. He wanted to give, and receive love unconditionally. That’s when a kiss is just a kiss.

Yet to this day I’d still say he treated me better than some of my ex-boyfriends.

As old clichés go, they say it’s better to give than to receive. Not so sure about Rafael’s case. As much as he gave, he rarely got anything in return. Rafael desired a monogamous relationship of his own. Someone he could call a boyfriend.

Rafael finally got his wish. Around 1986 or 1987, the NYC underground Club Kid scene started to rise. This was after Andy Warhol’s death, but right before Michael Alig became king of the nightlife. These ‘Club Kids’ all had unique names which helped making them stand out. So it was easy to remember this fellow Rafael would mention in our conversations. The mystery man was known as Boyd.

Boyd’s nights were spent partaking in performance art and wearing crazy DIY outfits that would only be appreciated in areas such as the East Village. By this point we were in the mid-80s. Club culture showcased in places like The World, Save The Robots, and Tunnel started to rise. Boyd was a regular fixture within this scene. It wasn’t anything new to him though. Boyd was a Southern boy, who came to NYC from Atlanta, Georgia. He moved to New York with someone the world would later know as RuPaul.

One day I suddenly received an invite. It was time to meet this Boyd I’ve been hearing so much about. Rafael arranged a congregation at the original San Loco location. San Loco was a cheap Mexican fast food joint, right next to the St. Mark’s Place newsstand that made egg creams.

The introduction between me and Boyd went well. Boyd himself was an older white man, probably in his mid to late 20s, maybe older. Light complexion and hair, with a body similar to Rafael. After ordering a cheap vegetarian taco, Boyd demanded to know what PeeWee Herman’s secret word of the day was. What was the word? Did it matter? For the next hour, whenever someone unknowingly uttered the secret word, all three of us screamed, disturbing the other patrons’ inexpensive meals. Boyd smiled. I had passed his test.

Boyd liked me enough to invite me over along with Rafael over to his makeshift apartment located in the heart of Times Square. This was before the Giuliani cleanup and Disney takeover. Everything was still sleazy. Crack hadn’t totally infested everything yet. It was late afternoon. Grimy peepshows with garish neon signs stood next to aging Broadway theaters. The area was congested. Streams of disgruntled people went about their business. Former movie palaces showed porn.  Even the sun looked dirty. Boyd quickly led me and Rafael out of the subway station straight up to his loft. As we entered the loft, he introduced us to his platinum blond roommate, also of the early Club Kid/performance artist ilk. Thereupon we were ushered into Boyd’s bedroom. 

Boyd, the non-discerning host, got up and laid across the upper part of his bunk bed. We coolly conversed with each other. My eye though, was too immersed with his unusual décor. 

Covering each wall inside Boyd’s lair was photos of all his various ex-lovers. Pinned next to each photo was a used condom. Each condom was left over from a venereal encounter shared with the pictured companion. After the sexual exchange, the condom was hung up next to the photo as a memento. Over time, the condom would shrivel with its contents of dried sperm. I’m surprised Boyd’s bedroom didn’t stink.

As stated, all four walls were completely covered with photos. Which meant of course, lots of dried up, used condoms. There was barely any room for future entries, except for the occasional club flyer.

Boyd noticed what I was studying. Unconcerned, he gave a short explanation. “Oh yeah.  I just basically put up photos of all my ex-lovers. Those are the condoms I used with them. Just something I was doing…” With a shrug, he moved onto the next subject.

Recalling all of this, a person has to realize this was the first generation dealing with the AIDS epidemic. Mainstream mass media was pushing safe sex to counteract the rising statics. Boyd’s bedroom installation was most likely his defiant response to the safe sex push and the AIDS crisis, but also his act of queer rebellion.

Boyd turned to Rafael. “It’s your turn to put on music.” It felt as if he was slightly in a position of authority, and Rafael received permission.  Rafael was about 16 or 17 by this time. In the search for a cassette, Rafael jumped up excitedly. As strains of a Kate Bush song started to play in the background, Boyd turned to me. “Do you like Kate Bush, Madeline?”

