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My Experience on Tinder (A Horror Story) // amy young
Here by the parkway with the blasting trucks and the roaring cars, near the filigree arches of the Riverside Drive viaduct, here with the gravel crunching under my feet as I run down the railroad into this hollow mouth. There is a garden chair, and overturned crates and buckets. A place to find peace and take a break from the chaos. But those who did go down called it home, and it became a haven for the destitute to unwind without fear of getting arrested or attacked like people on the streets often were. We dared to be ourselves. Jon has been homeless for more than fifteen years. A plywood roof protects his hoarded belongings from seeping water. His BA in journalism and his studies in philosophy had somehow led him to work as a model, then as a TV crew member, then as a tour guide in the Caribbean where he began smuggling cocaine to the States. Of course you know about them. He too returned in the following months. She began sleeping in a subway tunnel after transit authorities made her leave her spot in the Herald Square station corridor on 34th Street, dragging her by her feet when she refused to stand up from her mat.
Soon he was broke, friendless and on his own. But those who did go down called it home, and it became a haven for the destitute to unwind without fear of getting arrested or attacked like people on the streets often were. I called my sister and begged her to take care of Alyssa until I found a place of my own. Every noise is threatening in the tunnel, and I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder, ready to face something too awful to name. A mangled teddy bear. The year-old knows enough about shelters. His BA in journalism and his studies in philosophy had somehow led him to work as a model, then as a TV crew member, then as a tour guide in the Caribbean where he began smuggling cocaine to the States. I lean against the wall and try to breathe calmly, reminding myself this place is only populated by old memories and the occasional homeless person looking for a safe place to be. But it was the right thing to do. Then I see the charred remains of an animal in the corner of an alcove — a raccoon maybe, a big rodent with liquefied flesh, burnt fur and missing limbs. Soon she will give them to her daughter. The worsening quality of the local drugs means accidents are now more frequent than ever, with overdose-related deaths in I walk away holding my breath. This is where they live, deep into the depths of the city, way underground, lying in the dirt. The broken and the ill, the wandering, the gone. I deal with what I have. That they spoke their own language. The lost ones, the hidden ones. The smell down here is the one of brake dust and mold. They all showed simple human beings who were in no way comparable to the legends that had been told, and they all included a man named Bernard Isaac. He rents an apartment from a friend when his kid comes to visit, a clean studio in a gray Washington Heights building. Collective imagination took over quickly. I miss you everyday. The father of two sons with two different women, he never cared much for family life, preferring to spend his smuggling profits on parties thrown at his Upper West Side penthouse. The rumbling feels closer. One day, three men asked Isaac for a toll as he came by the th Street entrance to the tunnel.
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