East Harlem

East Harlem New York is scum-hole! I knew this before I purchased my remodeled 19th century brownstone on 127th street. The realtor tried to sell me on the allure, the glitz and glamour of Harlem; with it’s intimate Renaissance period style Jazz clubs, trendy bars, hip eateries and it’s energetic nightlife, all of which are great selling points for —let’s say, a twenty four year old lead singer from somewhere like Lansing, Michigan who was moving to New York with three of his garage band members in pursuit of becoming famous in the Big Apple. Although I am sure my realtor would have had trouble getting the 2.4 million dollars the seller wanted for the brownstone from those guys. 

But for me, a selling point wasn’t necessary. I grew up fifteen minutes away in New Jersey, directly across the landfill otherwise known as the Hudson River. I remember going to The Apollo Theater and chanting from the audience “you suck” “you suck” in a cult-like manner, at an amateur comedian named Chris Rock. I trekked over the River to see then-Senator and Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama host a campaign fundraiser. I’ve sat on the warm benches at Marcus Garvey Park watching sweaty grown men battle it out over an orange leather ball and a hoop. I’ve eaten corn bread and red beans and rice at Sylvia’s, the most famous soul food restaurant in Harlem. It’s safe to say that I am familiar with Harlem and all of its grandeur. And as a corporate lawyer, I am also familiar with people attempting to sell dreams, pitch ideas, or paint scenarios that they hope I will find intriguing. My realtor was certainly one of those people.

What he didn’t know was that I was going to buy the brownstone regardless of any spiel he had prepared about how wonderful Harlem is, and my reason was very simple; from the brownstone it is a two minute walk and a five minute train ride, on Metro North, which dropped me off right outside of my office building. Sold!

East Harlem New York is a scum hole. I definitely knew this before I purchased my brownstone. There is a methadone clinic underneath the Metro North train station on Harlem 125th street. Apparently, New York City officials feel that it is safer to administer dope to drug addicts in a controlled environment, rather than let them get it off the streets. The result : the entire perimeter of the train station looks like the “Walking Dead”. 

On my way to work I almost stepped in a fresh pile of adult shit, smack in the middle of the sidewalk. I questioned how anyone would have been comfortable squatting to defecate in the open public, then I looked around at the unrecognizable species of what once were human beings, roaming around Harlem aimlessly. I made eye contact with one of them, and I quickly looked away. I realized that they are shameless. I think about how blessed I am to have a toilet to use, actually I have six of them in my brownstone. I laugh to myself about that. 

I arrived home later that day, and the moment I stepped foot inside my corridor, I kicked off my shoes and headed straight to use one of my bathrooms; any bathroom I wanted, they were all clean and ready for me with fresh lavender scents, rolls of soft tissue, plush bathroom floor mats, made of Egyptian cotton, matched the shower curtains and hand towels—My interior designer did well. 

As I sat comfortably on the toilet, I couldn’t help but feel satisfied, somewhat relieved. I thought about how I nearly stepped in shit on my way to work this morning. Question for myself: would I ever let a zombie from the train station use my bathroom, if the only two choices were my bathroom or the sidewalk? No, absolutely not! 

I cleaned my bum nicely and flushed the toilet, and like a punishment for my insensitivity, the water began to overflow. Silly me— I flushed and flushed again, intensely shaking the toilet’s handle — like that would fix everything. My feces and wet toilet paper spewed out of the toilet like a muddy tsunami, melting on top of my bathroom floor mat.

East Harlem New York is a scum hole. The plumber I found on the Facebook marketplace agreed with me. I’d been drinking a glass of wine, —Opus one, sipping and inspecting him, while he inspected my bathroom. I didn’t bother to clean up any of the mess and for that reason he suggested we start in the basement at the sewage drain pipe. 

“These brownstones are beautiful but they’re old. They were Built in the 1860’s so they usually have a lot of plumbing issues. There is probably something down here clogging the pipes.” - he said, 

His work bag clunked against the handrail as we made our way down the basement steps. 

“Well thanks for showing up on such short notice. You had great reviews. Do you live in the area?” — I took a sip of wine 

“Yeah I'm close. I live a couple blocks up Fifth ave.” He paused for a moment for dramatic effect. 

“You know this street you live on has some amazing history. A famous writer lived right next door back in the 60’s.” 

“Really”, I replied with intrigue, but I didn’t care. 

—just fix my plumbing and leave. 

“Yeah, Langston Hughes. Rumor has it, his mistress lived here in this house.” 

“You might want to hold your nose.” 

He opened a cap on the sewage pipe and removed a drain auger from his plumber's bag. After a few moments of snaking the auger inside the pipe he looked up at me. 

“I got something!”

He slowly pulled the auger out and hooked onto the tip of it a soiled hand towel rolled tight in the shape of a sausage link and tied with string. He grabbed the towel with his bare hands to inspect it. 

“What the hell is that.”

“This is what’s causing your toilet to back up. Looks like someone flushed this down”

“How long has it been there.” 

“No telling, probably for years now. Never made it out to the street.”

I thought of asking him to dispose of it, but after further inspection it seemed as if something was tied up inside of the hand towel. I ran upstairs and grabbed a bottle of bleach and my yellow rubber cleaning gloves, that I thought I’d never use, and stormed down the steps like a surgeon ready for the operating room. 

The plumber looked at me with a confused smirk. I poured bleach over the towel and I was able to see its green color. There were two white letters written in script L. H. Once I was satisfied with it being properly sanitized, I slowly unraveled the strings on the towel and there was a plastic tube inside. More bleach on the tube, and I unsealed the top as carefully as I could. Inside the tube was a plastic bag, and inside the bag was a piece of note paper rolled like a cigarette. I felt like I had found some kind of hidden treasure. 

I pulled my rubber gloves off my hands and opened the plastic bag, taking out the piece of paper and unrolling it. It was a note. 

Maria, how did this all start? It pains me like tacks and splinters on my heart, that we have to keep apart. I’ll think of you night and day, I’ll think of you light or dark. Don’t think of me with dismay, oh Maria my heart. 

                            Love Langston

She flushed his poem down the toilet. 

East Harlem New York is a scum hole.