Square 16

This story was a very abstract look at stationary objects in a fluid world. Essentially observations of mankind from an unmoving lens. This is by far my "weirdest" piece.

Square 16

When it comes to sidewalks, Square 16 on Church Street in Lower Manhattan had been around the block. No bigger than any other concrete pad, Square 16 sat positioned for decades centered in the middle of his peers. Its scarred and cragged face, like the rings of a redwood, told his age amidst those other more newly poured squares. Through the years like most sturdy, immovable curmudgeons, in the world of humanity and concrete, he stuck stationary in an era that has long since passed him by. Disdain for the world around him became his current mantra because when all you have to do is sit still and be walked on, you tend to witness time’s progression with nostalgia leading to malice. His chipped and cracked appearance eroded by an era of existence lent him the opportunity to embrace his ornery lifestyle. As the hustle and bustle of human traffic grew, so too did circumspection for pedestrian footfalls. Combine the current neck craning cell phone generations and the obese shuffle of sardine packed corporate flesh and it wasn’t often that people side stepped 16s pit-fall face. Every day an errant heel would snap over his rough surface, or he would scuff wingtips or alligator shoes, and even a few times he implemented a solid face plant for the exceptionally unfortunate. All in all, in the advent of the new century, the perilous Square 16 lived a rather simple, albeit cruel life.

He wasn't always so malcontent among the other concrete pads. He remembered not to long after his pouring, decades ago, when the click-clack of Double Dutch beat across his fresh formed cheeks and the rhythm of converse sneakers vibrated through him like an urban orchestra. Two little black girls with braided beaded hair that would snap along with their rope seemed always to play their game right above him daily. In plaid navy and white uniforms they would draw in pastel chalk their names, tickling his brow. In crude letters he would read Serena and Selena, followed by the illustrious tattoos of rainbows, hearts and the occasional two legged unicorn. Of course all of this was a time well before the years of boom box rap music, industrial high rise offices, and gaudy socialites walking frilly poof ball pooches in designer purses. These were the pollution of the 21^st century. Once a year it seemed some pampered mutt would leave a fecal present on the face of Square 16, and his only consolation would be that soon some other passerby would likely step in it.

Those days of Double Dutch were in a simpler era, and when mixed families of every color and creed blended throughout his neighborhood. Square 16, locked permanently in place, saw time itself speed past him like the stylish Hemi Cuda’s and Bonnevilles that rumbled down his street. Styles would melt away from the plain to the absurd, music would grow harsher to the ears, and the innocence of Double Dutch would disappear entirely. He didn't need to move, nor could he, but his observations gave him all the excitement he could ever ask for, and most times, too much. In his youth, the women around him wore their modest ankle long dresses, and the men, with tight lipped stares, and even tighter hair donned in their fresh fitting business wear as they left for work. No matter what, pregnant or not, everyone would be followed by smoky puffs of their cigarettes as they moved fluidly between one another. Through time, men and women alike morphed into their free flowing loose floral patterns and rainbow tie dyes. The genders started to blend to Square 16 and no longer could he distinguish between dirty men and dirty women unless the former wore a beard. This was then all followed by the obnoxious shoulder cut sweaters and leather pants, with men and women both wearing teased perms and mullets. The herds of humanity stayed the same, but their demeanor started to change. The distinction between the sexes evaporated, the men became less consistent in their comings and goings. They all progressively became less aware of the world around them, while Square 16 became painfully more cognizant. In what seemed like a flash, the people turned in their Marlboros for their cell phones. They turned their baseball caps in the wrong direction. The trash receptacles even came in different colors now; in blues and greens and blacks. Even the people began to smell different. They smelled processed, manufactured, and unnatural in scents of lavender and cherry blossom. Not a puff of sweet cigarette smoke existed on Church Street any longer, with the rare exception being when a bare foot beggar would light any errant tossed butts he or she found in between the cracks of squares just like 16.

In all of the change that surrounded him, throughout time his observations overwhelmed his limited and stationary understanding. Instead of embracing it, he longed to be the next target of government construction. Tear me up he would think, re-pour someone stronger, reinforced and of this time. However, those days never came, and the life of Square 16 meant that he would retreat into merely existing, observing and awaiting the clumsy walking fool that would stumble over his cragged face. The mobile fiefdoms of pedestrians around him made this linear goal easier to accomplish. He hated how guarded they were to the naked eye. They were hunchbacked lemmings and as such he now found his pleasure in an ankle twisting toll.

