The following story is true. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent for the primary participants were anything but.
Standing on the corner of 231st street and Godwin Terrace in the Bronx, my best friend Jim and I where passing the time with a few beers, watching the pretty girls go by. It was a fine summer afternoon in 1985, and we were not disappointed by the scenery. Everywhere you looked there were fine women walking along in summer shorts or dresses, enjoying a bit of sun as they went about their errands. Bantering back and forth and smiling we made rude comments to each other, trying to up one another with every opportunity, as young men are apt to do.
All started with the compulsory “ooh” which was really a sigh of pain upon each sighting. Actual physical pain in that we both knew that the goddess espied would never be ours. The “ooh” was also a form of sonar. A sounding of direction so that one could take a bearing off the bow and the other look outs could get a visual.
“Oooh, yeah… look at that Al!” Jim said quietly as a girl of about twenty sauntered into the Baskin Robbins across the street, wearing but the skimpiest of tank tops and shorts that hugged every curve. Long black hair pulled back in a ponytail swaying in rhythm with each sultry step.
Overall not a bad way to spend a bit of time when you think about it and it didn’t cost us anything but the few bottles of beer we had in a bag at our feet. We could’ve gone to the pubs but who wanted to be inside on a day like this? The corner was all ours, no one in their right mind would have thought to try and take it, and as we stood beside that dingy mailbox we knew we had the best seats in the house.
Simply stated; life was good!
Suddenly our peaceful pursuit was assaulted by an overpowering stench that rolled up like a wave from Broadway to our right and a block away. Every person in the neighborhood instinctively covered their nose and mouth and looked about for the cause of this distress. Faces bunched up in disgust and many a “God damn” was uttered. Then as quickly as it began the hideous stink was gone.
“Jaysus, Jim what the Christ was that?”
“Probably a garbage truck rolling down Broadway”
“What are they haulin’ bodies? Besides it’s Saturday since when do those guys work weekends.”
“I don’t know, but they’ll be outta here soon, and the girls will come back around, Oooh look at that one, damn.”
Sure enough my friend had spied another fine specimen of the fairer sex swaying up 231st St. headed for one of the two delis on the block. Jim’s wolfish leer and funny smile said it all and I laughed hard enough to get a few looks from passersby. All quickly returned to normal and our pastime began again in full. We would try and fake one another out occasionally with a sonar ping on a “Torn Sneaker” (an ugly girl) or a “Moped” (fun to ride when nobody sees you), which only made the time more enjoyable as we laughed louder with each incident.
A few minutes later as I reached down and opened another bottle, the wall of stench came crashing up the Terrace like a tidal wave from behind, and I almost retched. The odor hung so solidly in the air about us that I began to think a sewer line must have burst. We quickly jumped around the corner so as not to be in direct line of sight of the disgusting phenomena. Not that it did much good but we had to do something other than just stand there. The sound of windows slamming shut accompanied by curses in Italian, English, and Gaelic, echoed up and down the entire block. A NYPD patrol car from the 50 precinct drove by and the cops inside were frantically rolling up their windows and swearing loudly.
“This is fucked up”, I growled as the street began to empty at a rather quick pace.
“It’s that damned truck it must be circling the block”
“If comes down this way I’m gonna kill the fuckin’ driver there’s no need of this shit. They’re running all the sights off!”
And then again like a bad dream, the smell was wafting away, dissipating in the heat. Looking down at my opened beer I wondered if its contents were now somehow contaminated and I blew into the top as a childish attempt to push any of the evil air out of the bottle. Jim was feverishly sniffing his shirt trying to determine if the awful smell had penetrated the fabric. Sure enough I felt like I needed to wash as well. The whole situation was deteriorating fast, and my temper rose, for what but moments before was a pleasant way to spend the time, quickly became a physically painful endeavor filled with little promise.
People began stepping out of doorways as the air cleared and the bustle of the neighborhood began anew, everyone seemed to be chattering and complaining about the stink. Only now the girls walked a bit more briskly, and their body language bespoke of determined effort rather than playfulness. I scowled openly in my anger at the annoying situation, and began to think of moving on over towards the park or St. John’s church on Kingsbridge Avenue. Not as prime spots as our corner, but good all the same, Yet as I thought about it, if that stench was coming from a circling city trash truck, the son of a bitch would pass those areas too and we’d be back where we started. The best we could hope for was for the damned truck or whatever it was to keep heading down west 230th St. and away from the neighborhood.
