I woke up to a cold morning like every other morning had been for the past month and the month before. A cold morning in Mount Vernon, New York. It was March 2013. The snow outside had already begun to melt, but the cold, blustery wind wasn’t going anywhere. I huddled under my twin blanket, seeking comfort, but it wasn’t enough to keep from feeling the bite of cold. I got up instead with no other intention but to face the rigours of the day, one way or another.
My friend’s Dad, whom I had been residing with, reminded me the month was soon ending, and if I was going to spend another month living with him, then I’ll need to fork over another 500 Dollars rent. My pocket was dwindling already. If I kept spending that large amount, I would barely have enough to keep me going for another month.
I might as well have become stranded in America.
I did a rough calculation and told him I didn’t think I could pay for another month. He nodded solemnly and said he would speak to the landlord later. My old man’s Dad taught at an urban institute in Brooklyn. He wore his hat and scarf, picked up his briefcase and left me alone in the apartment. I had nothing but lots of quiet all to myself. The sort of quiet that can drive you insane if you let it. But such was what I’d become used to since coming to this part of the world.
I opened my laptop and tried to do some writing, but nothing came forth. I was worried, deeply worried. I was getting closer to being destitute, and I couldn’t think of any way out of my predicament. I’d laid in bed praying for a Hail Mary, and nothing seemed forthcoming. The eerie quietness in the apartment seemed to weigh down my dilemma.
I showered, dressed up, and left the apartment.
The apartment housing wasn’t far from Mount Vernon East Station. I went there and got myself a ticket, and rode it to Harlem. I got off at 125th Street Station and decided to walk from there.
I walked past Marcus Garvey Park, but it stopping there seemed so dismal. I continued along Fifth Avenue. Realizing I’d been walking for a long time and my feet were growing tired, I stepped through a side gate and strolled into Central Park.
I found myself a lone bench and sat there to cool off my heels while admiring the steady flow of humanity around. My mind raged inside my skull, trying to take stock of my dire situation while my eyes roamed the vicinity. Across from me was a pond, and I sighted an old white man leading a kid towards the pond’s edge. They were admiring a raft of ducks circling the water. I couldn’t help feeling slightly fascinated by the old man and the little kid, watching the way they interacted r. I imagined the old man as my Dad, and it got me wishing my Dad and I had done something similar to this before. Not something you’d expect a Nigerian Dad to do, but the thought of it warmed my heart nostalgically.
The thought of the old man and the little kid got me imagining where they came from. I began sketching back-stories in my head regarding their past: I imagined the old man hadn’t seen his grandson in ever, and this outing was their first time bonding together. I tried concocting ideas of whatever could have led to them never encountering each other until that moment. It was out of that brainstorming that the idea for my forthcoming novel LEMMON’S JOURNEY came about.
I got up, feeling better about myself, left the Park, and continued my walk down Fifth Avenue to Grand Central Station. I spent the next few hours viewing the latest MacBook laptop at the Apple store. Hours later, I stopped at a restaurant to fill my stomach and rode the train back to Mount Vernon. I was buoyant and rejuvenated when I returned to the apartment and got busy starting work on the novel I had in mind involving the old man and his alleged grandkid.
My friend’s Dad returned later in the evening. I told him I had changed my mind and would pay rent for another month’s stay. His response was the least news I expected to hear, and it killed what little happiness I’d saved up for the remainder of the day.
“No can do,” he said. “I already told the landlord that you’ll be leaving, and he’s agreed. I’m sorry, but that’s how I do things around here.”
Without further word, he marched into his room and slammed his door in my face. I returned to mine and tirelessly asked myself what I’d done wrong in life.
Two weeks later, May came around, and my days of homelessness began. I left the apartment with my luggage in hand without a farewell from my friend or his Dad. Neither bothered walking me to the train station. I rode the train to the city and got on a Greyhound bus to Washington, D.C.
PhilOyok 