The Mayor
Dialogues with the Mole People — Eugene
“It’s been a long time.”
“How long?”
“I didn’t keep count.”
“Have you always stayed here?”
“Son, I’ve been here since the beginning.”
“Since you got on the streets?”
“Since the streets were built.”
“And you were a librarian. Before.”
“Different times. Now they call me the mayor.”
“The mayor.”
“Mister mayor, they say. How are you today, mister mayor? Here is your book back, mister mayor.”
“That must be nice.”
“Most of the time.”
“That’s a lot of responsibilities. Being mayor.”
“It is. Last week we had to repair the electrical system. Construction workers broke some of the cables up on the street during a maintenance tour. Couldn’t see a thing down there. We had to find people with flashlights and work in shifts until it got fixed.”
“Did you organize everything?”
“Part of it. I’m good at this. I found a former electrician and two welders and gave them assignments.”
“Does everyone listen to you?”
“They trust me. They know I’m trying to make the place better.”
“You’re a sort of an authority figure.”
“I guess I am.”
“Which library did you work at?”
“Bushwick. Used to live there too.”
“The place has changed.”
“You bet it has. All breweries and organic supermarkets now. People love it. They feel safer now — No need to look over your back anymore. No more gangs waiting for you with knives in the streets.”
“No more crime.”
“It’s all part of this big illusion the city is slowly sinking into.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not because there is a farmers’ market that everything is suddenly fine. Of course people like it at first. They see the improvements and they think ‘yeah, I might go to the bodega at night now’, and they talk to each other and everyone agrees. Then their bodega closes because newcomers prefer Starbucks anyway. And then they have to go in specialized chain stores with fancy products that cost triple. And then their rents increase and they have to work two jobs to pay for it. And they finally have to relocate elsewhere because no one can afford to live here anymore. Their own neighborhood. Where they were born. Where they got their first date. Where they biked and played. The old delis, the pizza joints, the laundries, the barbers. All gone. Replaced by artisanal bakeries, frozen yogurt and bike shops. And then they see each other and they say ‘fuck that, we were better before’, because at least they felt at home.”
“This is happening everywhere.”
“My point exactly. The city is being streamlined. Every neighborhood is just the same. Same groceries, same clothing stores, same healthy this and healthy that. Everything is the same. Everything the city stood for is going to the trash. New York has become a mall. A big amusement park for spoiled kids and bankers.”
“That is the illusion.”
“That is the illusion. From the outside, everything seems better. Nice and tidy. Safe. But take a look inside and it’s bland and lifeless. It’s just a nice layer of velvet put over a big pile of dirt. I happened to like the dirt. Dirt was home. Dirt was familiar and affordable.”
“It was also dangerous sometimes.”
“This city is not for the weak. Never was.”
“Would you rather go back to how it was before?”
“I wouldn’t be rotting here at first. Wouldn’t be living in the sewers and hustling for money.”
“Money.”
“I work as a super for a building on 103rd. I sell stuff in flea markets. Books and antiques I get on the cheap. I wash cars with boys from the hood. I paint fences in the summer.”
“How was it, being a librarian?”
“You know, it may have been dangerous back in the day, but at least it was real. You felt something. It was real.”
“And now it’s disconnected.”
“That’s right. I mean, things have really exploded lately. People walking staring at their cells. Doing yoga and shit. Never talking, always on a rush. Young ones, they don’t make friends anymore. They don’t hang together on the stoops. They use Facebook and leave restaurant reviews on the internet instead. It’s a big dream. Nothing you can touch. Just thin air.”
“You’re talking like an old man.”
“I am old.”
“So you think the city is done?”
“It has been for a while now.”
“But you’re staying anyway.”
“Hell yeah! This place is mine. I was born and raised here. Ain’t going anywhere. They’ll have to shoot me dead.”
“Can you tell me about the tunnels?”
“What about the tunnels?”
“Life. How it works.”
“You white people are always looking for a thrill, don’t you?”
“It’s our curse for having easy lives.”
“It’s you being ashamed of having money while others are starving on the streets. It’s you looking for ways to absolve yourselves.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same?”
“Jesus, I wouldn’t care for the world! If I had money I would just be sipping cold ones and enjoying myself. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“And somehow I’m here.”
“Well that’s because you complicate everything. White people don’t understand simple. Simple frightens you. Poverty is simple. Life in the tunnels is simple. Being on the streets is simple.”
“Because it’s back to the basics.”
“Exactly. You don’t have to think of what to bring to a backyard party. You don’t have to fill tax reports. You don’t need to chose between fifteen kinds of wooden cabinets for your kitchen.”
“Just the basics.”
“We’re a few hundreds. Here anyway. I know there are more in other tunnels. Some of us are living in community. It works best in small groups. Easier to manage, you know. Less fights, more trust. In some communities, there is a leader. It doesn’t really matter in the end.”
“You’re a leader.”
“I’m not. I keep things together when shit happens. I’m educated and I can think. Most of the guys down here didn’t have the luck I had. Going to school and all. Most of them were addicts from the childhood. So I just throw ideas to improve their lives and they do whatever they want with that. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t.”
“But they call you the mayor.”
“They need something.”
“To rely on?”
“They just need something.”
“Someone told me there was a communication system.”
“Not here. In the abandoned subway stations, yes. They’re using an old cable system, I heard. Depends on where they are.”
