Sleek granite walls rose out of the street forming narrow canyons of high rise offices, slicing the midday sun in half like a fresh lemon. The cheated sun pierced one side of the street with a ruthless interrogation lamp intensity, while just across the way storefronts were cast in a gloomy shadow. The sidewalks overflowed with grey faced businessmen and middle eastern hagglers selling beaded necklaces, incense, and fruit from cheap folding tables. I expected to be in Cairo or Turkey, but not mid-town Manhattan.
High above this congested mess of hot-dog stands, banana salesmen, and taxi cabs, the crisp eastern winds of summer crackled the colorful flags hanging from the dozen tall poles which lined the avenue. They swirled in unison like a huge cocktail stirrer drifting in a martini glass.
I stood on the sunny side of the street, waiting for a taxi, while people rushed past me trying to beat the little green man across the intersection. It was a Friday, about 4:00pm, and I had finished up my day's meetings. I could either go back to the office, or find a cafe somewhere to sit and think. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of white, and looked up into the vista above me. I watched as a piece of newspaper drifted slowly down past thirty stories of plate glass window, floating, turning, and finally landing right at my feet. "MAN KILLS ALIEN WITH LAWNMOWER, see page 5" it said.
Just then the light changed, and a taxi pulled up. I was about to jump in, but an old man stepped out. His wooden walking stick appeared first, and out of common courtesy, I held the heavy car door open for him. He slowly gathered himself together, his flowing garments, his shopping bags, and managed to exit with the strength of a younger man. I looked directly into his face, and saw in his ancient brown eyes an eternity of wisdom and compassion. He was unkempt and dirty, but somehow distinguished and noble in his air. I had never been so near a homeless man before, and couldn't help but wonder where he bathed. He had a magnificent white Wadsworthian beard and frantic long hair that flowed out in matted dreadlocks. Most stunning of all were the endless creases that lined his stony face. Each small crease told a forgotten story, and branched off into smaller and smaller tributaries. It was as if the old man had etched onto his face a thousand genealogical maps. He gave me a sharp look and said, "Is there a church near here?" Obligingly I answered, "Yeah sure, there's one up the street, but it's pretty run down." Then the taxi sped away. "Take me there then," he demanded.
I hesitated for a moment, but figured that helping an old man find a church couldn't be too dangerous. It was still early, and my other obligations could wait, so we started off together towards St. Peter's Cathedral on Bowery Street.
During the four block walk to St. Peter's I noticed a sudden decline in the neighborhood. Garbage collected on the corners, and chain linked fences protected vacant weed grown lots. People parked their rusted out Buicks and Pontiacs with two wheels up on the curb, latino style, and there was a noticeable odor of beer and urine coming from behind the short German stoops which characterized this onetime working class district. The old man breezed along, quite unfazed by his surroundings, which was good since we stuck out like two imminent mugging victims. His walking stick clicked along at a healthy pace, and soon we had reached St. Peter's. "Well this is it," I said, pointing to a run down building which had obviously been neglected for years. The tall arched doorways and beautiful stained glass windows were now bricked up with construction blocks, and gang kids had painted the entire concrete base of the edifice in graffiti and obscenities. Two bums slept on a slab of cardboard under the doorway, and we heard loud activity coming from inside. "Are you sure this is where you want to go?" I asked.
"This will do," he said. So I kicked some broken bottles out of his way, and we headed up the littered steps.
What we saw as we entered the darkened corridors of this rundown church took us both by surprise, and I will try to describe it to you as best as I can.
The church had become a kind of refuge for addicts, skin heads, punks, and derelicts of every kind. A small trash fire burned in a distant corner, and the smell of ruin lingered pungently in the air. What had once been an alter was now a large stage, with a set of long organ pipes displayed prominently behind the pulpit. Stage lighting had been set up resembling a dance club, and the pews had been arranged like a small concert hall. A crucifix was suspended precariously over the stage by cables drawn down from the ceiling. I had never quite seen anything like it before, and it took a moment to take it all in.
Pigeons fluttered about in the rafters, and we saw several rats scurrying about the scattered bottles, syringes, and trash underneath the pews. The congregation, if you can call them that, were made up of transients and low life of every kind. I tried not to watch as two tattooed gay men engaged each other in one of the rear confessionals. They hadn't bothered to close the curtain for privacy. Scattered throughout the pews were drugged out crack heads, a dozen or so homeless people wrapped in heavy coats, and dangerous looking skin heads playing with glinting switchblade knives. They were all watching the show before them on the stage.
