Dashboard Elvis is Dead, page 22
Weeks pass with no obvious progress. Then a call comes through to the office for me. It’s from an organization based in Scotland called AFB Management, who look after the rights to ‘Independent State of Mind’. Eventually, the deal is done. My song choice gets green-lit. And I feel a sense of atonement, in knowing that Jamie Hewitt’s band will reap the benefits of Apple’s global reach, regardless of what they are doing now.
The Millennium comes and goes. We survive it. Planes don’t fall out of the sky. No-one is reported dead because of a catastrophic computer failure. I celebrate the survival of our species alone. One postcard – from, ironically enough, Houston – is the extent of any contact from Andi:
Hi. Hope you’re okay. Tour is tough. RK is a fucking sexist asshole! Don’t say I told you so.
We should speak. Happy New Years.
Andi x
That was nine months ago. We haven’t spoken. The postcard is still on the fridge door, held in place by an ‘INY’ magnet.
I head out for a regular catch-up with Hennessey. His posture is as poor as it was when I photographed him, but his complexion has improved with a roof regularly over his head. And he has bulked up too. For eighteen months, I’ve been giving him a part of my salary. He declined to begin with, but I persisted. He’d earned it. Those photographs for the Voice opened doors for me, even if I sometimes wish they’d remained closed. He deserved part of the reward, and I was only too happy to share it with him.
How’s things, buddy? I ask.
I’m tip-top, doll, says Hennessey.
We sit on the grass at Battery Park. His choice of location. I take his photograph, as I do regularly. He doesn’t look at the lens or pose. He knows the drill.
Never mind me, he says. How’s the new place?
It’s good, I say. Nice to have an outlook.
And it is. I’m still in the Village but on the third floor of a block on the corner of Bedford and 7th. It’s tiny, but I don’t have to share my claustrophobia.
The basement was fine, but it was too dark, I say.
Yeah, the darkness, I know, he says, and we both wrinkle rueful smiles from the corners of our mouths. The darkness that drove Andi away. Not the lack of daylight.
An’ what ’bout you? he asks.
I’m fine, I say, with downward emphasis.
Don’t sound like it, he says.
And he’s right. I’m in a bind. After two years, I’m as essential to Camel/De Souza as a whiteboard, or a graphics card or, yes, an iMac. We’re the spokes that the efficiency of the wheel is based on. But we’re just spokes. Ordinary and unremarkable. Taken for granted until one of us breaks and then anger is the response.
Jesus, it’s just a job, Hennessey. At least I’ve got one, I say, and it sounds like a jibe at him, which I’m about to correct when…
So have I, he says.
And it’s uttered so matter-of-factly that I almost miss it.
A job, he says to reinforce.
What?
I got a job, he repeats.
Really? where?
Over there, he says.
He is nodding towards the financial district, and I can’t help but laugh. But he isn’t joking.
I’m gonna be a janitor, he says, as proudly as an expectant father.
Honestly?
I can’t quite believe it, given everything he’s been through.
Yeah, he says. That’s why I wanted to bring you here. I’m gonna be involved in some big world trade. He laughs. Well, cleaning up after it.
I’m so happy for him, I lean over and hug him, and slowly, we overbalance, and I land on top of him. We hold the embrace until I feel his cock hardening underneath me. I don’t acknowledge it as it will embarrass him.
I simply say, That’s so amazin’, Hennessey. Now you’ll have to tell me your first name.
Guess, he says, just like he has every other time I’ve asked him.
You still behavin’ yourself at the shelter? I ask him.
Sure, he says, between mouthfuls of meatball sub.
You made any friends?
Some.
Any girl-friends?
No. He swallows and looks down.
Doesn’t pay to get too close to folks on Skid Row. They usually ain’t about for too long, y’know? he says.
You sure? I ask, pointlessly. But Hennessey senses my desire to unload.
You got somethin’ to tell me? he asks.
I rub my hand across my face and sigh in a where-do-I-fucking-start manner.
Jeez, where do I fucking start, I say, confirming the full extent of the awkwardness I’ve gotten myself into with a high-maintenance married client. It’s doubtful Hennessey can offer anything other than a non-judgmental ear but right now, that’s exactly what’s needed.