“Do you get in touch with them sometimes?”
“No need to.”
“Like different tribes.”
“What if they want to harm us? You never know.”
“Not too much violence?”
“That’s what you came for. The grim.”
“It’s part of the place.”
“It’s not bad. A lot of good people. Just working things out before they find a steady place to live. Lots of nice people. Families, even. Once we had four kids and their single mom. The mom worked night shifts in a diner and we took care of her children. Nice little kids. Very well behaved, real smart. They lived here, just behind the wall, see? We got the youngest one a teddy bear. Never a word too loud, the mother. Humble and quiet. She never had any trouble. We kept them safe for all the time they were here. Last I heard, she was renting an apartment in Canarsie. So it’s not that ugly. It’s temporary, more often than not.”
“Was it temporary for you?”
“I guess so.”
“What’s over there?”
“The bathrooms. I’ll show you.”
“Is it a locker?”
“It is. And this is our heater. Works pretty good. The place was a former MTA staff room. Before that, we used to shower in public pools. That door gives on the kitchen. There are more rooms in here. That’s where we sleep in winter.”
“And this is the electrical system you were talking about.”
“Yes. We fixed the whole panel.”
“Must have been hard.”
“Sure was. This is Earl. He helped us fix a leak in the ceiling last year. Removed the mold, caulked everything shut. How is it going, Earl?”
“Good, mister mayor. I’m just coming back from the overpass.”
“Still hot out there?”
“Very. I got some food at Fairway’s. There’s been an accident on the parkway. Ambulances and police, traffic all fucked up. You should have seen that.”
“Probably someone from Jersey.”
“Probably.”
“Don’t forget about the meeting tonight.”
“Sure won’t. Later, mister mayor.”
“Later.”
“Do you know everyone by name here?”
“What mayor would I be if I didn’t?”
“Fair point. What is this meeting you were talking about?”
“We do that every other week. It’s like an administration board. We talk, we decide what to do to make the place better.”
“Is it an idea of yours?”
“I started it when I got there. No one needs to attend if they don’t want to. It actually works more like a support group. You can bring ideas, you can also share your stories. Anything, really. They do that in the shelters.”
“It sounds great.”
“Some people want to be a part of it. Make a difference. So I give them something to do. Something that matters to them.”
“Is that how you became the mayor?”
“You need to have a structure of some sort when you live in community. You can chose not to, but you will be stronger if you do. These people learnt it the hard way. I came with all my books in a bag and kept reading at night, and I guess they were curious about it. It happened without fuss. No votes. They just gave me the keys.”
“To be stronger.”
“To find a little stability.”
“What’s in there?”
“This is our storage area. And this door leads to the Greenway. The stair goes down to the tracks and to the park. Of course there is noise from the cars driving up, but you don’t hear it much when you’re on the grass, near the river. It’s our garden.”
“Fort Washington Park.”
“They tried to clean the place several times because of the littering problem. Police was supposed to patrol the area more often but we never see them. Lots of drug dealers and prostitutes. Only locals come here and they don’t bother us. Come on, follow me.”
“It seems nice.”
“It is. It’s quiet, you’ll see.”
“The tunnels are quiet.”
“Not all the time. Sometimes you hear sobbing. Or snoring. Or fucking. It can be obnoxious. You learn to live with it.”
“The basics.”
“Eat, sleep, survive. It’s simple.”
“Focusing on the real things.”
“It makes sense to me.”
“Don’t you regret it?”
“Living here?”
“Living here.”
“Son, I regret a whole lot of things.”
“Your family?”
“My brother died when I was twelve. He got shot by a gang.”
“A gang.”
“In Brownsville. My father kept beating him so he had to look for an escape, you know.”
“I see.”
“My mother didn’t do a thing to stop him either. She died early from liver failure. The woman was drinking herself to death. That’s when I got accepted in Columbia. I lived on the campus until I got my degree, after what I found a librarian position in Bushwick.”
“What happened to your father?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s dead too. He came to congratulate me at the library. He was loud and couldn’t get his act together, so I had him escorted out. I think he just wanted money from me.”
“What happened after that?”
“I started drinking. Not that much. I wasn’t drunk all the time — I couldn’t, you know, not with what happened to my mother. But enough to quit caring about my job. They fired me eventually. Can’t blame them. I remember this time I was in bad shape, very bad shape, I was at the counter sorting books from a discard tray, and I started throwing them at this student because he told me something I didn’t like. I wasn’t even that wasted, it’s just the kid was hammering me with questions and probably lost his patience as I couldn’t answer any of them, and — and I started assaulting him. Poor guy. I lost it. Big books, at that. Philosophy or architecture. Big books. Must have hurt as fuck.”
“So you lost the job.”
“Yeah. Then everything felt apart.”
“It’s a shame.”
“I had it good for a while. I didn’t realize it. It was a different life. Hard to blame it on anyone.”
“You had history.”
“I guess I did.”
“It goes so fast.”
“At least it was real. It still is.”
“And you get to stay in New York.”
“I wouldn’t think of leaving.”
“Too many habits?”
“My life is here. The city is like an old friend. You find yourselves fighting from time to time, but at the end of the day, you’re still friends. That’s how it is. You can’t help it.”
“So you stay in the tunnels.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“I can’t find the words.”
“Don’t say anything, then.”
“Simple things, right?”
“Simple things.”
