7

I Am Screaming at the Top of My Lungs
By Chet Kozlowski

The first time you meet him it’s at that crazy corner of 23rd and Broadway, where that building that looks like a long piece of layer cake comes to a point. It’s where the streets are the widest, where they all come together and cross over each other and split apart every which way. It’s late afternoon: lights switching, horns honking, pedestrians pedding, cell phoners barking. So much hubbub it’s amazing more don’t collide. It’s a very complicated place, and you just watch your shoes and go with the herd. You’re small enough to glide through, young enough to go unnoticed. What’s more invisible than a girl with a skateboard? You mutter lyrics and scratch your itchy nose. You’re heading home after doing the bag in the park with Demo and the crew. Who cares about the chaos? The bag makes it all a warm blur.

You’ve been hearing him without even knowing it. His voice is just one of the street sounds, until you get closer. Then it slices through: “Can somebody please assist me? Won’t somebody give me hand?” A chant, clear and patient, over and over.

You’re not one to be curious, but you look up now. There he stands, in the middle of the sidewalk. “Won’t somebody just help me, please? I need assistance.” Nobody answers him. The crowd surges past, breaking around him.

You’re not one to stop, but you do now. The herd behind you jostles and swears. He stands rooted against the tide. “Can’t anybody help me here?” He clutches a stick to his chest. “I am screaming at the top of my lungs,” he says, which makes you giggle, because he’s not. He’s just talking loud and clear, like a teacher leading a fire drill.
You’re not one to help, but now you’re standing in front of him. Up close, he’s a big guy, maybe as old as your dad, crewcut, khakis, sneakers and a yellow tennis shirt. He stares over and past you, straight ahead.

You clear your throat. “What do you need?” you say. Your mouth is gummy — that’s the bag — and your voice sounds like it belongs to somebody else.

He cocks his head and peers down. “I need help crossing the street,” he says. His eyes roll around, knuckles in brine. When you don’t answer he asks, “Are you there?” He can’t see you. He’s blind.

“I’ll help,” you say.

“Good.”

You don’t know where to touch him. “Take you by your arm?” There’s a food stain on the front of his tennis shirt. The collar’s all twisted.

“Let me put my hand on your shoulder,” he says. You come around. “Short,” he says. You walk him to the curb.

Traffic lurches and whooshes past. “Busy corner,” you say.

“Tell me about it,” says the blind man.

“Gotta wait for the light,” you say.

“You’re a kid,” he says.

You shrug.

“Not many kids stop for me.” The light changes.

“You’re a good kid,” he says.

“Cross,” you say, and you lead him into the street.

The crowd comes at you. No ducking and weaving now, you’ve got this guy in tow. A straight path is what’s called for here. Make way.

“Folks stop for me, but not many kids,” he says. “I’m at this corner every day. I ask for help and sometimes I can feel somebody right next to me, not saying anything. I hear them breathing. I say to them ‘Can you help me?’ and they just don’t answer.” His hand is soggy on your shoulder. “What is it with people?”

You shrug.

“What’s your name?” he says.

“Abra.”

“Abra?” He snorts. He gazes up blankly; his eyes roll. “What’s your last name, Kadabra?”

Ha ha. Like you never heard that joke before. “It’s short for Abigail Ramona,” you say. “That’s my whole name. Abra’s my nickname.”

“Pick up your feet.”

“What?”

“You shuffle your feet.”

“Do not.”

“I can feel it.”

“Curb,” you tell him. “Step up.” You two made it to the other side.

He lets go of your shoulder. “There’s a restaurant right here, right? A Keough’s or something?”

You look around, see nothing but a stone wall with windows. “It’s a hotel, I think. No restaurant.”

“Yeah?” He flicks out the stick he’s carrying; it telescopes into a cane. “Oh well. You should stand up straight, you know.”

“I do.”

“You slouch.”

“Do not.”

He clicks the skinny cane on the sidewalk. “It’s never too early to develop self-respect. Stand tall.”

Your shoulder twitches where his hand was. You still feel it there.

He cocks his head. “Hey, you’re not coming from shop class, are you?”

“No.”

“Making model airplanes?”

“No,” you say, but you know what he means. You sniff your shirt.

“I just picked up a whiff off you. Strong smell. Like turpentine. Or glue of some sort.”

That’s the bag, you want to say. Demo sprayed a lot this time. The smell clings to your clothes. It’ll wear off by the time you get home, but right now, whew.

“Oh well,” he says. “Better hope nobody lights a cigarette near you.” He turns and starts tapping his way up Fifth. “Thanks for the help, Abigail Ramona,” he calls back. “See you around.” And then he’s gone.

On the walk home you go back to watching your shoes.

What’s he say, the blind man? He needed help and you helped him and he starts talking trash. He’s wrecking your high with this hoohah.

What’s he mean, self-respect? You got it, as much as you need to.

Short? Maybe, for your age. Slouching? Makes it easier to slip through the cracks. Shit, what’s he know about anything anyway? He’s blind. Goodbye, Buddy, you should’ve said. Don’t walk into any walls. That’s one thing you know. There are walls everywhere. If he could see, he’d see them there.

Walls to get over, walls to get around. You try to be the smartest, the fastest, the best, but the walls always come up in front of you.

There’s the wall of how much you know and how much you don’t. The wall of how pretty you are and what clothes you wear. The wall of not understanding no matter how much it’s explained. That’s why being with Demo’s so good for you.

Demo says chill, you chill. Demo says run, you run. Demo sprays inside the bag, says breathe deep, you breathe deep. Take a whole headful, Demo says. Demo says and you do.

The bag doesn’t break down these walls, or get you over them. It just makes you not care they’re there. So what does the blind man know? Some walls you can’t get over, no matter how much you don’t shuffle or slouch or have self-respect. All you really need is the bag. The bag makes things better.

By the time you get home you’ve got yourself convinced.

You see the blind man again, weeks later, in a bus shelter. You’re with Demo and the crew and he taps in. Everyone goes quiet. He folds up his cane and stands to the side. He holds it to his chest. You ignore him.

“Can somebody tell me when the #42 comes by?” he asks.

Nobody answers. Demo and the crew snicker, and you do, too.

“Can any of you assist me? I know you’re there.” That calm request.

But something’s in the air and he sniffs it. That’s the bag.

“Abra?” he says, but you don’t answer. “Abigail Ramona?” Demo and the crew wonder and nudge. But you just look away and watch your shoes. 
— 7/21/03, New York City