A My Private Coney project Flash non-fiction, brief moments and old memories of a city and mother's emotional and physical real estate disappearing at the speed of heartbreak.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Sunday Memories-Grand Street: Dialing A Wrong Number Just To Get An Answer
The Phone Lady had regular rounds up and down Grand Street. Picking up each receiver of every public pay phone she'd start screaming into the receiver, screaming, screaming, like the Flood but no ark and nobody stopped her or asked her why or anything. We all just stood there and watched or walked by and watched. After her screaming, she'd take the receiver and repeatedly slammed it down, bang bash bash bash bang the battering of a parent unable to hold back a billion fists to an errant child who risks life to be itself, thrown against the wall by the parent who never did bang bash bash bash bang.
Then she'd walk to the next public pay phone.
A day or a couple of days later, the Ma Bell guy would quietly retrace her footsteps, like a social worker coming to soothe the abused, and gently fix each phone. And then a day or a week or a couple of hours later she'd return and it would all begin again.
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.