Rings a Bell

The rain in New York is dismal today, and I wish to be nestled within the cafe just a few-feet before me. I was born in 1952, settled my roots within the center of this very avenue, and have stood gallantly at my post for many decades. Every day I watch the hustle and bustle of this very city: the sediment of society flows effortlessly past my forgotten bones, dislodging into many tributaries of this futuristic world. I have sheltered the poor; I have sheltered the working-class; and I have sheltered the famous. Their footprints, some etched in snow, others in blood, have found sanctuary within my confinement. Cold-footed brides, draped in lavish-white gowns, have longed to reach their true love with tears in their eyes. And sometimes I could console them, just by simply doing my duties; other times, their hopes were crushed, and I felt their physical resentment bluntly smashing against my breast; however, in these dire moments, I tried my best to remain stoic, providing the silence and privacy needed for self-reflection.

Goodness, how I remember my younger days. The vehicles were louder, more flamboyant, and smelt of intoxicating gasoline. They would pass by in all of their metallic glory, glistening within my glasses’ reflection. The men were callous, hard-working, and found solace in dark liquors—oh, how these brutish beasts would crumble within my arms. The pains they harbored, with the need to grow old so young, raising a family of five at the ripe age of twenty-five… Here, they poked and prodded for someone, something, of their fleeting youth: an old friend, their Mother or Father, a baseball coach; but they would find themselves alone, surrounded by millions of people in the most prominent city of their beloved Country that they had fought so valiantly for. And those throes of war—the promises of return, backpacked and optimistic, as these kids stood ready to depart for their port. I waited eagerly for those spry faces, but of the thousands that entered the ship, only hundreds would return; and of those who returned, a darkness was now tangible when there was no one to greet them. A deep inhale, the release of their cigarette smoke, and they were gone under the street lights. Or the men in suits and fedoras, they struck fear within me! They shouted with such vitriol, demanding large sums of cash, promising death, and watched maniacally for the local police from my pulpit. Even then I would remain silent, and they felt my earnestness in protecting their secrets. I even heard the poems of the beatniks, passionately howling at the crescent moon; their broken bottles scattered across my feet in a fit of emotion as their publishing deals had fallen through. I forgave them, of course, for they were so young and impressionable, longing for purpose.

Times change, though; the buildings grew towards the clouds—heck, some even punctured right through them—and I was left emasculated underneath their veering shadows. The music was no longer the background like with Jazz, it had become the forefront of the youth’s writhing soul. I remember when the music started emitting from the passing cars, with the guitar’s steely-vibrato echoing from the open windows. I would envelope this sound as I swallowed another being, coalescing with the passing wind, and it would swirl around the minimal space I had inhabited, until I spat it back out into the pulsating streets; on my tongue was the sour wine of Rock n’ Roll: bitter, pungent, and a hell of a memorable buzz. 

And though I regretted it dearly, time continued on. The kids had the music within their ears now, ignorant to the constant hum the city produced. It wasn’t a nuisance to me, this hum—no, it was rather soothing—congealing all of the ardor through this energized conduit of each avenue’s affairs. I was nosy, I admit it… Music notes, coffee scents, taxi horns, crying babies, slamming doors—everything flowed effortlessly, composing a singular, grand symphony of success, strife, and retribution—and I loved the chaos dearly. Consequently, these kids began to lack the discipline of my earlier days; my exterior walls became art canvases, enriched with their discontent and variegated discourse. The crime surged drastically: scantily-dressed women paraded in the depths of night, blood filled the cracks of the sidewalks, and gunshots filled the silence like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. However, I listened still, and their pains resonated just as the previous generations’ had, and I absorbed their sorrows with what energy I had remaining. Whether a disappointed Father, a devastated Mother losing a son, or the frantic call for the Police… I remained present.

Towards my end, I am saddened to announce that the passing time had reached a climax of devastation. While in the aforementioned times, when the crime ran rampant, and the drugs continued to infiltrate the denizens of this city, passion still fueled their actions. The brilliance of such degradation is watching a beautiful flower bloom from the cracks of a broken community through artistic expression. This new generation, they had fallen victim to the contaminated soul of the purposeless future. Those who entered no longer shared a message; I was simply camouflage for their wrongdoings, fettered to the harrowing grasp of addiction. It wasn't until the millennia had officially changed that I felt the shoulders becoming cold towards my once-becoming stature. I was becoming a dumping ground for Starbucks’ cups, old newspapers, and drug paraphernalia—avoided for my filth. Those cold shoulders had forgotten that I was once a welcoming shoulder to cry upon. Through me, history was told; through me, the future was created, ironically enough…

Then one day it happened: I saw the handheld device within a passing bystander's hand, and then another, and so on… They laughed, smiled, cried, shouted, and proclaimed their festering thoughts just as they would with me; however now, it was out in the wide open, for all to see. Doors were no longer held, salutations were no longer shared, and they further internalized the more their world was opened to this very technology. My red, vibrant facade was now beginning to fade, and my spirits synchronized with the disconsolate times. This very fall, with the vibrant leaves of Central Park accumulating at my feet, led by a wind-swept torrent through my broken door, I saw the city trucks arrive in front of my avenue. My limbs hung atrophied, periodically smacking into what was left of the surrounding interior. I knew it was time, for my purpose had been served; it was no longer I the people needed. 

“Hey, you think if we put a quarter in, this old phone booth would still work?”

“No one uses these things anymore. Cut the damn line, we have a long day.” 

These were the last words I’d ever hear, after all I gave… The clippers cut through the steel, and with it, my phone fell onto the cold cement. And though I was no longer a means for communication, the passionate words, important messages, silly conversations, and every facet of linguistics that I had dispersed throughout the world, would not be forgotten. My exoskeleton can still be found, displayed like something out of an art exhibit. If you happen to see me, please step inside—speak to my headstone softly…