Manhattan was a noisy borough. Sirens filled the canyons. Trucks and cars blow their horns, Helicopters fly overhead. There were even more noises from the alley behind my East 10th Street apartment. My windows were usually open. I didn't believe in AC. My alarm clock for several years was a young Jamaican girl, who woke me every weekday morning at 7:30 after her mother left the daycare's play yard in the alley, saying, "Please be a good girl." The well-dressed four year-old answered with a smile, "Yes, mother." As soon as her mother was out of sight, the neat little girl lifted her head to heaven and let loose a series of screams better suited to an exorcist movie. None of the daycare workers told her to be quiet. They believed in letting children express themselves. My neighbors and I were not so understanding. We preferred our sleep to her freedom.
One morning I shouted from my window for her to be quiet. More polite than angry.
"Fuck you, mistah." It was almost funny to hear the little girl speak with such conviction. "You ain't my father." "No, I'm not." It was too early in the day for almost funny and almost funny became very unfunny as the young girl repeats her high-pitched arias day after day after day. A ruthless fury seethed in my heart and I thought about physical revenge, except my mother had beaten her six children with a wooden spoon. Not often, but enough for me to remember and I never wanted to hit a child. Not mine. Not others. Kids deserved a wide berth, but this little girl had no cause to curse me out and I thought about revenge. After all I was tough in a neighborhood where tough meant something. This was 1986. I was 34. Still young enough to need my sleep after hard nights working at clubs and this cute little girl was stealing precious hours from my slumber. Finally I went down to the day care center and I complained to the principal. The older woman said that she would speak to the the girl.
Nothing happened at all.
The next morning the little girl gave me the finger.
It was 7:31.
I felt defeated. My good intentions were shot. My Hibernian sense of justice called for action. Firebombing the school was a little too extreme. My strategy required finesse and the next day at 5:30pm the little girl exited from the school to find me speaking with her mother. I was asking her for a date. The little girl stared at me in horror and understanding. Her mother was an attractive intelligent woman. She deserved someone more traditional than a nightclub person.
The following morning I slept in peace.
The girl respected my wishes and I hers.
In 2004 I moved from that apartment after the faceless landlords offered me a buy-out. I left the East Village for Brooklyn. Helicopters don't fly over Fort Greene. The only flight pattern is a southern approach for jets to La Guardia. I can't see Manhattan from my bedroom windows. Only the clock tower at the Atlantic Terminal. My windows are open today. I still have no AC, but a bird is singing in a nearby tree. Its song wakes me in the morning. Some things never change in New York.
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