In my 13th year the streets were brick on Holmden Hill
near 14th street over the Steel Mills where my father worked. The sparks belched out from the furnaces that choked the light at dawn with the smell of sulfur and a thick haze of red.
But these were the only stars I knew in Cleveland. At night I'd hear the roar
of traffic and the clank of metal. Children's songs and stories of twinkling stars and Magic dragons were my lullabies, as I sleepily beheld its lair and the wonder of the milky way spread out and over the industrial valley; a most magnificent sight to my young eyes.
I remember the warmth of Summer and conspiring with any strange kid who'd wander across my path to entertain and unburden us of our endless hours. Any distraction was welcome, and when we saw the crowds walk away from their houses and down the street, we followed at their heels. There at the brick apartment house on Holmden and 14th were the flashing lights; bull horns of police who held us back and made us cross the street to pass.
I squirmed beneath the pressing crowd up to cordon beyond which no one was allowed. And there he was, not 10 yards away, a dead man in a pool of blood half pulled out the door. Someone whispered he was shot by a man who could not pay his rent. The building manager, face down. The police hung back to assess whether the murderer was still dangerous. And then a woman lurched forward "My Dad! you son of Bitch!" was tackled and taken away.
I scanned the faces of the crowd. They caught up with gossip and socialized. The only thing to do was to wait, and some spread blankets on the tree lawns and ate. In time there was no shoot out but only an old man, fat and lame who came out with the cops at his elbow as he walked with cane. The whispers were that he had no place to go, and made a gun from a pipe and a rubber band.
The crowd dispersed after the body was carried off. But I lingered on. I touched the doorway and the stone. And watched what no one else did: the janitor who mopped the blood up off the small white tiles, off the floor and rinsed it with a hose. To his credit there was no stain. And given time the stories came and went and were forgotten. But I still look to see if they left a mark, now as I drive by. I remember the dragons and the stars, and how suddenly they fade.