He was not always this way. He remembered getting sprayed with the mists of broken fire hydrants in the heat waves of 68.’ He remembered Frank Manino, renowned Church Street card shark and jacks roller, playing for keeps against the other neighborhood boys. He remembered the stick ball games between his even numbered row homes boys against the odd numbered punks, and how proud he felt when his boys would pound one rubber ball out of sight. He thought of the hop scotchers and especially of the loyal Double Dutch girls that came out to dance in their small street paradise nestled just off the Hudson River. There were no air conditioners, or fans in these rickety rowed townhomes, these people would get their scorching reprieve in the cool water of hydrant vandalism. He remembered once all the children retreated to their homes in the evening, that the Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue album, the pure Freddie the Freeloader harmonies, would pour out of window screens in the sticky July nights. He enjoyed this.

However, despite these hot Indian summer days in 1968 he remembered the happiness getting torn down like a condemned building. It was a humid day during one of those fire hydrant parties, one that specifically lacked the presence of the Double Dutch girls. He remembered his soaked macadam neighbors and his asphalt street friends tipping him off that something was amiss with the humming vibrato of an oncoming crowd. He couldn't stretch to see, but he heard the trampling sound of children leaving their hydrant oasis. This was followed by the gathering rumble of porch dwellers that shut off the hydrant and watched with stone faces. The crowd of onlookers meant that this was something serious, as it was rare that these quiet people would mingle with one another in such a mass. The Memorial Day parade had already passed and it was not quite the 4^th of July, but still the sound was that of some percussive procession. In the muffled silence of the spectators, the men began to tip their hats and women began to cover their mouths. The sound of drums could be heard as uniformed men marched to a steady, somber rhythm. Square 16 was confused at first, but the silence was broke by the anguished wailing of the Double Dutch girls. Their shrill shrieks weren’t human. They were born of some feral feelings; Sounds that were leftovers of a bygone era of humanity where tragedy was met with emotion devoid of composure. Square 16 had heard similar sounds when right in front of him when a local mutt had been flattened down the middle by a passing Oldsmobile, spilling his canine guts before him. Too dumb to know he was dead. Their cries were of the darkest nature. The deepest hurt that could be felt, and as they rung in the ears of the stark faced spectators, the crowd dipped their heads a bit lower. The human stampede through his neighborhood was the procession of a rectangular box. A picture of a man that looked like the Double Dutch girls was on display, and on that wooden box draped a colorful flag.

That was the same flag that had been burned in the middle of Church Street not too long after this procession. The box was carried by stern dark faced men, all dressed on the same forest green and decorated with jewels. The double Dutch girls' mother howled in the same pain as she wrapped her long arms around both of her girls; Her spider like fingers slowly curling and squeezing around their arms. After the macabre parade, 16 never again experienced another game of Double Dutch across his face.  Worn boots from men in moving vans came to the girls’ house. They parked their vehicles oddly along 16’s side, and when they dropped their rusted ramps to the ground Square 16 received his first of many chips and scars.

Time passed and his landscape started to change. Larger buildings were getting put up around him. The sun’s warmth was being deflected, and shined on some other street. Gone were the days of stick ball, where he could watch and root for the even numbered home team of scraggily nappy haired youths. The parades had changed too. He remembered the big band music beating off the brick fronts of the rowed homes and the feeling of pride that it gave him. Now people screaming about a new sort of pride came barreling through; exchanging patriotic sentiments for flagrant and brash behavior. Shouting expletive after expletive, the spectators watching these demonstrations no longer revered the parades, but they protested it. In these parades some of the men, or what he thought were men, were dressed as women, and some of the women were dressed as men. The whole world turned upside down for Square 16, and now the parade blimps of yesteryear were replaced with crude and distasteful phallic floats labeled with similar messages... Freedom! Liberty! The complexities were so great, and words were now labels instead of definitions so much so that 16 had no other option but to retreat into his solitude of stationary observation.

He again wondered if the Double Dutch girls were here. He had hoped that they weren’t. H e hoped that their mother kept them inside from what seemed like a violent debauchery of protest and counter protest. The only peace of mind Square 16 had were in the rainbows. He viewed the crudely stenciled rainbows on the cheeks of people’s faces, as reminders to the chalk colored rainbows that adorned his so many years ago. He recalled how often his face would be lined in the colorful pattern of parallel pastels and he wondered if he would ever have that feeling of chalk again. No, most certainly not.

