black souls melt away like fla-vor-ice popsicles in the summertime sun.
“Is that shit coming from your home?” A neighbor from 7A knocked on my bronze-colored door three times before I opened it. I swear the damn neighbors in my hallway only bond when drama rises in the projects. And they swear us “Africans” are the scapegoats of it all. Neighbors are always quick to assume the odors that consume the project hallways are our “African gumbos.” Gets on my damn nerve.
“No, my fault,” I said as I tried to close this man out of my existence.
BOOF!
This man’s crusted, cherry-colored Jordan 12’s made a wedge into my door, blocking the feels of my peaceful summer Sunday. Why is this man on my ass? I barely know his name. The anger pent up, I was ready to risk it all. Subconsciously, I’m measuring him up and down, realizing I was smaller in stature; my lanky black ass versus his 6’4 football body. But, fuck it. This man overstayed his welcome; I had to see what those hands were talking about.
But, then I take notice of his eyes. It was a different look than what was adopted by the boys and girls of Harlem. This wasn’t the pain that was usually tatted on the faces of my peers. No, it was a visage of black vulnerability, starting from the dilation of his brown pupils to the lost void of his cheeks. I got scared when I saw this. It was like bro was morphing into a rare species, from another dimension.
“This is serious, neighbor. I can’t get this damn smell out of my house for real. Like my children are…”
I zoned out a little in the void of my thoughts. I can’t even hold him; he was right. I’ve been working as a youth program coordinator out in Crown Heights all summer and every morning I head down to work, that same smell Mike-Tyson’s me in the nose. The odor was reminiscent of about five skunks nesting their family down by Morningside. And, day by day, the family was growing larger and larger without regard. But, I never said anything because nobody ever says anything around my way. We saw things, but we never saw them.
That was just common sense.
“Maybe something is leaking from somebody’s pipes. You know how NYCHA be,” I said, lowkey still tight that this man’s foot is still in my door frame.
“You know damn well no pipes can do that shit! To keep it 100 with you, a lot of people say that bullshit is coming from the crazy, I-Love-God woman’s apartment. But she never talks to no damn body! All the other neighbors said it’s not coming from their house, so it gotta be her. NYCHA said…”
◆
I never knew the old lady that lived in 7E. She rarely stepped out of her home, so her physical body was an enigma. I just always referred to her as ‘Jesus woman.’ Every time I took the elevator to the 7th floor, the elevator opened directly in front of her door. Her entrance felt like a Baptist church Sunday; Christian memorabilia, random biblical writings, and God portrayals scattered across her door, covering even the peephole and doorknob. I don’t think NYCHA would approve of all that decoration. But, who was going to check her? Not a soul cares about life or faith in a ghost town.
Jesus woman was never with anybody. I could tell she lived alone just by how she acted. It was almost our ritual; I waited for the elevator until I felt a burst of wind sweep from behind me. I turn around just to see the bulging eyes of Jesus woman poking out at me through her door crack. She always whispered to me, “Hey, what are you doing?” “Uh…I’m just waiting for the elevator,” I always responded, with my PTSD creeping in. “Oh…Jesus loves you!” she exclaimed before quickly closing her door fully shut.
My sisters experienced the same thing while waiting for the elevator. That same introduction and closing statement—“Jesus loves you!” It’s like Jesus woman would keep her ears close to her door until she felt a presence. She was the hallway pastor, just trying to give neighbors their daily dosage of blessings before they went about their days.
“Suck my dick, crazy-ass lady!”
There was one time in December, around like Saturday at 1 am. I heard the voices of a group of men causing hysteria on my floor. The Windex spray sound effect that escaped their laughs echoed through the whole building. My family was asleep, so I opened my door slightly to get a hint of what was going down. A herd of black teenagers, ambiguous in shape and size, crowded around Jesus woman’s door. “Jesus loves you, Jesus loves you,” Jesus woman repeated, trying to get the boy away from her front door. “Oh yeah, well you tell that nigga Jesus to come down and take me outta the projects!” one of the guys said. “And tell that man to give me 400 so I can pay my baby moms,” another said as the homies all broke into laughter. That moment was the only time I heard Jesus woman express some form of emotion. She cried until the morning came. And the frequencies from her tears were loud enough for generations of residents from this housing complex to hear. But, I didn’t speak up or tell the dudes they were wrong. They’d beat me senseless. I just closed my door and went to bed. Did nothing.
◆
“…AYE YO, WHAT THE FUCK? NAH SON, THAT’S UNGODLY! YO WHAT? NEIGHBOR, LOOK! NEIGHBOR!!!”
The hysteria in my neighbor’s screams brought me back to my current reality. He took his Jordan 12’s out of my door frame so I could peep into the hallway. My eyes were exposed to a sea of neighbors in pajamas and casual wear overcrowding the entire 7th floor. Murmurs and shocked faces filled the air. I took a step out of my apartment and got on my tippy toes to visualize the scene.
Three NYCHA staff members and five NYPD officers were standing outside Jesus woman’s door like bodyguards. But her door was wide open.
Who complained about her now? Just leave that lady alone, she is not bothering nobody.
But, then the smell. The same unworldly smell that grew every day in the Harlem summer swarmed into my nostrils and devoured the oxygen of the hallway. The scent was in its final form, like a boss at the end of a video game. Oceans of decay poured into the 7th floor like a concoction of sanitation and concentrated New York City sewer water. Then I really saw it.
The world stopped for a little while. There was no section 8, no poverty, no happiness. I managed to maneuver through the sea of people until I got to 7E. And hiding right behind one officer’s foot, it laid. A decomposing figure was cooped up in two big black bags near Jesus woman’s living room. Flies hovered around the bags almost as angels, like humans were not worthy of protecting such a thing. It felt like the nectar of a thousand dreams breaking down was bleeding from the source. The flickering hallway light right above the door beamed on the two bags like strobe lights; celebrity of West Harlem.
“Alright, that’s enough,” one of the cops said as three of the officers ushered the bags out of the hallway and into the elevator. My eyes felt glued to where those black bags were for the rest of the day. Like a part of my young soul was now attached to the smells of decomposition.
Hours will fill that day. NYPD officers came in and out of the building all night, taping Jesus woman’s door with the yellow and black while investigating the origins of the smell. NYCHA custodians worked vigilantly with mops, brooms, and gloves to clean Jesus woman’s house and rip the religious decorations off her front door. And I sat down outside my apartment and watched the whole thing, hoping that Jesus woman would come up in the elevator and say “Oh…Jesus Loves You” even though all of these strangers bombarded her apartment.
But, no.
The neighbor from 7A came by my apartment a week later and told me that Jesus woman died in her bathroom from natural causes. It was just that she had nobody, no brother, mother, sister, daughter, or son, to even care for her dead body. Even in death, Jesus woman waited to see if someone, just someone would come across her door.
Time faded, days of the Harlem summer continued, and the 7th floor was masked in Lysol spray for two weeks.
The neighbors were just happy that they threw the trash away.