On Top of the
Empire State Building
by Albert Russo
Unky Berky says he’s
very pleasantly surprised by the attitude of
people here. When he studied here he had to ride
the subway every single day between Brooklyn and
Lower Manhattan where he used to go to university,
but what he dreaded most was traveling back in
the evening during winter. He’d get a very
stiff neck trying to avoid the wolfish stare of
some of the guys who, the moment he made eye
contact with them, would jeer at him, sticking
out of their pocket or their shirt the tip of a
blade.
One late afternoon,
returning from a Chinese laundry-shop, he crossed
a peaceful-looking square behind Flatbush Avenue,
when midway he realized that he was being
followed. A pair of hooligans were playing with
bicycle chains, whirling them around their arms
like they were yoyos. They made them swish back
and forth, too awesome for words. Unky Berky
quickened his pace but they managed to corner him.
He was probably too scared to even want to faint
and asked them in his pussy mousey voice
if they could please let him go. They talked in
grunts and belches and guffawed all the while
they flipped their fingers over his face. The one
who played chief even tried to push his thumb
inside my uncle’s nostril and into one of
his ears. What a disgusting little twerp!
It’s thanks to a
granny who was passing by at that very moment
that my poor uncle was saved. Short and stooped
as she was, she yelled at them so loud and hurled
such abuse that they got frightened and scrammed.
You wouldn’t believe the things she said for
a lady of her age. That a girl! I hope to have
her stamina when I grow old, coz in this world if
you don’t show your fangs, you’re
either sushied alive, or chic-kebobbed,
like a vulgar piece of lamb. To tell you the
truth, I’d rather be a shark, even if it
makes me look bad.
On account of the planes
that destroyed the World Trade Center twenty ago,
we went to 34th street and whisked (by elevator,
you ninny) to the top of the Empire State
Building. In spite of it being an antique, we had
a grand view of the city. Only, you couldn’t
stay too long outside, coz with the wind blowing
at minus ten centipeed you might turn
into a living stalagtit. But what most
impressed me, beside the other skyscrapers, were
the cars and the busses, which, seen from here,
looked like tiny matchboxes. And the people
seemed no bigger than ants. That may be the
reason why some folk prefer to commit suicide
here, they figure that by the time they reach the
ground they’ve turned into a bug and it
gives them wings, sort of. This way, at least,
they can’t miss their fate, unlike those who
try hara kiri by using a knife or a revolver, and
get maimed for life.
Excerpt
5 from ZAPINETTE GOES TO NEW YORK by Albert Russo
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