Chorus of the UWS
Image by Carina Cain
By Carina Cain
“It’s a miracle!”
They yelled this when old Joe Birch slipped on the ice plot on the corner of 83rd and Broadway and didn’t break his neck—only bruised a tailbone and cursed loud enough to be heard halfway up to Washington Heights. They said he cracked all the ice on all the corners in Manhattan with his cursing.
“Can you believe it!”
The chorus yelled this not as a question, but as an exclamation. A revelation. They yelled it once the ice did yield and splinter, sort of as an encouragement for the sun to please grow more persistent. Joe slipped in the late days of March, so maybe the sun was already thinking about sticking around for a while. But still. The man-made cracking read like an omen. Winter that year was too long, you see, even for Joe Birch (who typically didn’t mind the cold), and especially for the chorus who lined up to investigate the source of all the “goddamn motherfucker”s echoing down toward Lincoln Center. The revelations went up once they identified it, once they understood he wasn’t terribly hurt, just damp and temporarily outraged. Of course, they offered the poor man an arm out of the sludge.
“We’d tell you to ice it, but looks like you already have, Joe!”
He grumbled his way through a good-natured response, which was generous for Joe Birch—bruised tailbone and all. He had done damage to winter, and for that, he was a hero. The chorus was ready for the good damage that warmer days usually ushered in. Like getting poked in the eye by a greening, runty London planetree when three bros abreast ran the oncoming pedestrian off-sidewalk. Or when the wind began carrying that devastating and totally unique smell of baking garbage south to north again. They were ready because they were sick of the bad damage being done to them. Winter made them sicker and they craved a turning-over. So when Joe turned over and cracked all the ice just as the sun was starting to hang out past 4 p.m. again, they rejoiced.
“It’s what we’ve been waiting for! Somebody get the man a drink, Jesus Christ!”
Joe didn’t drink on Tuesdays, so he humbly declined, but somehow a cup of black coffee ended up in his right claw anyway. Joe hated black coffee almost as much as he hated accepting assistance, but he stomached a sip for the chorus. The chorus meant well, they really did, and they wore their masks and built back up after tragedy and still hollered whenever something remotely interesting happened, so he stomached a sip. It was bitter and horrible, but warm on the back of his throat. Like sipping up the end of March and swallowing down the beginning of April. So, it was okay, he decided. Not great, and he still hated the taste, but the effect was fine. And maybe for the moment, it was necessary. A thawing.
“Should have brought your skates, Joe! Could have put on a real show for us!”
Their delighted cries interrupted the silence trapped between buildings and subway and sky. Winter had meant a forced quiet, and that was anathema to Joe and the chorus. The rats and squirrels and pigeons that hung out in harems on frozen patches of park grass were starving. Usually, they chewed on the scraps the city noise dropped in the streets each day. There were no scraps this winter. There was still dancing and singing and sledding and eating and laughing, of course, but not officially. Officially, everything was muted. By the cold and by misfortune and by an American narcissist. Summer seemed like a dream to the chorus. Even Joe, who detested July and all it stood for, itched for a little uncompromised sunlight. No cloud cover, no chill to disrupt the incoming heat. New life unfurling. Yeah, he wanted that. As soon as possible, and for as long as possible. He rubbed his decidedly compromised behind and crushed a rogue shard of his adversary under the heel of his boot.
“Well, thank you, Joe! A real miracle! You need someone to walk you up?”
He lived on the first floor of the squat building around the corner, so there was no need. The chorus was aware of this, but they offered anyway. Good people. Joe broke the ice for them, and they turned it into something more. That’s why Joe hoped, as he waved goodbye and began to climb, that when spring finally did descend, it would be full of noise and sun and some good damage.
Carina Cain is a Bay Area local who graduated from Lewis & Clark College with a B.A. in English. She is admittedly too fond of the hyphen, and wholeheartedly believes that arts education is fundamental to the well-being of society.