What was I supposed to do? While I did like Kate Bush, silently I was still processing Boyd’s intimate photo exhibit. Somehow I never let on about my shock. Instead the conversation continued. We switched the topic from Kate Bush to Nina Hagen. This gave Boyd more approval towards me. Meanwhile, Rafael ignoring any potential red flags, had stars in his eyes. Eventually I excused myself. It was time to head back to Astoria I said. Maybe subconsciously, I was glad to head back to Queens. Boyd sealed our new friendship, inviting all three of us for another get together. Perhaps it was a good thing I didn’t come across as judgmental.

Rafael became more involved with Boyd soon after. Boyd’s influence was good at first. Rafael spoke about becoming an artist. He often mentioned ideas and concepts. Like Boyd, Rafael also got involved with the Club Kid scene. Along the way I dipped my toes in, just not far enough to be considered an official Club Kid. The door people, taking cues from Studio 54’s heyday were very selective on who entered such places. The difference between the downtown club and Studio was, the freakier, the better. My alternative looks were perfected by this time. This granted me access to Tunnel’s basement parties, which separated itself from the rest of the club. The basement party was where all the “cool kids” hung out, aka the Club Kids. One night as I was entering the basement, I passed a female Club Kid taking a bath fully clothed inside a child’s inflatable pool. Later that same night, I accidentally bumped into a rich yuppie smoking crack from behind a curtain. The smoke and stench surrounded the man. I received a dirty look, even though he was holding the crack pipe.  It was 1998, and Crack had infected NYC. 

A year or so after that first visit, Boyd moved out of his Times Square loft, and into an apartment on Avenue C. Eventually Boyd got another apartment somewhere on East 9^th Street between 2^nd and 1^st Avenue. Rafael ended up being homeless. He was forced to move out of the Bronx. His mother could no longer cope with having a gay son. This resulted in Rafael dropping out, never being able to complete high school. He did move in with Boyd for a while. Theirs developed into a long term relationship. Finally Rafael got something he wanted, although the relationship itself was on and off. Along the way, Rafael somehow got into heroin. Our friendship continued, but eventually as adults, our connection began to fade away. Such is the transition to adulthood. Ironically, I remained friendly with Boyd. There was never any bad blood between us. He always welcomed me into his home, regardless of the circumstances between him and Rafael. If there was a party in his apartment, and he spotted me, an invite was extended. His timing was impeccable. By the time Michael Alig was indicted for murder in 1997, Boyd had long left the Club Kid scene.  Last time I ran into Boyd, it was 2005 at a monthly club party called M8. His new shtick was entering the professional BDSM field. Boyd whispered that his new trade was that of a professional dominant. He catered to gay men in search of a master. Haven’t seen or heard from him since.

In early fall 1999, I accidently ran into Rafael. By this time he was recovering from his addiction. Unfortunately, there was damage. He completely lost hearing in one of his ears. Rafael was having trouble securing work as well. He was let go from a temp assignment after obsessively counting paper clips. Management complained about his development of OCD. All the trauma and abuse Rafael went through had taken its toll. Yet there was a small spark of the old Rafael I knew. Or at least Rafael tried. He was working part time as an usher at the Film Forum. He used this position to comp both me and another friend for a free movie. We sat in the theatre, watching a documentary about another lost generation, The Beats. As images of Burroughs, Kerouac, and Ginsberg flickered on the screen, Rafael tiptoed to check in on us. He waved. Poor Rafael…ever giving but not receiving anything in return. Afterwards Rafael insisted on walking me to the subway station. The more he spoke, it became more and more obvious that he was barely a shell of his former self.  Rafael insisted that he wait on the platform with me. This developed into an awkward situation. He looked and sounded like someone mentally ill. It was too painful to even stand with him. My other adult friend wasn’t aware of my teenage history with Rafael. Rafael picked up that things weren’t the same. He excused himself. It’s been twenty years since we last stood together on the 8^th street platform, waiting for the subway to take me back to Queens.

MB - March 2019

Goodnight Socks

“Go to bed!”

Three words delivered with the finality of a thunderclap, sometimes from mom, sometimes from dad, sometimes from both at the same time and I’m left standing there wondering what it was that I had done so wrong that I would be sent off to such a place with such doomed finality. Exiled, I’m being exiled. And I won’t stand for it. That response of course is never voiced because arguing about it would only lead to further punishment.