Years later more men in boots came to his street. Church Street used to have some residential homes, and some local shops selling electronics, but now these men in boots brought some of the biggest trucks he had ever seen. Large trucks with spinning backs and flatbeds over laden with iron bars and stone. He saw his neighbors and his friends, torn up from their roots by the stabbing chisel of jackhammers. He wondered about the risk of getting ripped up and every day, the rhythmic rumble, the thumping of iron on the faces of his friends, made him cringe. More time passed, and despite the looming buildings replacing the ramshackle townhomes, and the repaved roadways and ramps, the jackhammer never came to visit Square 16. He was neglected and given a front row seat to the rising world around him.

Square 16 used to enjoy the sun. Even in the hot summer of 68' he enjoyed the heat it gave him, he drank it up. However, now, with these hulking towers of twisted metal that reached up to the heavens, he could barely get a glimpse of a ray. He was permanently in shade, and suddenly Church Street, ceased being a street, and became a ravine, a man made gorge between skyscraper mountains. During these decades of construction he received the most abuse. Tools and truck tires and equipment marred his face. His friends were destroyed and eradicated systematically, but yet he remained. He watched them all, chiseled to their deaths. Yet still he lay there counting the daytime division of night. He seemed to be the only square left from a time long forgotten.

Since the din of construction made it impossible to hear the daily comings and goings of the world, and the residential neighborhoods became nine to five offices, he was only able to learn about his sheltered world from signs and fallen flyers. He took his news on something called the subway series, learned about lost animals, lost children, (surprisingly the former listed rewards), and men known as Giants winning championships etcetera. As the years past his hatred for the shade of buildings started to lessen, as it served a useful tool in exacting his vengeance over passing citizens. No matter how many times he heard the wind of some stumbling klutzy buffoon say "Geez! Someone has got to fix that!" he never stopped tormenting the transit of those that crossed his path. He was just an old concrete square, marred by time and set permanently in his ways. He liked his brutal appearance. He liked the deep pits in his broken face. He started to even embrace the January freezing rain that would fill up in his crags, expand and break more of him to stone and sand bits. The world had grown, and had taken his friends, his peers, and his girls playing Double Dutch. But their absence wasn’t the source of his rage, it was moreover that time had forgotten to take him. It left him alone, and in foreign land.

It was a day like any other at first, where the looming towers shadowing Church Street encouraged the rat race of people to flow in and out of revolving glass doors. It was a human blood transfusion into buildings that kept this city standing. In the morning he had twisted the ankle of a young woman who was not paying attention and caused her to spill her thermos of coffee. She said she was going to “sue the s**t out of Giuliani” and then “Oh great now my hose is ruined.” Somehow no one ever blamed Square 16 directly. It was always a man named Guiliani’s fault, or tax dollars. The woman took a few hobbled steps and in a moment she was in a cab heading for the upper-east side. The dull rumble in the air broke his observations of the smothering shoe soles around him. The people stopped amidst their strides in unison and looked up. There was a loud scream, one in the same vein as the dying street dog, and the Double Dutch girl. A loud burst, a reverberation like none other exploded into everyone's ears. It was like the detonation of a bomb and the growl of fire when it devours the air and life around it. Fireballs rained down on Church Street. Burning papers, combined with smoking chunks of glass and shards of metal showered the asphalt in a downpour. It was raining drops and meteors of fire on him and those around him. He felt a since of cruel justice as man’s creations fell to ruin like some scene from a hellish abyss. The people ran and screamed in terror, and here 16 stood motionless, drinking in the tumult. These people had vanquished the life he had cherished, the friends he had known and now the fruits of their construction were cast down before them. He harbored so much resentment for the looming towers that caged him that it took a few moments before he observed his 100 story warden. One of the keepers of his two towered prison contained a smoking hole through the center of its belly. He yearned for this to happen and in what seemed like just minutes, it happened again as the second tower was impaled by another phantom fireball. He forgot the humanity he once felt during Double Dutch and instead sensed the cruel justice of the devastation. Both looming beasts were now bleeding ash, smoke filled blood and debris. Rip it down! He thought. The sounds of screams around him were getting louder, and the old hydrant, the one that had been there as long as he had, had its seal cracked for the first time in what seemed like the summer of 68’. The same blood transfusions of people that went into the buildings, now bled out in herds and droves. They wailed and poured all over the streets in sobs, bruises, burns and hacking coughs.

