Mira

“God. It’s hot,” says Raph, emerging from his orange-eye-popping colored bedroom.

I pause practicing and lower my trombone. “Crank up the A/C,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood. 

“Very funny.” 

The sun’s scorching rays have been unmerciful all summer. Heat waves radiate between the closely spaced brownstones on our block. The buildings retain the heat, like living in a brick oven or the landscape of melting clocks in Dali's “The Persistence of Memory.” Nighttime brings no relief. As sweat trickles down our bodies, we lie awake with our fears while clinging to unfulfilled hopes and dreams. Daily TV and radio announcements raise awareness regarding heat stroke and dehydration. Older city residents are being advised to fill their bathtubs with cool water and climb in. 

For weeks, a mass of gray, stagnant air has hung over the city’s skyscrapers, so the air quality index is unhealthy. And the air itself reeks with the smell of rancid garbage due to the sanitation workers’ strike. 

Everyone’s affected; municipal employees, the police, city bus drivers, building maintenance workers, auto mechanics, junkyard dealers, liquor store owners, etc... On our block, we all struggle to survive day-to-day. The families, college students, lovers shaking up, immigrants, geriatrics, squatters, and “illegals” are all short on money, and we have no A/C. 

“Blackout again tonight,” I say to Raph. The mayor’s imposed blackouts so businesses can operate at full capacity during the day. “But lucky you, the hospital’s exempt.” I press the horn’s water key, blow into the mouthpiece, and watch spit dribble into the trash can on the floor. 

“That’s what they said the last time the Southside was on the schedule. Then the power went out. If the hospital’s emergency generators hadn’t kicked in, there’d have been a lot of dead patients.” 

Unbelievable. My roommate, Raphael, and I met at the conservatory. He plays the trumpet. Earlier this year, he turned 30. I’ll do the same this fall. We both dream of joining the symphony. Since graduating, we’ve worked jobs that allow us time to practice, for whenever a seat opens up. Thus far, no success. 

Until recently, we both worked at the loom factory across the street. That was before the raid to arrest and detain “illegals.” The raid left the factory short of workers, so it closed in early spring. Since then, 50% of the neighborhood’s been out of work, including me. Raph now covers the Southside Hospital’s admittance desk overnight. 

Walking past me, Raph stops before the front room’s grimy bay window. “Man, this is fucking crazy,” he says, standing there in a white t-shirt with yellow-stained armpits. “We need a fan.”

“It’d only blow around hot air.” 

“Can’t even open a window because of all the garbage out there.” 

I turn the score on my music stand back to the first page and get ready to resume practicing. 

“How come you’re practicing the Morceau Symphonique instead of The David?”

I shrug. “Everybody plays The David. I figure auditioning with the Morceau or Blue Bells would be different.” 

“I’ll tell you what would be different. Something being done about all the garbage. Christ, there’s even a mess up there,” he says, shaking his head while pointing upward. “All that space junk… there’s shit everywhere!” 

Knowing anything I say will only further incite Raph, I keep silent. But he’s right. Despite making it to the moon and back, we’re failures at dealing with our problems here on Earth. Given this summer’s heat, the piled-up garbage, being unemployed, and constantly rejected, my optimism’s dying. A part of me says it’s time to move on and do something that will give me a steady paycheck and a more stable life. I just don’t know what that something would be. 

“I better get ready for work,” says Raph, heading back to his room. 

Instead of resuming practicing, I decide to take a break. I set down my horn and go over to the window. Everywhere, you see large green, black, and brown plastic trash bags. First, they took over the back alleys. Then they crept onto the iron fire escapes. Now, they’ve invaded the sidewalks and curbsides. Seagulls, crows, and other scavengers have ripped some of the bags open, accelerating the decomposition of their contents. Now a noxious sewage-like smell’s attracting rats, maggots, and thick swarms of black flies. 

Usually, our block is alive and bursting with activity until well after dark all summer. Grammar school-age kids are playing stickball, dodgeball, or kickball. The smaller kids are stomping, squealing, and screaming while dashing in and out of the spray of an open hydrant. There’s the rhythmic beat of the Cortez sisters’ ropes tapping the pavement as they jump Double Dutch. And, Regina’s radio blares island tunes from her stoop, where she’s watching baby Hector toddle the steps in a diaper with a pacifier in his mouth. In the shuttered loom factory’s vacant parking lot, Junior and the other skinny, shirtless teenage boys will be playing handball while Chi Chi and the neighborhood beauty queens check them out, decked in midriff-baring tube tops and crotch-squeezing hot pants. But this summer? Even where Crazy Costas and his cousin, Bug-eyed Benny normally sit in rickety lawn chairs mumbling gibberish to each other and sipping Muscatel from brown paper bags is deserted. 