But when did bed become a punishment? It certainly isn’t when we exit the womb. The brand new bouncing bundle of joy rarely complains and will often go to bed unasked. Of course the baby is carried there rather than sent there because it can neither walk, crawl nor climb at this early juncture. The little one spends more time asleep than awake in those oh so early days. I’m not sure what the percentage value is to sleep versus wake however.

I’m terrible at math.

The infant worries not about such things. It knows that it is tired and thus follows the proper protocols.

More or less.

The baby may not argue, but it does gripe. Most of the time the parents (whether novice or seasoned) know not what the newborn is actually saying, but both nod their heads in complete understanding and offer up their best educated guess.

“He’s tired.”

“He’s hungry.”

“His foot hurts”
            “What?” This one uttered in unison.

When life begins, the bed is a place of refuge, peace, solitude. Books are written about it.

Goodnight Moon.

Life moves forward.

As we grow older, bed becomes something else. Oh, not a place to be avoided, but somewhere that we are in no rush to get to. Suddenly, the day is not long enough and there is the magic of the night, the late night, the early morning hours that beckon further exploration. Bed becomes overrated. Last call, bars close, late night breakfast (wow, do I miss White Castle) and finally home as daylight starts to rise.

Goodnight sun.

There’s an old saying that we have all heard before. Time flies when you’re having fun. No argument there, but I could embellish on that sentiment by saying that time flies when you’ve had your fun.

Life moves forward.

The night no longer holds the magic and untold pleasures it once had, not on such grand a scale anyway. Your bed calls to you at the end of each day and you find yourself heeding the invitation at an hour where once upon a time you were just heading out for the evening. Essentially, you find yourself back where you began, the two ends of the circle well met.

Socks are similar.

Think about it.

I know I have.

In the earliest days of my education, I wore colored socks to school. Colored socks were cool. Colored socks were in. Blue ones, red ones, green ones too. Now don’t go thinking my memory is that good. I just have the pictures to prove it. Little me forever captured in Polaroid pics and on display in old family photo albums. As elementary edged towards Junior High, colored socks were no longer in fashion and all I wore were white. This continued through college and into my early working years until corporate called. Colored socks are back!

Sometimes I can hear the oohs and aahs of others in the local Laundromat who look upon my unique footwear with a sense of awe. I spend a lot of time on socks. Not washing them of course, the machines are pre-programmed for that. I’m always on the hunt for interesting socks. A lot of thought and consideration goes into the purchase process. Which pair will match with which shirts, which pants?

Oh cool! This pair will match with my red watch.

I’m into colored watches too.

Because of my newfound love of socks, laundry day is now no longer dreaded. It never was really. I enjoy the time spent at the Laundromat. I get a lot of reading done there without the commonplace interruptions that would otherwise take place at home. The only thing that gets in the way really is the unloading of the washing machine (reading begins when the machine spins); the loading of the dryer and then the subsequent unloading and folding before heading home. When you think about it, the only part of laundry I don’t enjoy that much is actually doing the laundry. I’ve sort of rectified that however and turned it into a sporting event.

“Welcome laundry fans. It’s the beginning of another spring day here in beautiful Queens, NY, though winter is still a little reluctant to let go, isn’t that right Stan?”

“Brrr, you said it, Rod, but ol’ man winter is no match for dryer number 7, running hot and reaching the end of the 42 minute duration that our challenger has set it for.”

Rod laughs. “Well, if nothing else, you know that the clothes in there will come out dry with no extra quarters required, but let’s talk about game play here for a minute and what we can expect today. It seems to me, there may have to be a change in strategy here, if he is to break this six week losing streak.”

Stan nods his head. “I agree, but let’s face it, this whole thing is really kind of one sided when you come right down to it. With women’s clothing being so bright and colorful, he really doesn’t stand much of a chance. The human eye is always drawn to the playful and dazzling hues first, which is why each time he reaches into the laundry cart, the article of clothing that comes out first always belongs to the female of the species.”

Rod, tsk, tsks and adds, “And it’s all downhill from there. It’s remarkable that even with some of his own clothing right there within reach, it always seems to come out ladies first.”

“Maybe chivalry is not dead,” Stan guffaws, and the two of them share a masculine chuckle.

The tension builds (not really) as the dryer is emptied and the cart rolled over to the nearest folding station.