The enormity of it all seemed to hit 16 after the first rush of evacuees. Hysteria had hit the streets, as men holding children, and women holding children sprinted across his face to avoid the coming clouds of dark death.  The fire trucks and police cars were now all around him, and yellow and black suited men carried and limped those who couldn’t walk back to Church Street. They laid down the wounded like so many of the street bums that 16 had seen before. There was coughing. Everyone was coughing. Some of the people were grabbing at flimsy plastic cups to place over their ash covered faces and blistered mouths. The herds of people running his way now blocked his view. He could feel the vibrations of them coming his way, but this was unlike the slow processions of the Double Dutch girl’s father’s parade, this was pure madness and mayhem. As the people who could run dodged the fallen choking bodies of those the firemen had placed around Church Street, 16 had a few trip over his marked face. In those moments he was reminded of his past, of his observations of humanity.

“Please…Please…no…Don’t trip…Get out! Get out! Go! Please don't trip! Please don't trip!” Square 16 had thought. He felt helpless, even worse, he felt like an obstacle. His sour mood at mankind died in the death rattle of the two gargantuan towers, and now, all he wanted was to speed the way of those that would pass him.

More men and women tripped over his face as they escaped, but some were also tripping over other blocks and over broken bodies as well. Some of the wounded or asphyxiated seemed to be getting trampled as the able bodied underwent their exodus. He sat their locked into the same space since he had been poured; helpless, motionless and silently pleading. He was so ashamed at all of those years of malice towards the changing world. These were all people, just people, all of them once boys and girls like the ones he had come to love. He cursed at his abused frame. He wished he had been dug up sooner, replaced, that those developers hadn't been so cheap. That he hadn’t been spared the jackhammer. He should have been torn up a long time ago so a smoother, newer, sidewalk square could filter these people away. He resented himself even more, as he heard loud groans and cracks and even more burning debris peppering the ground.

He thought about the double Dutch girls and their games and especially their wailing mother. The family was the lone somber siren on Church Street so many decades past. He thought about it all; but that was all he could do as he lay stationary and stuck. He was a damn sidewalk square sitting and tripping every adult, child, and geriatric alike whom was running and wheezing their way into hell. It seemed as if nearly everyone stumbled over him as they ran. He saw two black girls just like his old Double Dutch friends, arm in arm, crying and running his way. He saw them and remembered the closeness he felt to his neighborhood. He saw this and remembered the joy he got from their games and chalk lines across his surface. As they safely passed over him and they made it into the arms of another rubber suited man he felt slight reprieve from his anxiety. He looked up at this moment and he begged to the God he heard the Double Dutch girls talk about, or the Gods he saw in the discarded flyers that would blow without ownership in the wind.

He looked up, waiting for his answer. He looked up and waited for some sign. He looked up and what he saw was a woman; a glint in the distance; a tiny speck in the sky, but a woman all the same. It was a woman who’s flowing dress was aflame. If not for the agony on her face it would have looked glorious and magnificent; the diving of some mythical phoenix. He saw her dark skin illuminated in the flames that tailed her like a comet. He saw her barreling towards him through the air, a streaking human meteor, flailing to embrace him. He saw her and heard nothing else. He could only see her, lit up and her face, despite being engulfed in flames, a symbol of serenity. What Square 16 could not see, was her family. Square 16 did not see her children or her husband. He did not see her past. He did not see her history. He did not know that she and her sister grew up on Church Street. He did not see the beaded braided hair she once wore. He did not see the last moments of a choking voicemail she left her empty long island home. He did not see the torment of her decision to jump or burn. What Square 16 did see, was her, and only her. He saw her, the most beautiful angel he could imagine in her flamed adornment. His purpose was clear. Every trial leads to a single solitary point of purpose, for every man or object. And in his concrete square mind, 16 muttered the only prayer he knew.

Don’t worry

I’ll catch you

I’ll catch you

The End

Author's Note

This is by far my most abstract and fantastical piece on the observations of something completely stationary. My imagination was running wild surveying construction in Afghanistan, and as they tore down the ramshackle buildings a contractor simply said "if these walls could talk."