I was tired. It was a yearlong tour and this was our last gig. New York was great; it’s almost as liberal as San Francisco. People here are free to explore themselves and enjoy life regardless of what others may think. I just love this country. The crowd at Madison Square Garden reflected this ideal. The arena was packed and it was the best crowd ever. Everyone knew the words to “Free Mama Africa.”

During my last number, I jumped into the crowd and as usual, they caught me. I was amazed with their energy. I surfed for what seemed an eternity. Displaying myself as a cross, I felt secure. It was a strong crowd and they displayed so much love. Everyone was singing my lyrics, waving their bodies to the beat, and holding me.

Backstage the concert ended with hugs and kisses. Shelly gave me a hug and asked me to call her in a month so we could get started on a new project. I loved my work and she knew I would call her sooner. With Mike’s help, I snuck out without detection. He drove me to the hotel, different from the one I stayed in the night before. I changed hotels often to avoid the groupies and the midnight to midday parties. The tabloid headlines had me dating at least four women but I was a married man with a child on the way and I played the part well. Only Mike and Shelly knew were I was staying.

All that work made me hungry so I took a shower and called room service only to find out that room service closed at 1am so I decided to walk to an all night coffee shop I saw on the way to the hotel. It was only a few of blocks away and this part of Manhattan is beautiful and patrolled regularly by the police. I felt safe.

The place was an old style diner; complete with a long breakfast counter, barstools with red covers, and old fashioned mini-jukeboxes in the booths who’s seating was also covered in red. Although there were only three of us in the place, the cashier and the owner being the other two, I was too hungry to worry about whether the food would taste good. As it turned out, I got lucky. Breakfast was great, two eggs over easy, bacon, toast, and juice.

As I finished eating, the owner came over and introduced himself. We talked over coffee; that is, he talked a lot and I listened. He was a lonely immigrant Turk from Ankara and together we explored the roads we traveled to get to this particular place at this particular point in time. And as it turned out Yahweh was shining a bright light upon both of us. Yes, he wore the Star of David.

We had an interesting conversation so we exchanged numbers. He offered the breakfast free and not wanting to offend him, I accepted. I walked out of his coffee shop feeling light and airy, happy to have made a new friend.



At three in the morning, I stood at the corner of 47th street and 7th avenue and I swear; I could hear a pin drop. It was the first time I heard silence on a New York City street. Not a horn or a whistle, not a voice or a foot step, not a bird or a breeze, not even that familiar hum that emanates from neon signs on deserted streets, and all the traffic lights changed simultaneously. The city that never sleeps was still breathing but it was taking a nap. I caught in this surrealistic moment and I stood there in amazement.

When the traffic lights changed again, I heard a siren and a police car pulled out in front of me. In an instant, the noise stopped but the red flashing lights remained and a police officer stepped out of the car.

With a deep voice, “What are you doing sir?”

“I’m ah, walking to my hotel.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“From the coffee shop a few blocks down.”

He looked at me suspiciously and I became nervous. I could feel the little hairs on the back of my neck and my left eyelid began to twitch.

“What is the name of your hotel?”

“I ah, don’t remember. What is this about officer?”

He instructed me to put my hands against the car and spread my legs. His accent was far removed from New York and as he spoke, the only thing I could think of is that the police had never stopped me even at night. I never had a problem getting a cab, even in the early morning hours. Nobody had ever called me a nigger in hate, but I was afraid of this man. He was a large strong looking man, he projected his voice well, and he was condescending, which didn’t help. I told him who I was.

He said, “Never heard of you but all you people think you’re musicians or dancers. Now, I’m not going to tell you again, put your hands against the car, and spread those legs boy.”

When he called me boy, the slave in me said, “Run!” but I didn’t. I was so afraid. Hundreds of years of servitude were not enough. Six million dead Jews were not enough. I heard the sounds of the chains and shackles. I heard the screams of my people riddled with bullets and burning in gas ovens. The fuck with reparations, forty acres and a mule and the concentration camps, just let me walk in peace, I thought.

I said, “No.”

Then he rested his hand on his gun, and I ran. In an instant, I heard a pop or was it a thud; I’m not sure.

It was a nice funeral. My newly found Turkish friend attended as did so many other people. I wanted a small ceremony with family members and only a few friends, but when do the living ever listen to the dead? During the funeral, I stood beside my wife and spoke to my unborn son. Yes, we can do that. The dead often speak to the unborn. I told him not to worry that he chose a good mother and that I will always be there when he needs me most. I will be in the delivery room to ensure his spirit arrives intact. I will attend his bar mitzvah; and I will ensure he and his mother remains safe; it is my calling. Beyond that, the rest is up to him.

During the funeral, my wife cried and said, “I’m sorry for not staying with the tour and taking care of you.”

I said, “I should be the one apologizing. If I had not run, my funeral would not have taken place so soon.” It’s too bad, she couldn’t hear me.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...