For six months, I’ve been gettin’ in deeper and deeper with this client, I tell him.
What d’you mean, deeper? he asks.
Another sigh. Another melodramatic wipe of my sweating brow.
Sex? he asks. He already knows the answer.
It’s worse than that, I tell him. She’s been payin’ me for it.
She? He seems surprised at this, like Andi was just a phase I’d grow out of. Or maybe I’m just overly attuned to any negative inferences today.
Her name’s Astrid Atard. She commissioned my agency for a freelance shoot, havin’ seen some of my earlier pictures in Aperture magazine. She said I had a unique eye for capturing sadness and hope simultaneously.
You do, says Hennessy, wryly.
I was flattered. Those photographs were from a time when I was struggling financially, but I think they were amongst my best work, I say.
Always better to get the excuses in first, I’ve learned.
She’s one of these bored Hamptons housewives with too much time on her hands and far too much money, I tell him, laying the seeds of blame.
So, what was the job? he asks. He has turned himself round to face me, becoming more curious by the sentence.
My brief was to capture her in a series of disparate contexts over a three-month period for the opening night of a photographic gallery her financier husband was funding in her name.
Fuck, Jude … imagine havin’ money to burn on shit like that.
Yeah, but she wanted to be photographed up in the projects … above 110th or up in Prospect Heights. I mean, fuck, Hennessey: a white woman in a fur coat and me wanderin’ after her with an expensive camera around my neck. I think I’m tough enough, but, Jesus…
What about the sex? He says this in a way that implies he’d like to extract a tasty bone or two from my miserable carcass.
More sighing, but I figure he’s earned a morsel.
Well, since you ask … The first time we had sex was on a tiny rowboat off Shinnecock Bay. I was drunk. She lay back, an arm above her head. She waved to a friend on the shore while she guided my fingers to her pussy with the other hand. Afterwards, we ate cold cuts and then I threw up over the side.
Holy fuck, he says. And we both laugh loudly at the absurdity.
She invited me to a party held in an expensive apartment on the Upper East Side, hosted by a woman named Luna, one of her friends, I continue.
Jeez, the high life, huh?
I shake my head.
She’s there, lordin’ it over everyone even though it’s not her party. ‘Jude … over here,’ she shouts, snappin’ her fingers. ‘Jude, doll, take a photograph of us. We’re celebrating.’ These five women – four white, one Black person – pose. Bonnie, the Black woman, she seems as uneasy as me. This Luna, she has one of these new mobile telephones with in-built point-and-shoot cameras. I’ve never seen one before. I take some photos of them with it. None of them passes the bar. In all of them, Astrid’s face is like a lemon-suckin’ rodent.
I bet, he says.
‘Oh no, look at your face, Bonnie, Jude’s made you look so haggard,’ says Astrid. ‘Those lines.’ Fucking shakin’ her head. ‘Maybe this one?’ and she holds it up to the others, an’ I can tell from Bonnie’s reaction that it’s one where I’ve managed to cut her out of the shot. ‘This is the best one. It’s a shame you’re not in it though, Bonnie. And that’s from a professional photographer too,’ fucking Astrid jokes, tut-tuttin’, and laughin’ at me. ‘I might need to rethink your rate.’
What a bitch, says Hennessey.
I left early tellin’ nobody, but before I did, I whispered to Bonnie, ‘Your friend Astrid, she’s a cunt!’
Ha Ha, good for you, says Hennessey. He applauds.
I saw Astrid one more time, a few nights after the party. She was in a rage and cracked a bottle of expensive Champagne off my forehead because of Bonnie’s gossipy tattle, I say.
Fuck, Jude, you’ve gotta get out of that viper’s nest, Hennessey says.
I know, I tell him.
I have become a prostitute. I’m ashamed of myself, and of the way I allowed Astrid’s money to pollute me. I shudder when I think of Janet Delaney and what she would say if she knew. And if – as she has threatened – Astrid Atard reports my less-than-exemplary conduct to my employers.
I could lose my job, Hennessey, I say.