“He’s rubbing his hands,” one of them (it doesn’t really matter which) says in a whisper. Now the game has taken on the deft seriousness of a chess match rather than the ribald rivalry of heated competition. “He’s reaching, reaching, here it comes, here it comes and –”

“YES!” the other one (it still doesn’t matter who) shouts. “Yes! That right there is indeed a male sock clutched in his hand. Look at the way those aquamarine and orange stripes shine. Oh, well played, well played!”

The camera zooms out now, and the laundry in the cart represents every ROYGBIV in the color spectrum.

“Wait a minute,” I think it’s Stan that says that. “Are those palm tree socks I see?”

“Well yes. And look over there. I would venture to say that those are flamingos peeking out of the corner. Pink ones! Wow, that is a bold move right there. Pink flamingo socks. What color do you think those would go with?”

Rod laughing, “I don’t know, but it takes a certain kinda guy to make that work I’ll bet.”

The voices in my head fade away and the folding commences.

Stop shaking your head, dear reader, it isn’t cheating. I just…stacked the deck a bit, evened up the odds. The winning is not actually in the winning though. The colored sock scheme proves beneficial in other ways too. I’m a lot more careful with my socks now, and as a result, one does not go inexplicably AWOL into that great laundry twilight zone somewhere. At the end of the day, each pair is present and accounted for.

And when I climb into bed that evening, it is with a smile of satisfaction upon my face.

Goodnight Socks.

TJM - March 2019

RESULTS

I sat in the hospital waiting room and when my name was called, I followed the nurse into a small, painted-white box room. I thought the room had seen better days; the plaster was peeling off the walls, the floor tiles were faded, and a musty smell of old paper was emanating from cardboard files stacked in the corner.

The young nurse, who appeared to be the same age as I, shuffled uncomfortably in her seat adjacent to Dr. Stephens' beanstalk yet steadfast figure. I sat opposite them.

Dr. Stephens started with, "So the tests are back and I'm afraid you have…" I digested the most petrifying words I thought I would ever hear in my lifetime, and after that moment it was all, "blah, blah, blah." I had shifted to nowhere-land.

Like orchestral instruments tuning up before a concert, I heard the whistling of a flute as my wheezy breaths labored in and out. The deep, rhythmic pounding of my heart against my chest resembled the ominous sounding thumps of a base drum, whilst the throbbing, engorged vein at my left temple felt like a xylophone mallet was being repeatedly hammered.

I didn’t even flinch at the hot, wet sensation that had burst from my eyes and traveled down my cheeks like a channel of flowing, steaming lava.

I zoomed back into the room with a whoosh. My expression was quiescent until I nodded in agreement at the arrangements for D-day.

Jan M. – March 2019

The Thumbelina Doll

          My friend, Anna, always sends me packages jammed full of treasures.  Both of us are readers and we enjoy giving one another books.  A while ago she gave me a big book, called "The Book of Virtues."  It's a hefty, hard-bound tome and indeed very reminiscent of my childhood.  Arranged in sections, it has poetry and prose in a great variety of subject matter and stories that delight as well as instruct.

          Leafing through its many pages I happened upon a story by Hans Christian Andersen.  Whether or not I'd read it before I cannot say.  Neither did I read it just then.  

          The title arrested me and swooped me into such a long-lost moment of my childhood  I'd completely forgotten, or so it seemed until that second.  I closed the book and let it rest on my lap.

Doesn't a moment like this deserve to be savored?

          Suddenly I was in our living room playing with my Thumbelina doll.  She was lying on the couch.  Not just an ordinary couch was this.  Its bench was a violet shade of purple.  The back cushions were big, rectangular and had lots of abstract flowers.  It didn't have legs or arms but consisted of two pieces that formed the letter L. 

Thumbelina was on her back and I was standing over her.  She's my baby.  Am I cooing adoringly, changing her clothes or feeding her?  I only know she is a tiny, helpless infant and I am a big girl.

          How sweet that kind of playing was!  Lost in make believe and not a care about time or space - how marvelous it was.

Was it her size?  So tiny she was.  She allowed me to take care of her and love her.  Thumbelina needed me.

Now, I realize I needed her.

Yvonne A. - March 2019