Roughly at 2 AM, I’m woken by a phone call, it's my parent's lawyer, Sid Grossman, who says,
Henry, I’ve got awful news for you, late last night your parents were mowed down in their Cadillac by a semi-truck. It was ugly son, the first responders had to scrape their remains from the wreckage, and, as of now, the pieces have been moved to the morgue in a box, can you meet me there at 2?
I’ll be there Sid.
I take a bus to the Harlem Morgue where Sid introduces me to the undertaker who says,
I've placed your parent's remains in a stainless steel casket,
he opens the door and pulls the casket out, I look inside seeing caked blood, bits of sinus, and crushed bone, all of which smells gasly. I ask the undertaker,
what now?
He closes the metal casket and pushes it back in place, saying,
sign at the X,
Sid Grossman jumps in,
Henry your signature verifies that you identified the remains,
it's blood soup, what's to identify?
just sign so we can get outta here Henry.
Outside they sit in Sid’s car, and finish the legal work,
Henry after my fee, and burial expenses, there's not much left, a couple of hundred dollars maybe,
okay, thanks for everything,
Sid writes him a check.
At Harlem Payomatic, Henry hands over the check and shows his ID. The clerk gives him 269 dollars and some change.
Hungry he walks a few blocks to Melba’s Soul Kitchen where he sitting at the counter a Black girl takes his order,
I’ll have Crown Royal and 7 to kick things off, then, cornbread, collard greens, chicken fried pork chops, and 3 sweet potato pies, one to eat here, and the others to take away, his waitress laughs saying,
are you hungry?
Sure am, what’s your name?
Thelma Dee,
what’s the Dee for?
Delicious,
as they laugh the owner Melba walks to them and says,
are you 2 having a good time? Thelma Dee says,
sorry, ma’am.
Melba walks back into the kitchen and Henry says,
by the way, I'm Henry,
Henry, that's Melba’s my aunty, she’s a sweetheart.
I leave Thelma Dee a 20 dollar bill and get her phone number.
I’ve got a couple hundred dollars left, so I get a room at the Radio Inn in the Bowery, then call room service, ordering a bottle of Crown Royal, a 6 pack of 7 up, and ice.
In bed, I eat a sweet potato pie uncut, holding it in both hands.
There’s a knock on my door, it’s room service, who rolls the booze in on a tray and asks,
do you need anything else broh?
How bout some weed,
no problem, I got 1/4 ounces 2o per,
He pulls a baggy out of his coat pocket, and I hand him the beans,
As the dude walks out I roll a joint, lighting it, then tuning the radio to Harlem jazz. Alice Coltrane’s album Africa is playing.
Thankfully, my day's in the books. I did my bit identifying the bucket of guts that was once my parents, Victor and Bunny Lucowski.
Loaded to the bone, moved by the Coltrane standard, I realize in life,
you gotta roll with it, baby.