(above: my Harlem apartment)I just got home and found out that a friend of mine died. Joe McCray. He wasn't what you would call a close friend, but he was definitely my friend. Joe was an old man who lived upstairs from me until he apparently died three days ago. I got home to my apartment about a half hour ago and there was a note taped to the door that read, "In profound sorrow we announce the death of Joe McCray which occurred on 8.8.07. Services will be held on 8.13.07 from 11AM. Reposing at Trumbos Funeral Chapel, 100 St. Nicholas Ave". I took the note and walked up the flight of stairs to his apartment and there was a police sticker on the door and what appeared to be a small pile of trash swept out from the apartment and a rubber glove probably used by the coroner or paramedic. A disgusting and callous bit of junk to see outside his door.
I've known Joe as long as I've lived here in my building, which is almost 8 years, and with his passing, that makes me the oldest tenant in the building. I've always felt a kinship with Joe regarding the length of time we've both been in the building as many new faces have moved in slowly but surely and the neighborhood has changed with new buildings and tenants arriving. Our building was built in 1905, I don't know how long Joe has lived there but he's lived there for quite a while. My friend, Justin who used to live upstairs introduced me to Joe when I first moved in. Justin had lived in the building for 8 years and before he moved about two years ago, had known Joe and always checked on him and did little things for him now and then. I was sad when Justin moved out, we remain close friends, and when he did, I made sure to check in on Joe more often In Justin's absence.
I called Jonathan to tell him the news once I read the note on the door. We chatted a bit about how sad this was, and Jonathan noted that Joe probably died alone. I haven't seen Joe, nor have I been up to see him in a few months, and although Jonathan was just stating a fact, that Joe indeed, probably did die alone, thinking about this makes me incredibly sad. I feel horrible that I haven't seen him or stopped by in a few months. I thought about him here and there this past week since it was so hot here in New York and I know Joe had no air conditioning. He knew where my apartment was and I always made sure to tell him to come down if he needed anything at all. Joe's death has made me very sad, and not because I feel guilty for not stopping by lately, Joe would have died anyway, but if I had seen him in the past couple days, he at least wouldn't have died completely alone. Sure he would have been by himself in his apartment, but at least he would have seen me, a friendly face, someone who knew him, in one of his final days. He had a son that would stop by from time to time but it was infrequent, from what I could tell. I don't know that Joe really had any visitors.
I think his death as also touched me because Joe really was a sweet man. I didn't see him every week, and sometimes a month or so would go by before I either knocked on his door or spoke with him in the hallway. We weren't close, but I cared about Joe and he liked me. A few summers ago there was a black-out in New York that lasted a few days. At the time, I was working on 5th Avenue and walked home that day, like everyone else. When I got home I managed to get in the building but I didn't' have my keys because they were left in my office which was on the 24th floor and since the power was out, we weren't allowed back into the building. When I got home, I somehow managed to get into the building and into my apartment. I went to check on Joe who answered his door with a candle as the hallway was pitch black without windows and it was already dark outside. I made sure he had water and chatted with him for a bit and told him to come down to my place if he needed anything. As I was leaving his door to walk down the flight of stairs to my apartment Joe said to me and smiled, "You helped me out, now I'm going to help you out" he took a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it on the stairs for me so I could see walking down to my apartment. It was the crappiest flashlight - I think it may have even been one of those small, pen-lights, and it illuminated about two feet in front of him, not nearly enough light to really help me out, but it was enough light to see him smiling at me with this look of gratification - happy that he was able to be useful, to 'return the favor' and assist me in getting safely to my apartment. It was very sweet. Before I left him in the dark hallway, I distinctly remember him holding my hand longer than he normally did when we shook hands. He wanted to let me know that he was so happy that I had stopped by to see him in the pitch darkness.
