Ukies--48. Fartso

Fartso

I had been away from the neighborhood about three years or so, spending my time going uptown or to Brooklyn or even Jersey. But being a part of NYC meant you could be away from your neighborhood just 2 or 3 blocks and it would seem like you were miles away. NYC is so teemed with people that neighborhoods become worlds; Ukrainian, Polish, Irish, Puerto Rican, and pretty soon you lost yourself between who is whom and what race can they be? But all you can do is walk…

One early Saturday morning I found myself staggering down 7th Street. As usual I had been up most of the night fooling around in the Village; the years had changed and people came and went, a friend this week meant he’d be a stranger next. That’s the way life went in NYC…

Wow! There’s the church and the school right there!

I even shivered from remembrance pretending it was the cool morning…I shrugged and turned onto the street.

Shit, I shouldn’t of…

I forgot that on this street was the Veteran’s Hall where the drum corps had gathered and this weekend was Easter Saturday. No matter how the neighborhood may have changed the old church didn’t forget what they were doing, praying to God, I suppose. So they must have kept up the old Easter tradition of staging a military Honor Guard, meaning kids dressed up in their drum corps uniforms, playing and acting like they were soldiers guarding the dead body of Christ. This was Holy Saturday and kid soldiers must be back in church.

I lowered my head and walked by the Veteran’s Hall and just as I did the Hall doors were flung open. Four boys resplendent in their uniforms and shakos on their heads holding wooden rifles at their waists eased themselves out the Hall and began a slow march to the church. I remembered this: how many little marches did I have to participate in the two days before Easter where we guarded the body of the dead Jesus? Way too many…

And after the boys out came out along came Fartso, a guy named Alexander…whatever, looking older and tired but sleepy too. I had to grin…

We looked at each other; I had long hair while his was short and out of style. I guess he must have stayed in the neighborhood, keeping up his connection the school and church. I smirked at him.

“Hey, Fartso,” I said. He immediately turned red with anger at my use of the name, something he always did through the years. It wasn’t my fault he kept up the kid’s game of farting when the girls came by even when he grew older; I wonder if that was his reaction now to girls he saw, but looking at him, too tired looking, I guess not.

“What are you doing back here?” he asked. I expected him to fart but he didn’t. “You left,” he went on. “There’s nothing for you here.”

I looked at him as he turned and followed the imitation boy-soldiers into church for their changing of the guard.

What a life? I thought, shrugged, and staggered down the street.

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