You won’t, he says, and despite him having no basis on which to make that assertion, I briefly believe him. I leave for home, grateful that he’s in my life and feeling that in this city of five boroughs and eight million people, Hennessey might be the only one I need.
This thought carries me uptown to my apartment. When I get there, a card has been taped to my door. The words on it read:
I’M COMING FOR YOU AND YOU WON’T KNOW WHEN
I now send regular letters to Lakeview. I enquire after Rabbit. That is always the purpose of my correspondence. Pleasantries, yes. Updates, yes. But it is always about Rabbit. How she is doing in school. If she is still drawing and painting. If she is happy. The replies – from Ben, obviously – are sporadic, but they confirm that he’s been calling my mom and Larry and letting them know I am fine. When I get the call that morning, I know it is because Ben has passed on my number even though I asked him not to.
Hey, Jude. It’s Larry. Your mom’s sick, he says.
Straight to the point, from which I can gauge the seriousness. I look at my watch. 6:52am.
I think you should come home, sweetheart, he says.
I’m blindsided.
Uh, I’ve got work, I reply.
It’s an instinctive reaction to buy time. Time Delphine clearly doesn’t have. For all the obscure conditions that could’ve claimed her, it’s a common one that has snuck up undetected. Pancreatic adenocarcinoma: the worst of the cancer variations, as I understand. A truly rapid onset with no obvious symptoms that Larry has been aware of. She has either kept them hidden or was as shocked as he was four weeks ago when a sudden stomach pain and unexplained weight loss found their cause. Either way, she has days. A week or so at most. At least she won’t be suffering the extended ignominy of the typical poverty-stricken, terminally ill American. Larry won’t see it this way, of course. In the future, he’ll appreciate the speed of the journey from diagnosis to deathbed.
Come home, Jude, he says. Softly but firmly.
Okay.
It’s 8.00am. I call the agency. A receptionist answers. I get through to someone in Human Resources.
A week off at such short notice isn’t ideal, Jude, but since it’s a close relative…
I look through my current client contacts. An early-morning meeting will have to be cancelled. I am due to photograph the new World Trade Center artist-in-residence on an upper floor of 1 WTC. The agency is hoping to commission original artwork for an airline campaign. The artist is Scottish. I’d been looking forward to talking to her about her background. And taking shots of the city as it wakes, from the highest point above it. And there would’ve been the bonus of catching up with Hennessey over a coffee in his new place of work.
I call to reschedule. The Scottish artist’s number rings out. It’s still early. An impossibly beautiful Manhattan fall morning. The most mesmerizing blue sky. Unseasonably humid, too. I open the window fully to take it in. Breathing in deeply; the calmness before the emotional storm of Humble. I take a shower and after some breakfast, decide that I’ll address the issue of booking a flight to Houston. I walk into the kitchen still wrapped in a towel. I pour coffee. I take a bagel from the basket and pick at it. I look out again to the developing bustle on 7th Avenue. It’s 8.42am.
I call the artist’s number. Again, it rings out. This time, I leave a message:
Hi there, it’s Jude Montgomery here. We were due to meet this morning but I’m really sorry. I’ve had some personal news from home, and I’ll have to reschedule. I’ll try to catch you again later. Hopefully, we can rearrange for later in September.
I don’t say ‘bye’. And I don’t hang up either. A large bang over to my right startles me. It sounds more like a train wreck than an RTA. I rush over to the window. Whatever has just occurred shocks people in the street below. They point. Upwards. Their hands cover their mouths. I remember the reactions on the day of the shooting at Humble High. This is similar. Drivers get out of their cars. They step forwards, doors left wide open. Motors idling. As if they can’t quite believe what they are witnessing.
What’s happenin’? I shout down from my building.
No-one hears or acknowledges me. I turn the television on. CNN morning anchor, Carol Lin, is speaking over a startling image.
…This just in. You are looking at obviously a very disturbing live shot there. That is the World Trade Center, and we have unconfirmed reports this morning that a plane has crashed into one of the towers…
I look at the clock. It’s 8.48am. My meeting with the artist was to be on the 110th floor of the north tower. I’m close to the screen. Hoping for some clue as to what tower the grey smoke is billowing from.