I remember another time I stopped by his apartment with some lemonade that I had made for him. We sat in his living room and he told me the story of how he moved up to New York from the South, maybe Georgia, I can't remember. As he was talking I looked around and noticed that he had one television that was on and working and he had about four other televisions, large ones, that were off and apparently broken. I asked him if I could take them down to the trash for him and he said no, he liked having them as 'furniture'. I think I remember Justin at one point asking him the same question - if he could throw them out for him, make some room in his tiny apartment - and he said thanks but no thanks. Seeing Joe in the hallway was always nice. He walked slow, but without a cane. He dressed well too, clothes that were ironed and made sense together, casual yet dapper, as if he were a 30 year old young man going to work. I don't know how old Joe was, somewhere in his late 80's (?) but he was also an attractive man. He really was. He was always smiling too, not the standard, old-man kind of smile, Joe's smile was genuine and constant and he smiled with purpose, like he was concentrating on you and was glad to see you.
Today I was planning on writing more about something I mentioned in Thursday's writing about a gravestone that we saw while we were camping last week way up on a remote island in Michigan. The graveyard was old and in the middle of a field on South Manitou Island which is an hour and half by ferry into Lake Michigan. The small village on this island was there primarily for lumber/logging and all of the people left the island around the 1930's when the lumber was no longer needed for steam on ships. Remote camping is allowed, cars are not, and there were about 15 people on the entire island while we were there, including the one park ranger.I've been thinking about this gravestone a lot. The gravestone was a simple white cross made of stone that had crudely carved words scratched on it's surface, "human skeleton found on dunes, 1933".
The lack of information on this grave has made me think of several things like; who found the skeleton and who carved the words on the gravestone? There's something about the brevity and lack of poetry in those five words they chose to carve, "Human skeleton found on dunes.....". I wonder if that body, (which wasn't even a body when it was found, it
was just a skeleton) was someone that fell off a passing ship and washed ashore, or if this skeleton at one time belonged to a body that floated from the mainland of Michigan, or further away across the great lake from Illinois or Wisconsin. The idea that a human skeleton can be found on a beach and it's identity remaining unknown even in burial, seems like an outlandish notion in today's over-examined world of DNA, detectives, cameras, news, etc. etc.If a body washed up on any shore right now, countless hours would be spent finding out who it was and how they died, followed by countless hours prosecuting someone and finding fault or cause of death. But back in the 30's on this remote island, a simple layer of events took place; a skeleton was found, picked up and buried. To this day, it's just another death, a skeleton - as insignificant and mundane as finding the skeleton of a dead raccoon or possum on the side of the road - the only difference is whoever found this skeleton, made a modest marker, buried it, and gave it a modest semblance of an identity by scratching words into a rock for a gravestone. It's odd that the person who carved the gravestone used the word, 'skeleton'. I think today the more modern phrase, 'human remains' would have been used. I like the frankness of skeleton. When I was little, I remember every time we happened to drive by the graveyard that my grandfather was buried in, I would ask my mother, "Mom, do you think Pappa is bones yet?"....my mother would always so, "I don't know"....it's such a ghoulish question to ask your mom if her father's dead body has decayed to 'bones yet', but as a kid, somehow I wanted to know this. I have no idea why, but thinking of it now, I really do wonder if he is bones yet, I wonder how long it takes. To me it seems gruesome to embalm a body to preserve it for 'a little longer'...it seems as though once your gone, it's better to be completely gone.
Coming home tonight and learning about Joe's death and seeing this generic card on the door from a funeral parlor and thinking a lot about this unknown skeleton from 1933 - there is very little difference between the two. Most people die alone and without much fanfare, but they always get a marker, of some sort, unless you die in a tsunami or something like that and you are part of a mass grave (now that's depressing).
I'm going to go to Joe's funeral on Tuesday. I won't know anyone there. I'm not really up for it and it's such an abstract idea, to go to a funeral, Joe won't know that I'm there, he's dead, so what's the point? But somehow it seems important to show up.
Andy Warhol said that he wanted one word on his gravestone, "figment". Whoever purchased his headstone (probably his brother) didn't follow through with the one word, instead there is a rather generic headstone like the rest of the graves that surround his in the graveyard in Pittsburgh. Warhol is dead, he's probably even a skeleton by now, but he sure is alive through his works. I wish I could think of a way to have poor Joe remembered, I guess showing up at a funeral will have to do. This writing is a real downer, but oh well, death sucks, it's lame....even if it is the death of a random, old neighbor.
