Judy Wiener sat barely attentive to what he was saying. Her mind kept
adjusting with some anxiety to her view in the passenger seat. She leaned
away instinctively each time the car passed rather close to parked vehicles.
At the traffic lights she straightened up, hiding her apprehension.
"This is so strange," she admitted, laughing nervously. "It's as if I'm seeing
the Bronx for the first time. I mean, I drive past these streets every day. I
guess it's like tunnel vision when you're at the wheel and heading home.
You don't really see everything."
And Radix, a little peeved at her trickling response to his driver conver-
sation, said, "You want me to give you a guided tour on the way?" She
couldn't have missed the mockery in his voice.
It was growing into a warm day. The streets were narrow, and felt even
narrower with the parked cars, the side walks busy with walkers, people in
nondescript clothes, dark faces, Hispanic faces. It felt strange to be out of
the classroom at that hour, to be moving through Bronx streets with no
grander purpose than travelling to a church.
Radix drove with the car windows down. Blasts of bus exhaust swept into
their faces, with the dust and litter blowing around the street.
At one point, at traffic lights, a man in soiled mechanic overalls stepped
off the sidewalk right in front of them. It was an arbitrary, reckless move.
Judy Wiener jerked forward as Radix slammed on the brakes.
The man glared at them, his eyes ablaze with accusation. He seemed
momentarily puzzled by the two faces, white and black, in the front seat.
He pointed an identifying finger and let loose a string of curses at them;
unintelligible words daring them to hit him; reviling them for questioning
his right to be careless with his life on his streets.
It kept them apart and silent for awhile.
Near the next intersection Judy Wiener heard Radix groan as if he'd done
something wrong. She perked up, asking with fresh interest, "Are we lost?"
"I'm not sure, " he said. "I think we should have come to Third Avenue by
now." And Judy Wiener, peering forward, determined to be useful again,
read aloud the street signs in an attempt to remove the awkwardness that
had slid between them. Though Radix kept thinking: She's not afraid to be
lost. I bet this is some kind of wild and wonderful outing for her.
They'd been driving past blocks of old abandoned buildings, vacant lots
thick with weeds; then blocks of houses and store fronts and bustling
streets; then more gaps where buildings once stood. "We're looking for
1351," Judy Wiener said, consulting the piece of paper in her hand "It's so
hard to find the numbers…these buildings don't …seem numbered."
She spotted the building first. "There it is, 1351." And Radix, still
anticipating a church, said, "It looks like a store front set up."
The sign on the building read, The Seraphim and Cherubim House Of The
Redeemer. Next to it was a Tire repair shop, with hubcap and shiny steel
rims draped on its facade. "Look at that. Maybe we could get replacement
hubcaps for your car."
But for the sign there was no way of knowing they had arrived for a
funeral event. It always perplexed Radix to come across something like
this: a building that sold Mexican food, then next to it a church; and next
to that a store for Cleaning and Janitorial Supplies; each jostling for
customer attention.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 