Looking over at Jim rubbing his nose in irritation I could see he was thinking the same.
So with a nod we decided to stick it out and try to recover a bit of our previous devilish composure and began scanning the streets, cracking jokes, and poking fun. In no time we were back at it and were blessed with the sight of not a few beautiful women. Now one would think that two hoodlums drinking on a street corner would repel the pretty girls, as it is not a glamorous scene by anyone’s standards, but in 85 we got more sweet smiles than scowls. I remember thinking how good it was to be alive. What more could one ask for what with sun, beer, pretty girls and a bit of money in your pocket?
I was just mentally thanking god for making the awful stench source go away when from up on Kingsbridge avenue came the most horrendous block of stink yet, and it nearly knocked me over.
Rage bubbled up to the boiling point as my eyes began to water and I frantically looked for the truck, the driver was surely gonna pay for ruining my afternoon with his fucking garbage. All I needed was a truck number and I’d find the bastard. Yet I didn’t see anything but an empty street, cars parked along the sides but not even traffic. The smell was getting stronger, the sickly sweet smell of summer in the city, mixed odors of exposed sewage, and human sweat, compounded a hundredfold.
“Jim where’s the Truck I don’t see it? Did you see it drive by?”
“Uhhh Dude it’s not a garbage truck but a guy”
“What? Get the fuck outta here no one smells that bad. Did you see the truck or not?”
“No truck dude its him” and my friend pointed up the block to a man who can only described as a Gregory Rasputin clone. Dressed in clothes so dirty they shimmered in the sunlight, hair down to his waste greasy and unkempt, he stood before a pizza parlor street window begging for a slice. I felt bile surging up the back of my throat as the realization hit home that a single human being, was so filthy that he could clear out an entire city block with his stench.
The day was a bust, there would be no more sightseeing as all with any sense of smell had beat a hasty exit from the scene. The poor restaurant owner was screaming at the shamble of humanity at his window to go away. I still remember to this day thinking “that shop must be really horrible to be in what with the Pizza ovens throwing out their heat, stifling the smell within its small confines.”
“We should take that thing out” I said quietly as Jim and I popped back around the corner to Godwin Terrace and started to gather up what was left of our beer. We were shocked, disgusted and angry beyond reason.
“Yeah, we should” Jim growled his ire was up as much as mine, “but these are new shoes, and I don’t want to get any of THAT on em. Let’s get outta here I can’t fucking breathe”.
Just then I noticed a small red haired woman of about fifty marching towards Jim and me from down on Broadway. Her face was beet red and I could see quickly she meant business. Up she came all five feet of nothing blue eyes blazing enough fury that we stopped dead in our tracks in awe. This little dervish came to a halt directly in front of us and gave a scornful look towards the bag Jim held. Then her piercing eyes rose to meet ours in turn. Raising her boney right hand she pointed at my chest forcefully enough that we both backed up against the apartment building chagrined.
“That’s what Drinkin and Drugs will do to ye Bhoys!” She said in a very southern Irish lilt.
Some strange power forced our eyes downward to our shoes and out of our throats came a sheepish “yes ma’am”. She stood there a second more looking into our faces each by turn then nodded in satisfaction and marched away stomping each step like a drumbeat. Jim’s eyebrows rose a bit upon the lady’s departure and I was dumbfounded. What could we do? This little fire eyed woman was correct in every way, there was no arguing with her assessment of the greasy homeless bastard up the block. The stink was getting worse and a quick peek around the corner confirmed my suspicions that the disease bomb was on the move and shuffling our way.
My friend smiled at me as we began to beat a hasty retreat from the corner, and said “Well we may be drinkin’ but we aint doing drugs so we’re safe.”
“I bet her husband is the happiest man alive”
A quick laugh and a joke or two later and we were off the block and headed to the pub for a round, at least it wouldn’t smell in there. But that wee woman’s warning rang in my head the night through and the vision of another human being so wretched haunted me as well. Although I did not heed those words when it came to the liquor, for to this day I like a fine glass, any thought of doing drugs was swept away and I believe that woman’s lilting wisdom, random and angry, made my life better. I know not her name or family, nor did we ever see her again, but from time to time, when I am standing in the sun sipping some fine Whiskey, I remember that day and thank her quietly for a lesson learned.
Allen R. Butler
