The Days and Months We Were First Born- the Unraveling (9 page)

A Walk through Jersey

Other than spotting the boats farther up river
, my trip to Jersey was uneventful. The water sparkled with bright sunlight; a few puffy white clouds moved swiftly overhead across the rich blue sky; the only noise was the gentle swaying of the Hudson and the strokes of my paddle; and the Statue of Liberty was standing, tall, green, and pronounced—and oblivious to the devastated world around her.

But looking to the waterfront of Jersey City, I was able to see how things had changed.
The aura was
e
e
rie and
quiet. T
he windows of the hotels, office suites, condos, and riverside cafes were broken, revealing nothing but darkness inside. The entire waterfront was
de
void of human activity. The only signs of life were the pigeons and the seagulls. They were flying, perching, and no doubt, shitting wherever they pleased.

I landed the canoe along a bed of barrier rocks—right i
n front of Liberty State Park. And i
nside the canoe, there really wasn’t much I could bring along with me.
The only thing remaining was a small strap bag. I
nside
the bag
were three packs of Taiwanese cookies, a wad of useless East American cash, and a half-drunken bottle of water. The strap bag and cookies came with me. Everything else was left behind.

After climbing the handrail and landing securely on the other side, I took in the scene before me.

The entire park
was
a mass gravesite. It was similar to where we buried our dead in the city, but this was on a much larger scale. There were row upon row of brown dirt mounds, which stretched across
my line of sight
. There must have been thousands buried, maybe even hundreds of thousands, or even a million depending on how they were stacked. I wish I were exaggerating. To see such a thing in person a
nd to know what it represented
was such a surreal experience.

I walked through the death-field toward the western edge of the park,
hearing
only the rustle of wind rattling the few thin trees and bushes. The air had a powerful, acrid smell. It was thick and sweltering. I
could almost feel
worms crawling all over
me, tingling across my skin
. I held the bottom of my shirt to my nose and took short, efficient breaths. For the most part, my eyes were half-closed. With so many deceased bodies in
one location, the odor was
expected, but that didn’t make it any easier to take.

I didn’t have the gun out, but my left hand was very close to it in the event I would need it.

***

Communipaw Avenue was the main street through a bustling Islamic community. In its time, the one-way strip was home to shops, open-air markets, prayer centers, cultural museums, and some of the finest Arabic restaurants of the East Coast. The wide sidewalks used to teem with locals and tourists alike.

The shops sold a variety of goods, such as handcrafted jewelry and art, and tailor-made garments and shoes. The open-air markets sold items such as imported prayer rugs, imported produce, and freshly slaughtered meat that hung from hooks, skinned and sliced down the middle. The prayer centers were modern glass and stainless steel structures. Prayers used to blast from the loudspeakers and resonate throughout the entire district. The museums featured art from all over the Islamic world, from centuries-old paintings to modern glass and chrome sculptures.
And my favorite places,
the
restaurants,
were absurdly expensive at almost EAD10 a plate, but the food and the service was worthy of royalty.

Communipaw Avenue was also known for its famous Shisha houses: places where people (mostly men) would come to enjoy coffee, tea, kabobs, and small dishes of curry. They would smoke wet tobacco from silver colored hookahs, and discuss business, the
Qur’an
, or the local politics of the day.

After a few blocks, the main business district gave way to beautiful apartment buildings. The
y
were a perfect blend of old world design and modern amenities. The clay sidings were painted in soft colors, from canary yello
w to powder blue. The balconies—
constructed of synthetic marble
—
had
wide archways that gave each unit a sense of personal luxury. The windows were stained in rich colors,
giving
each building a unique pattern. The patterns were like quilts—ten-level-tall quilts.

Communipaw Avenue was a great and exotic place to visit, completely different from life in the city, and yet only a train stop away. When my father and I wanted to spend time together, just the two of us, this was where we used to hang out. The environment was festive. The people were friendly. And there was never a shortage of activities or interesting things to discover.

But on September 3, 2068, it was a completely different story.

Communipaw Avenue was the scene of a great battle. It must have happened earlier that day or the night before. And the aftermath was complete devastation.

The open-air market stands were smashed to pieces, the gold colored tents were ripped to shreds, and the shreds were either lying in ruin or smoldering from spent fire. There were a few burnt cars as well. They were totaled, as if someone had taken a huge hammer and had beaten the shit out of them. The street lights above were broken and bent, like giant, snapped toothpicks. The goods were looted long ago, the storefronts were broken into and burnt, the prayer house and museums were deserted, and everything was riddled with sporadic bullet holes.

Glass and bullet shells littered the wide sidewalks and pavement.
There
were dead corpses strewn throughout
, like discarded piles of clothes
. I
stopped counting
at ten. They were men; dressed in khaki pants, stained white t-shirts, and black shemaghs. They were lying in their own thick blood, with prolific flies gleefully hovering around them.
Putrid
garbage bags
punctuated
the
scene
. Some were ripped open spilling their contents, and some were intact. It was hard to tell which smelled worse: the garbage or the dead.

