Sudden Death: A Short Story

Harlem

Harlem, one of the largest Black communities in the country, is a "city within a city”.  Once the mecca of jazz enthusiasts', where legends like Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Cab Calloway drew crowds at the famed Cotton Club, it is now a ghetto of poverty, crime and despair.  

Few whites today venture above 110th Street.   But here I was on a cold winter day cruising on a motorcycle with Bill, my boyfriend, up the broad expanse of Lennox Ave.   A light snow began falling from a slatery sky.  Already the afternoon was bruised and darkened, there was no color.  The rows of run down tenements spoke of neighborhoods in decay, the grime and dirt blanketing them in an anonymous shroud.  As we crossed over the bustling commerce along 125th Street, I could see the marquee of the famed Apollo Theater looking shabby and ragged, but still able to evoke a thrill of nostalgia for the greats of Motown who first appeared on it's stage.  I leaned in closer to Bill; thankful I had him in front of me to cut the wind as we weaved in and out of traffic.  I was grateful for the warmth of my short, tight‑waisted, moleskin jacket- a real find from a vintage clothing store in Soho. 

I was an insurance investigator and had hired Bill as my photographer assistant.   Our job was to verify that potential clients' homes, cars or businesses, which they wanted to insure, were in the condition claimed on the application for coverage. 

Bill and I would start our day at our favorite coffee shop, where over bacon and eggs, we would plot out our route for the day.  It was a great job and the freedom was intoxicating.  We were on our own exploring neighborhoods and areas of Manhattan and Brooklyn I had never been to before, even though I was born and raised in the city.  We put in as many or as few hours as we wanted and at the end of the day we handed in our completed reports and picked up our pay. 

On this particular day we were heading up into Harlem on our last case just before dusk.  We found the storefront we were looking for on Edgecomb Ave and began gathering the information we needed.  Bill was taking pictures of a hole in the sidewalk in front of the store and then disappeared to check out the rear.  I was busy with my clipboard jotting down notes about the condition of the stairs, hallways, entrances and exits, especially noting the location of the fire escape and the distance to the nearest hydrant.  Our presence did not go unnoticed. 

A tenant from one of the apartments above the store stuck her head out the window and shouted at me,  "Hey, what you doin down there, girl”? 

I explained the landlord had applied for insurance for the building and I was making out a report on its condition.  I assumed this satisfied her as the window slammed shut, but a few moments later she appeared on the stoop accompanied by several other women, some with young children in tow. 

"Don't nothin work round here”, the first woman said.  "You gonna put that in your report”? 

"Well, I'm not authorized to inspect anything more than the exterior and interior structures of the building, like fire and safety hazards.  For example, that hole in the sidewalk over there goes in my report”, I said, pointing to the hole Bill had taken a picture of moments earlier.  Where the hell was Bill anyway, I wondered nervously? 

A second woman, clutching the hand of a squirming toddler said, "We ain't had no heat in weeks, been keepin' my oven on day and night.   Now I can't hardly pay my gas bill”. 

I tried again to explain this was not the kind of thing I reported on.  "Only structural damage”, I reiterated. 

Just then Bill reappeared from around the corner of the building.  I hurried over to him and quickly filled him in on the situation.  "So, tell them we'll include their complaints in the report”, he said unperturbed. 

As I turned back to address the tenants, I noticed a pregnant woman making her way slowly up the block.  Her swollen body flowed outward, encircling the child inside.  As she drew abreast of us, our attention was drawn upward to a dark blur that seemed to fall in slow motion from the roof above.  It was the body of a young man and it landed with a sickening thud on top of the pregnant woman, crushing her under the force of the impact.  Standing riveted to the spot, we watched in horror as a crimson stain spread on the pavement beside the jumper's head.  Someone screamed, a crowd appeared out of nowhere and the wail of a police siren rammed itself above the traffic sounds. 

Bill and I faded into the background when an ambulance arrived on the scene for the pregnant woman, who miraculously was relatively unhurt, and the body of the less fortunate jumper. 

Later as I recalled this time in my life, I realized how short-lived that period of carefree youth was.  It ended abruptly for me by the events that soon followed in my relationship with Bill, just like the sudden death we witnessed that day.  Henry Roth put it well, I think, "Salvage whatever you can, threadbare mementos glimmering in recollection.”