This article was published in Scientific American’s former blog network and reflects the views of the author, not necessarily those of Scientific American
This post is part of a collaborative narrative series composed of my writing and Chris Arnade's photos exploring issues of addiction, poverty, prostitution and urban anthropology in Hunts Point, Bronx. For more on the series, look here.
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Roy, Hunts Point. Courtesy of Chris Arnade.
Roy lives inside a vast cavern, formed where bridge meets expressway, strewn with garbage and women's clothing. The expanse's size could be compared to a car dealership lot, one with moguls and a harsh tilt. He lives with a Mexican man who cross-dresses, and he has a mental illness about which he does not speak or does not know. Others know after talking with him.
Buckets near his bed are partially filled with human waste. To loom over them is to hold in vomit.
There is a small mattress near the buckets and on the mattress, magazines flaunting pussy and ass from multiple decades.
On the other side, within yelling distance, another mattress. Two divided by dipped planes that form a river in heavy rain.
It is black inside, and the dirt is uneven. If such things could be seen, there would be dust clouds.
Cats roam, too. There are either many cats collected or none. Since recently there are less, the cavern's female occupants stole and collared a cat. It's a male tabby. Reliable company, a friend, a lightness, to be shown off.
Roy can be difficult. In the darkness, he speaks in circles about conspiracies and family inheritances. It can be wondered if he ever leaves the darkness. He isn't seen outside, over the bridge or in the neighborhood.
When women come to visit, he leers, with his voice and with his eyes when light is shined on him. When women stay, he tries to have sex with them. The acts, or forceful requests, the cost of a place to stay.
He invades space. One, two, three, four women say.
His place is the last place anyone goes. Women go there when there is nothing else. Go home to the dirty old man.
Alone, there, the bottom.
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More Hunts Point Addiction Writing
Chris Arnade's Photos and his Facebook feed