Which tower is it? I shout at the screen.
My breathing is escalating. What one does Hennessey work in? The artist won’t be at work that early. Creative people sleep late and work to their own clock, don’t they?
In minutes, flames are witnessed. A commercial jet? No-one onboard can have survived this.
Jesus fucking Christ!
I stagger backwards. I reach for my bag. The long lens that I hardly ever use pokes out. I changed it last night in preparation for the city shots from the top of the World Trade Center. I stuff rolls of film in the side pocket. I pull on my sneakers and head out.
Out in the street, there’s an air of quiet disbelief. I snap randomly and without properly focusing. People react to what is happening. And even before I round the corner to see what they are looking at for myself, I know that this is something tragic and historic I am witnessing.
The tower, when it finally comes into view down 7th Street, takes the air out of me. I lift the lens, and as I press to take the shot, a second plane smashes into the middle of the other tower. It’s 9.03am.
Hennessey! I call out his name and know nothing will ever be the same again.
Two planes hitting the Twin Towers isn’t a coincidence. It can no longer be a calamitous accident.
Oh my God, we’re under attack! someone yells.
The shock of earlier turns to panicked screaming. All around me, people scour the skies, looking through the drifting, darkening smoke. We are staring, many of us through tears, fearful of more planes. The first tower hit is damaged near the top. The second tower is visibly holed closer to the center. The impact on the latter looks greater. A bigger airplane perhaps. I’m running, unaware of when I started, towards downtown. Sirens now drown out the cacophony of other insistent sounds. I reach the junction of Varick Street and West Broadway. I stop, out of breath, unable to run like I once did. Still panting, I instinctively lift the camera again. I focus closely on the first tower hit.
It looks like it could collapse any second, I hear from over my shoulder.
Unthinkable minutes ago, it now seems inevitable that it will. The top of the building explodes, like a faulty firecracker. And I stare at it through the viewfinder. I press. And I press. And the structure suddenly tears apart. And I press. And the insides of it burst out in millions of tiny pieces. And I press. And the screams from all around me intensify. And I press. I focus again. Closer. Papers fly out of the gaping wound like confetti. Tiny dots fall straight down from the top. I focus closer. The dots are shaped like humans. The dots are human beings. Jumping out of a burning building a hundred stories above the city. Jumping for their families. Jumping because identification might be possible that way. I zoom in tight on one. A Black woman, in a smart business suit and white blouse. I can see her so clearly. She is floating effortlessly. Calm, relaxed, resigned to dying. I press repeatedly. Twelve shots in the short time it takes for her life to end. And it seems like everything is frozen in time except this monument to Western free-market capitalism collapsing right in front of us. And I press. It feels wrong to be recording such a catastrophic loss on film. Of life, surely. Of lifestyle, certainly. Of liberty? Well, that depends on what this is we are witnessing. Like Janet Delaney taught me, I don’t look away. I’m an invading onlooker at the scene of a terrible accident. All I can do is press. And it’s not like the Bowery Bums. I’m removed from this. A voyeur merely filming, not emotionally entangled. Not yet at least.
In minutes, the mushroom cloud of dust and debris is rolling towards us. It engulfs the street before us, like a brutalist urban sandstorm.
Run, lady. Fucking run for it!
A man’s face yelling straight into mine breaks the spell the fog has over me. It’s almost upon us. I’m unable to move. Rooted to the spot, waiting for it to hit. I’m pulled down. Dragged along. Under a vehicle. The white noise of this concrete avalanche is astonishing. I can’t hear. Everything turns black. The brilliant sunshine of that beautiful September morning has been extinguished. This is the Dust Age.
The first sounds I can distinguish are glass breaking and a voice desperately calling through the blackness. It sounds like I am underwater. I crawl out from this impromptu shelter. I feel around for my savior, but there’s no-one close to me. I make my way towards the despairing voice. There is a faint glow ahead. I follow it. It guides me to a deli. Inside, firefighters, police officers and a few others stumble around. They cough out mouthfuls of mud. They pour bottles of water over their faces. They catch intermittent breaths.
