"I'm a man and I do what men do… but I don't have to."

Sitting on an apple box. Next to my baby. Under the 12x12 silk that I set up to block the sun. Keep it out of my eyes. Look up from my starter motor to see a woman. Black cocktail dress. Tight on her hips. Out of place here in Bed-Stuy. This woman belongs in a cafe in Tribeca. Sipping wine, eating muscles. Not here. There's a new wave of gentrification moving in. Young white kids from the suburbs. Designer sweaters walking down the street. Enrolled in NYU in the city. Few years spent living in the hood before they graduate from college. "This is a Black man's neighborhood."  Thug life. Do-rags. It's a quiet block. Older. Mostly wrinkled old women sit out on chairs on their stoops. Watching grand children play while their mothers are at work. It's run down. Few trees. Trash on the ground. Buildings falling apart. Homes for families. Quiet. Rarely do you see anybody working the corners. If this is any gangs street and it certainly is they've forgotten about it. No gun shots in the night. Territory wars long forgotten. But it's still Bed-Stuy.


She's different. This woman in her dress. Heels. She doesn't belong. See her under my silk. Stops to talk to me. Asks about my motorcycle. Tell her it was like the other empty frame chained to the fence days ago. Rebuilt the engine. Rebuilt the motorcycle. She won't start. I'm building and rebuilding the starter motor trying to get it to work. Taking apart the solenoid. Searching for the frayed wire that's stealing my power. Grounding out where it's not supposed to. Voltage intended to fire the pistons and build compression in the cylinder heads. I can hear her trying. A faint bump bump bump. Tiny little explosions. Working my way through the logic. She sits down on the steps. We talk while I work. Talking about her transient lifestyle. How she loves to travel. Going from place to place. Time in Germany. Spain. Grew up in Romania. Thick accent but I can't quite place it. Whispy feminine voice. Tell her about my life as a homeless man once upon a time. Riding my motorcycle from place to place. Riding to freelance jobs in far off places. Working as a freelance photographer. Damn motorcycle never runs. Constantly building and rebuilding her. Tells me that she "feels like a ghost." Walk over and sit down next to her. Tattoo man from down the block comes by. Talks. Shows us his tattoos. His chest. His back. Ankles. Short bald man with a goatee, white shirt and jeans. Could be mistaken for a skin head if not for where he lives. Who he associates with. Pale skin but he's not white. Describes himself as a New-York-Rican. Bed-Stuy born and bred. Probably only left the neighborhood a handful of times in his life. Comes by a lot. To talk when I'm out working on my bike. I like him. Always makes me laugh. Bought me a beer one time. She's a magnet for conversations. My motorcycle. I sit there and work while she pulls people in. Pass time from a long forgotten era when people used to work on their own cars. Tattoo man is just one of the characters. 'Old man with van' always comes by to talk about pussy. He has a DUI and hasn't had a drink or driven his van in eight months but he still talks about it every time he sees me. That and chasing pussy. Ironically he's one of the most romantic people that I've met. Going on and on about soul mates. The woman who once broke his heart. Who set him straight. But those are my words not his. There's also George who does odd jobs around the neighborhood to buy beer at 10am. When he can. The Vietnam Veteran who when he tells a story about a person tells me whether that person was white or black. The black man who had his arms blown off. Huge python limbs laying next to him. Carrying his stretcher through the fields of Vietnam. The white woman in the mechanics class that he took in college. I feel at home here. Reminds me of where I came from. The neighborhood that I grew up in. Laughter. The young woman leaves. 

Putting back together the parts. Three starters. None of them work. Digital volt meter in my hands. Continuity tests all failed. Turn to see she's behind me. Standing there watching me work with her purse in her hands. Tell her that "I haven't eaten all day, want to get something to eat?" Walking. I don't want to take her too far. Not in those heels. Tan four inch wedges that zip up the front. She doesn't belong here. We're an odd pair. I'm filthy but I don't care. I like Bed-Stuy. Like that I don't have to care here. Torn clothes. Filthy jeans covered in dirt. Hands and face covered in black smudges of grease. Ground into my skin. Under my fingernails. Walk over to the Black Swan. Burger and a beer. Medium rare. Bloody. Dripping on my hands. I like the sensual texture of a bloody burger. Blood dripping down my chin. She eats my fries while we talk. She lost her phone. Tells me about where she's living. Came back from a freelance job in the Hamptons. Working for a Saudi Princes making Hijab inspired capes. I laugh at the idea. Haute-Couture capes. Women in Soho wearing capes. After that she had no place to go. Bounced around for a while. Staying with friends. Couches. Friend took her in. Across the street from me. Here in Bed-Stuy. Tells me she has to leave. Find a new place to live. Tells me that they're swingers. Married. But they keep coming on to her. Trying to seduce her. Wife keeps having break downs. Taking the wedding photos down. Strange men over at the house. Hiding bottles of vodka to self medicate. I can see the tears welling up in her eyes but she won't let them drop. Not a single one. I can tell she's scared. Terrified. Doesn't know where to go. A woman lost in New York city. Homeless. No steady work. Frail young woman sitting across from me. A well of tears. Playing on my sympathy. Flirting with me. Tempestuous offerings of her body. Under that dress. Walking that line. Fisherman's line. Leading me in. A smile here. There. She's charming and she knows it.

She wanted to go for a walk. Sitting on the bench. Watching the planes fly overhead. Taking off from JFK. Landing at La Guardia. Speculate where they're going. Two souls, mine and hers gripped with wanderlust. Talking about our dreams. Where we want to go. In the middle of nowhere. Factories. White building, garage. The lights on. Somebody must live there after hours when the business shuts down. Yellow fence. White fence. She tells me that she wants to live there. Where the light is on. Put my hand on her thigh. Palm against her cool skin. Feeling her muscles as I squeeze them. She sits there waiting for me. My fingers against her face. Pull her in closer to me but at the last second she resists. Face hidden by her hair.


Walking. Brownstones. Gorgeous tree lined street. only a hundred feet from my apartment. Bed-Stuy burned in the seventies. During the blackouts. One block to the next is like night and day. Talking. Grab her by the hips. Push her against the wall. Her head down. Hiding her face. Hair. She won't. Not her lips. We walk. Tell her "I'm a man and I do what men do… but I don't have to." 

She wants to go to the liquor store. Bottle of wine and a lottery ticket. Help her scratch off the last two. Not a winner. She's drawing my portrait in her sketchbook. Talking late into the night. Tell her to shade in the cheeks. Your mind completes the lines. Like German expressionism. Deciding which lines are necessary. As few strokes as possible. Tired. She wants to lay down in my bed.

"Tell me to stop. If you want me to just say it. Tell me no." Her body moving under mine. Escaping my grasp only to come back to me. Teasing me. Bringing me to that point. Utter collapse. Backing off. She won't say it. "I won't be offended. Just say the word. Tell me no." She's walking a thin line. Seduction. Seducing me just enough. Enough to let her spend the night but not too far. A line that she won't cross. Respect her for it. The currency of her body is no good here. Beautiful young homeless woman in New York city. Her lips whisper softly, barely enough for my ears to hear. "No."

Morning. Laying in my bed. Arms tight around her. Holding her body in close to mine. Arm under her neck. Face against my chest. Kiss her forehead. She's still wearing that dress. Never came off. My hands never went underneath. Holding her body tight. Protecting it. Holding it tight if just for this moment. Only this moment. I'm not her father. Can't take care of her. But just for this moment. Mine to protect. Hold tight and keep safe from the world. Only this moment. 

"I feel safe here."