Workshop Writers' Space
Street & Girly Girl
by Jennifer Ellen Frank
Here we are, on a starting-to-be refurbished street in Harlem. Gentrification is slowly seeping in. On one side, you see brownstones and four churches: on the other side, you see low-income, subsidized housing, a men's social club, empty lots, a community garden, and a very active fire station.
There are lots of men sitting on the sidewalk on dining room chairs at each end of the block, hanging out, chewing the fat, barbequing sometimes, as they watch the street change daily. Vanishing are the charming brownstones. Vanishing are their friends, due to death, shootings or plain being pushed out because of rising housing prices. They are redoing these places quickly with sheet rock, cheap plumbing, faulty electrical wiring, etc. There is so much noise with all of the construction going on: hammering and sawing, utility trucks, fire engines. It's endless.
I live on the top floor of one of these newly slapped up, generic, sheet rocked apartments with nasty apartment-white walls. It's a no-charm brownstone. It could be anywhere in America.
I walk out of this hack job of an apartment, and I see this black, bald, tightly-wrapped guy about 5' 6" standing in the middle of the street. We have a very busy street full of nonstop traffic. I start to observe on a daily basis this guy standing in the middle of the street in front of my apartment. As fire trucks pull out, he seems just to lean a little bit to the left as they pass by. Then I see garbage trucks come by, and he leans to the left. It's so very strange, and no one seems to be bothered by him.
One day I finally get up the nerve to talk to this very strange man.
I say, "Hi, I'm Jennifer. What's your name?"
He says, "They call me Street."
Of course I think, what else could he be called? I say, "Street, do you live here?" He says, "No."
I ask, "Well, why do you hang out on this street, of all the streets in Harlem?"
He looks at me and says, "I grew up over there," and he points. I follow his pointing finger and see it's an empty lot with no house. He sees me looking puzzled, and he says, "I grew up in that house, but it burned down, vanished. Everything's gone."
I think to myself how odd, this guy Street is like a homing pigeon coming back to the only place he knows. "Wow, that's sad! Well, see ya later, Street, gotta go to work." He waves.
The next day, I come outside, and I hear "Hey, Girly Girl, everything good? Love ya." I nod my head and go on my way.
Then, the very next day, I see him as I walk outside, and I'm looking at his feet as I say, "Hey, Street, you got new tennis shoes!"
He laughs and says "Girly Girl, got me some money, bought me shoes." I laugh and wave as I go off to the subway.
A week goes by and no Street. I ask all the men sitting in their chairs outside on the street, and no one has seen our guy Street. Has he vanished? Will I get used to him being gone? I worry, but what can I do?
About ten days later, I see my guy, Street, and I yell, "Where have you been? I was worried."
He looks at me, astonished, and says, "You asked for me. I fell down drunk and had to stay in my room. You know how that goes." I shake my head, and off I go.
After that, I pretty much see Street every day and hear, "Hey, Girly Girl, you good? Love ya."
I start wondering– how long will this go on? What does he do in the winter? Time does go on as Girly Girl and Street continue to do their daily dance, both wondering who will vanish first.
