Dusk

Brewster Place became especially fond of its colored daughters as they milled like determined spirits among its decay, trying to make it a home. Nutmeg arms leaned over windowsills, gnarled ebony legs carried groceries up double flights of steps, and saffron hands strung out wet laundry on back-yard lines . . .

My name is Ben. I’m a drunk. And been waiting a long time to say these next few words: This street gave birth to more than its girl children, ya know. And in all my years working as janitor on this block, I ain’t seen no favortism, one way or another, all had a hard way to go. I’m not about to argue was it harder for some than for others: Who’s got it worse, the Him with nothing in his pockets, scared to turn the knob on the door; or the Her waiting on the other side to stretch that nothing—once again—for supper? When your shoes is worn down ragged and loose, what hits the ground hardest—the heel or the toe? Them are questions that ain’t got no easy answer and I’m the first to admit I ain’t got no fancy words. But I do know that when a She was leaning over them windowsills, calling for somebody to fetch a dollar’s worth of cheese or a loaf of bread from the store, it was most likely a He who got up from the stoop or from a game of dominoes to rattle around in his pocket for the spare change to manage it. And I myself done helped many an old lady carry groceries up these rickety steps; young ones too if she was far gone pregnant or it was kinda late and I felt it just wasn’t safe. Try as I might, it’s hard to keep light bulbs from getting bust up in these narrow hallways. Sometimes the younger kids’ll take ‘em out and smash ‘em on the steps for devilment; or you’d get them older ones like C.C. Baker, hoping to work a much nastier business in the dark. You gotta watch out for the womenfolk.

Their perspiration mingled with the steam from boiling pots of smoked pork and greens, and it curled on the edges of the aroma of vinegar douches and Evening in Paris cologne that drifted through the street where they stood together—hands on hips, straight-backed, round-bellied, high-behinded women who threw their heads back when they laughed and exposed strong teeth and dark gums. They cursed, badgered, worshiped, and shared their men.

But their men loved them too. And many hung in here on this street when the getting woulda been more than good because of them—and their children. There’s a lot of sad things in this world; but a poor man having to keep looking into the eyes of a poor woman with no earthly reason why is one of the saddest things I know. And I saw it over and over here on Brewster Place. The Italians were the first. The street was full of ‘em when I started back in the ‘50’s. A sprinkling of Irish here and there. But they stayed mostly over in building 313 where Brother Jerome now sits playing that piano; and they were mostly old ladies who never much left their apartments except for a sunrise Mass. Memory is a funny thing: when I think about the folks changing on this block, it ain’t a year that comes to mind. It’s the sound of them high top shoes, with the metal hooks, stepping over dirty water flowing down the sewer drain. The swish, swish, of thick double petticoats under long black skirts. Not a face, not a face in sight; just them thick shoe heels meeting the wet cobblestone, and then just a peek of the back of their heads. White, white hair with a tiny bit of black lace pinned to the top. Living in the basement apartment, right next to the wall, what else would I see? And hiding out to...