Some probably relish the silence, but there’s a mournful sadness to the absence of the joy, laughter, and loud unruliness that typically fills the air. The sole sign of normalcy is when Mrs. Castillo, in her housecoat and pink sponge rollers, and wishbone-legged Miss Philomena venture out with brooms and soap-filled buckets to wash their stoops at 7 am every morning. 

Raph and I ended up in this three-story, mustard-colored brownstone because it was across the street from the loom factory, and the rent was cheap. The front stoop’s covered in blue graffiti, and the side-by-side entrance doors are red. The left one’s got an official-looking notice stating that side of the building’s condemned. I guess that’s to be expected when the rental agent’s a dead ringer for Gene Shalit—may he rest in peace. 

Our apartment’s on the second floor, on the right. To get there, you climb a pitch-black stairwell. The listing said the unit had its own unique character, and it does. Some prior tenants painted the front room’s walls dog shit brown and the kitchen at the back end of the unit plum. A puke green hallway connects the front room and kitchen, and off the hallway are two bedrooms, one orange and one blue. Between the bedrooms, there’s a white-tiled bathroom. 

From the front room window, I watch Anita enter her building after another long day at the community center with no drop-ins. Across the street, Stumbling Petey’s meandering toward the free clinic. Done with their shift at Popeye’s, Star and Gordon sprint through the clouds of flies hovering around the trash bags with their hands covering their noses. And somewhere out there, Tony’s screaming Serena’s name like he’s Brando in Streetcar between guzzles of a 40. 

“You seen Shayna yet?” asks Raph, emerging from his room, dressed for work.

“Nope,” I say, watching Carlos lower the bodega’s metal security gate, closing for the day. 

Raph comes over and joins me at the window. “There she is,” he yells, running out the door, hoping to catch a free ride in her gypsy-cab before she hunts nighttime fares. 

My stomach rumbles, so I head to the kitchen to get something to eat. I open the refrigerator’s door and peer inside. The pickings are slim. Taking out the bologna, a jar of yellow mustard, and the loaf of whole wheat bread, I make a couple of sandwiches.

One floor above, Randy’s parents are arguing over which of them is to blame for their cross-dressing son as he selects an outfit to hit the town in. To escape their incessant arguing, I wolf down the sandwiches and the glass of milk I’ve poured. 

The refrigerator’s steady hum reminds me I still have to practice, so I head back to the front room. Given how I’m feeling, I should tell Raph this’ll probably be my last audition, so he can start advertising for a new roommate. 

Picking up my trombone, I close my eyes and prepare to play the first notes of the Morceau. But I start playing something formless and unwritten. One note leads to another and everything that’s been torturing my mind – the heat, the air, the garbage, my joblessness is unleashed. Sweat gathers on my forehead and runs down my face. Perspiration streams the length of my forearms and drips from my elbows to the floor. As energy surges through my body, I play until exhaustion overtakes me. 

Time passes, and I recover a sense of consciousness in the present. The blackout will soon start, so I pick up the hurricane lamp I bought on a whim at a street sale years ago and light it. Its bone-dry wick sputters, and its flame wavers before settling into a steady glow. 

The streetlights slowly dim until they’re finally extinguished. Then the lights in all the buildings blink once and go out. Except for a flickering light here and there, there’s only darkness and silence. Even the refrigerator’s omnipresent hum has ceased. 

Sitting in the dark, I visualize grasping the second brace and moving the trombone’s slide from note to note of my audition piece. I repeat this process over and over and over again. 

At the end of one of my visualizations, I hear a voice faintly calling. Unable to distinguish the word or words, I go to the bay window overlooking the street. Below me, a massive group of shadows is making its way toward the end of the block. 

I then recognize the word “Mira” being shouted like the Adhan by a muezzin. Summoned by the call, I leave my apartment and head for the street. There, I join Rita carrying Hector on her hip, Mrs. Castillo, Serena, Tony, Carlos, and a host of other neighbors. When we reach the end of the block, we merge with those already gathered there. Infectious smiles and joyful laughter surround me. With our daily hardships and worries forgotten, hope is renewed. As the children jump up and down, we join them in pointing at the shooting stars in the Western sky and shouting, “Mira.” 

J L Higgs’ short stories explore the interplay between human emotions and actions from a black perspective. Since July 2016, he has had over 60 publications and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He resides outside of Boston, Mass.