He lived in a rent-controlled
One bedroom apartment
On the fifth floor
Of a six floor walk-up
At 346 East 20th Street
Between 2nd and 1st.
Across from the chainlinked
Pale-washed concrete
Of the basketball courts
Loitering next to
Simon Baruch Jr. High.
It was the second tallest
Apartment building on the block.
It would take him
A good fifteen minutes
To journey
From the noise of the street
Up the hard
Cold stone steps
Of the stairwell...
His leather soles echoing
In the building’s common space...
Until he arrived at the familiar door of apartment 5B...
Taking pause
To catch his breath upon the way.
He was 76 years old.
As he put the keys into the locks
He could hear the low murmers
Of his pets inside.
When he stepped through the door
To the hallway’s interior
Geschenk and Kleine Scheiber
Would weave themselves
Inbetween his polished shoes
Purring.
“Daddy’s home”
He would announce.
The apartment was clean
And simple.
Sparcely furnished.
Meticulous
Like his shoes
Which he had polished
Twice a week
By his regular guy
In the Union Square subway station.
The cats laced their way
Inbetween his feet
As he made his trek
Into the living area
Which was furnished with a sofa
A floor lamp
A chair
And his beloved phonograph.
It was the one thing
That he carried
Through his later lifetime.
On the streets
Up stairs
Through relationships.
He listened to it every morning
With stove-brewed coffee
And every night
With a glass of wine.
He didn’t own a television.
Never felt the need to.
He had his Edison ‘Fireside’ cylinder phonograph
To entertain him.
His was from 1905.
He didn’t buy it then.
He purchased it in the 1940’s
At a pawn shop
In Time’s Square
With a few cylinders
And was hooked ever since.
He poured a glass of wine.
German.
Trollinger.
Just like the phonograph...
It was a habit of his.
A rich red.
He took the glass
And sat down in the chair
Next to the machine.
Kleine Scheiber immediately jumped into his lap
Taking her place.
He put his glass
Down on the side table
And picked out a cylinder
From the box by his feet.
He inserted it into the mechanism
Putting the needle
At the end of the suspended wooden horn
Upon the shiny roll
And cranked the handle
On the right side of the box.
When the pressure felt right
He then released the switch in front
Letting the needle begin it’s path
Left to right for approximately two minutes.
The blue wooden horn
Echoed with such a warm well-rehearsed sound.
He raised his glass
And gave a toast
As he always did...
Taking a sip of wine from the motherland.
He tilted his head back
In the chair
Rubbing the content Kleine Scheiber around the neck.
She purred loudly
And he could hear it over the music.
She was languid
Like he was
Waiting for the music to end.
Feeling his body suddenly move
As he searched
For another recognizable
But wonderous song
From amongst the library
At his feet.
To again fill the air
Of the one bedroom apartment
And the empty basketball courts
Across the street
With a recurrent
Imparted joy
Gratis
To anyone passing by
Taking the time
To notice
And listen.
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