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The Poet on 23rd

Life, Words, and a Community Worth Something

By Jaime FreedmanPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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The Poet on 23rd
Photo by Bradley Dunn on Unsplash

“What up Ese? What’s hanging” Jorge and Jose clasp hands in a handshake that takes at least 73 seconds. I only know this because I have timed it. I have seen it done so many times that I started timing it every time I see them together. They average around 73 seconds every time, if they are in a big hurry they get it down to 65 but never lower. If they are feeling happy or maybe even high, it takes about 85 seconds and I can write a whole stanza in that time.

As I am watching this handshake for way too long, I notice an old Impala pull around the corner. I look twice because it reminds me of those old school West Coast cars and I like the royal blue color. I must have been staring too long, because an old guy with some crazy hair looks over at me and smiles. I turn away slightly embarrassed and see Jorge and Jose finish with a big one armed hug.

Jorge turns to me “Hey lil’ Ese, what’s going on. You have my love poem done yet?” I laugh and motion to my little black notebook. “You know it's going to cost you right? Standard poems are $25. Love poems if you want to get laid are $50. But I will cut you a deal bro and give you one for $30. It promises to get you some good love!”

Jorge laughs again and says “Ok bro, I’ll take your $30 special love poem, but it better be good. Jazmine only likes the best. She is high class and this low class homeboy needs to come up with something good for Valentine’s Day or I’ll be spending it with your boring cousin Jose. “Give me two hours and I’ll have you the best love poem South of 23rd. I say "But first you gotta tell me what Jazmine likes and what you like about her.” Jorge made a face with his tongue out. I groan. “No man, I am serious! None of that booty stuff, no girl wants to hear about that. They want to be romanticized. They want to feel special. What Jorge you can’t come up with something you like about her? You plain like that?” “Okay, okay,” Jorge says. “Let me think”…. Jorge looks actually a little serious at this point. I get out my black notebook, and motion like I am ready to take notes. “Okay, so she likes flowers and she likes rings.” Jorge says all pleased with himself. “Man, what is she a 13 year old girl with no imagination? Come on dude, think harder!” Jorge’s vein in his neck starts to bulge, I can tell he is getting angry, but he holds himself together well. “Okay, okay, man I got it. She likes to read about the Aurora Borealis and she is even on a Facebook group that tells you how to track the lights. She says she wants me to take her up to Michigan one day to see them. She talks about sitting in the back of a truck, sipping on wine, and watching the sky light up.” Jorge looks at me and he isn’t sure whether to be proud of himself or embarrassed that he knows this stuff about his girl. I look over and say, “There it is man. I can work with that shit. I am going to write you one hell of a love poem.” I scribble down Aurora Borealis/Wine/Stars/Truck in my notebook. Then with a grand gesture I close it loudly and say, “I am out boys. Off to do my work.”

I walk home with a little spring in my step. This poem is going to be hot. Jorge for sure will get his $30 worth and if I am lucky, he will tell all his other friends and maybe I can make a little cash on the side.

The next day Jorge is lighting my phone up. His text says, “Hey, man, I need that poem, but I also need a favor. Meet at 31st and Keystone 430pm?” I reply “yep” and immediately my stomach sinks. I know he wants me to hustle or run something for him. I need the cash, but I don’t need the headache and I sure as hell don’t need to take the risk. But I don’t really have a choice.

I work hard to finish up Jorge’s poem. It is the only thing keeping my mind off of our meet-up. The last verse says, “When I think of you/I think of the stars/Think of all the possibilities/and I know what is light.” It’s nothing I would turn into class, but Jorge will be all over it. He will eat that up and so will Jazmine.

At 4, I hop on the train and head to 31st. It’s a fast train and I’m a few minutes early. I walk up and see that the liquor store on the corner is hopping. Men with their single cigarettes are out, and a couple of girls are sitting on the curb eating old school push up popsicles. I walk slow because I am not really in the mood to engage. I cross the street pretending I have somewhere to be. That is when a car pulls up. It’s the old man with the wild hair from yesterday. It’s a different car this time, one of those old school BMW’s. It looks shiny and the leather looks good and I like the Virgin statue he has hanging from the mirror. He motions for me to come over, but I am not about to talk to this old dude. I am not a trick and I am not in the mood for crazy. He motions again and whispers “Come here, I promise It will be fine. I need some help.” I look over and one of the girls has dropped her push pop as she stares back and forth from me to the old guy. I shake my head at the guy and whisper “no.” He looks again frantic at me. “Please.” He pleads with his eyes. I am not sure why, but I walk over skeptically and stand about 6 feet away from the passenger side door. “What?” I say to the old dude. “Take this. He says and tries to hand me some brown paper grocery bag.” I can’t see what is in it, but it can’t be anything good. He says, “Really, take this. You’ll be happy. Also, I’ve been following you for a few days. You’re the kid who writes. I see you all the time with your notebook jotting down something or other. You look smarter than the rest of them. Maybe you can make it out, because I can’t.” He shakes the bag and I take it gingerly from his hands. I don’t know why but I do. He drives away quickly and I take a step back from the curb. In the bag are crisp $100 bills. There must be $20k in this bag or more. I look around waiting for someone to come around the corner and snatch it, but nothing happens.

I stuff the bag into my backpack and cross the street. I pull out my notebook and rip out Jose’s poem. I hand it to the girl who is cleaning off her fingers from the popsicle. “When a little Mexican guy pulls up here in five or so minutes, ask if he’s Jose and give him this poem.” I hand her a $10 bill I have in my pocket. I start walking quickly back toward the train.

As the train starts to pull away, I sit hugging my backpack in my arms and listen to the sound of the crunch of the paper bag. I notice the colors of the city as the sky darkens and the buildings are illuminated in a variety of shades across the sky. I look out and repeat in my head “Think of all the possibilities/I know what is light.”

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About the Creator

Jaime Freedman

I am a mom of four that spends my time dong laundry, taking care of small humans and in the five to ten minutes I have outside of that-trying to write. I love Selena and books and anything Whitney.

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