Eventually
,
I made it to the apartment buildings, and I could hear the occasional murmur of misery inside. From my jud
gment, someone was either dying,
or mourning for someone who had just died. I couldn’t see them. They were inside their units, and for that, I was grateful. I kept walking with my hand on the gun. My pace was slow. I stopped every few seconds to look around. The misery, the danger, the hopelessness; it was all so stifling
.

At the intersection of Grand Street, there was a storefront at the foot of one of the apartment buildings. The glass was cracked, but I could tell that it was a shop that us
ed to sell nuts and spices. Movement inside caught my eye and I eventually made out
a woman. It was dark; I had to squint to see her. She was
kneeling
in front of a counter, and she was holding her dead infant. I could tell that she was dying herself, from the last stages of the cancer. She stared ahead at nothing, and rocked her limp child back and forth.

I continued on my way, trying to shake the image.

I kept going until I reached John F. Kennedy Boulevard. There was an old man in the middle of a sidewalk. He had a bald head, a gray beard that dominated his face, and he was shirtless, revealing a skinny frame with visible ribcages. He had to have been in his eighties, easy.

The old man was on his knees. He was hymning a prayer in Arabic, zoned out, and oblivious to anyone and anything around him. He hymned his prayer with a soulful beauty, as if he could make all the wrong around him right with his song. I stood and watched. I was lost in fascination.

***

Three minutes later, my concentration was broken. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted three teenage Muslims. They were standing next to each other a block and a half down Communipaw Avenue. They were yelling something to each other in Farsi, and they were looking right at me.

Sensing trouble, I forgot all about the praying man and continued west.

The teenagers followed.

I hurried my pace. And in turn, they hurried theirs.

My
breathing
increased,
panic trembled through me, and I told myself to stay calm in vain
.

I looked back toward them. And they were growing more emboldened with every step.

By the time I reached West Side Avenue, they started running after me. I took off as well.
And now we were in a sprint,
an all-out chase.

Geez, this is nice. Didn’t even make it through Jersey City.

The blocks were long, but I raced pass one after the other.
I had to leap over garbage, and swerve around abandoned baby strollers and other shit dumped on the sidewalk. The young thugs behind me were yelling in excitement. They were younger and more determined, and they were
slowly but surely closing in.
I was losing stamina. The Lincoln Highway Bridge was dead ahead, but I wasn’t going to make it, and even if I did, they would have followed. Something had to give. And it did.

At Marcy Avenue, I turned a sharp left around the corner of a building.

I stood my ground. I was breathing heavily, damn near ready to pass out. Then I pulled out the 9mm.

Seconds later, my pursuers rounded the corner, still yelling. They had knives drawn, and they were thrilled in their pursuit of a victim.

That was until they found themselves facing the barrel of the victim’s gun.

All three stopped in their tracks. They put their hands in the air and looked back and forth between each other, the barrel of my gun, and my exhausted and angry face. Realizing they were in deep shit, one of them spoke in heavily accented English.

“Take it easy, brother…We mean you no harm.”

“Who in the hell do you take me for,” I said. “Drop the goddamn knives or I’m going to drop you!”

They did as I told them.

“Ok, brother? Are we ok now?”

Now that I had an up-close look at them, the teenagers were much younger than I had thought. They couldn’t have been older than sixteen. They were immune, they were scared, and they didn’t want to die at my hands. I was scared too, but I’d have been damned if I was about to show it—especially to them.

“Please,” said the second teenager, “We are hungry. We have not eaten in three days…Please, brother! Please!”

Their desperation increased as the seconds went by. I could tell that they were not thugs by nature. They were just survivors, trying to
survive however
they could. My anger and exhaustion gave way to calm and sympathy.

“Where are your people? Who are you with? Are there more of you?” I said.

The third teenager replied, “We have no people. Everyone is either dead or gone. Our family is dead.”

“So why are you still here? Why didn’t you leave with the others?” I asked.

“Because the
others
took everything,” replied the third teenager. “They took everything and they slaughtered what remained of our family. We only survived because we were hidden. We were immune, and our family didn’t want us to die like them. Not when we could have lived. We only came out when everyone was gone…when it was safe.”

The teen was serious. He looked right into my eyes.
H
is face was as bitter as it was sincere.

“Which way did they head?” I asked.

“To the north,” said the second teenager. He was trembling. “Please brother…we don’t want to die.”

I sighed. Then I reached into the
strap bag, pulled out a pack of the Taiwanese cookies, and tossed it to them.

The teens were like starved seals in a zoo, clamoring for fish during feeding. They yelled
happily
as they ripped the bag open. They barely avoided spilling the whole thing. Even if they did, I believe they would have eaten right off the ground. Feverishly, they devoured away. It really was the first thing they had eaten in days.

“Listen to me as I tell you this,” I said in a severe tone. “If you cross my path and try to rob me again, I will shoot you. If you try to rob anyone, they have a gun and you only have your little fucking knives, they will shoot you. Today is your lucky day…you little
bastards!
Pick those things
up and get the hell out of here.
Go back where you came!”

I motioned to the east with my gun.

Grateful, and slightly less starved, the teens picked up their knives. They put them away. And in a single file, they hurried back down Communipaw Avenue.

I watched until they were at least a kilometer away. I was relieved, excited, and still somewhat sympathetic, all at once.