Seven performers jerked about violently, performing a mixture of high volume speed metal and psychedelic funk, while to the side of the stage, three backup singers did a Baptist Gospel routine, dressed in long metallic graduation gowns with tall white collars. The lights flashed rapidly between colors and strobes, casting a strange glow upon the transfixed audience. There was a loud explosion, and with a string of vicious howls from the guitars, a man with long curly hair and purple sunglasses suddenly appeared on the stage. He wore tight leather pants and a clear pinkish raincoat, and was escorted by two shapely young women who stood to his side. It was quite a good show.
The old man, who had not said a word during this entire spectacle, grabbed me by the sleeve, and motioned for me to follow him into the audience. "Let's find a seat," he said. "This is going to be interesting." We sat down in an empty pew near the middle, and waited to see what would happen next. The man with the long curly hair and purple sunglasses, scowled lewdly at the audience before throwing his arms into the air exclaiming, "Oh yes! Oh yes!" and the band hurled into a bullet train rendition of "I Got the Power" while he pranced about the stage screaming and yelling for a full three minutes. Suddenly the music stopped, and he walked up to the pulpit and spoke. "You have come here today because you have no other place to go. This is your refuge! This is your home!" He motioned briefly to the pillars with his hand before continuing. "You are all weak. You have nothing. You have nothing!" and then he spun wildly away from the pulpit, grabbing a half naked band member and throwing her into a long devouring kiss. The band once again screamed into volume. He pushed the young woman violently away, and grabbed a long sleek white electric guitar from behind the pulpit, and began scraping a series of piercing high notes from the instrument. I looked to my right to see what the old man thought of all this. He seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, and I thought I caught a glimpse of weariness or sadness in his ancient eyes. "Is this what you wanted to see?" I asked him. "No, I was expecting something quite different," he said disappointed. At this time, he reached into his shopping bag and brought out a strangely shaped golden bow. It was decorated in elaborate swirls and engravings, and I wondered how he fit it into his bag. He then reached somewhere into his long coat, and brought out an unusually shaped little arrow. It wasn't straight as most arrows are, but looked something like a musical symbol or a Hebrew letter. In one swift motion, he pulled the bowstring back, and snap, sent the strange little arrow flying through the air. It struck the man with the purple sunglasses directly in the heart, who immediately fell to the floor. The band ground to a halt, and they slowly gathered around the stricken man. "Don't worry about him," the old man said to me. "He'll be fine." He slipped the bow back into the bag, and I noticed that he had now pulled out a very large book, which he set down between us. The book looked like it weighed about fifty pounds, and was as big as a sack of potatoes. Stunned, I tried to say something, but was drawn to this beautiful leather bound book. It was ancient, and when I touched it, it felt cool and worn like holding my grandfather's hand when I was a child. The old man, sensing my curiosity, picked the book up and quickly thumbed through it. I noticed it was written in English, and organized like a dictionary or encyclopedia of some sort. I caught various titles as he flipped through the pages, "Geographic manipulation of electrical forces," "The reason of Nature," "Synthetic gene splicing, "The historical significance of Man." It was a fascinating book unlike any that I had ever seen, and I tried to glimpse more of what it contained, but the old man closed the book and quickly stood up. He brushed past me, his long garments rustling like waves in the sea, and walked over towards the left side of the stage. The band was still crouched over the fallen man, who was unconscious or dead, I don't know which, and had managed to drag his body off to the side. The old man climbed up the small stairs which led to the stage, walked over to the pulpit, and cleared his throat. The microphone was still on, and made a short squealing sound. He had suddenly gathered everyone's attention.
"This man will be fine," he said, motioning to the body behind him. "He is confused, and needs to rest. You needn't worry about him." Then he held up the large book and said, "I have come here today to speak to you about knowledge. Knowledge is a transient thing. It changes from day to day. Look at you all, sitting here listening to this ridiculous man, believing what he says. It's all nonsense. You are all being fooled. Knowledge is something you must go out and seek for yourselves. It is all right here in this book." He opened the book, and read out loud a passage describing how to manufacture a small nuclear weapon. He flipped through some more pages, and read about a surgical procedure I had never heard of before involving synthetically soldering brain cells to improve memory. It was fascinating. Every step was outlined in brilliant and exacting detail. "This is the book of Knowledge," he said. "Everything you need to know is listed right here. History, politics, science, life in every way as we find it. It is all contained here in this book."
At this moment I stood up and asked, "But if there is such a book, then why is there still suffering, pain, killing, and war in the world?" The old man gave me a kind look and said, "My son, reading this book from cover to cover will not help answer your questions. Man cannot know everything. The most that a man can do is live his life and face the things that he encounters. He can think about those things and try to understand what they mean. This is life. This is real knowledge. You must go out and live your own life, and draw upon this book only to confirm your own belief. I hope that you can understand this."
Then the old man collected his garments and descended the stage. I got up to follow him, but he had already reached the exit. It was still daylight. He waved a taxi, and as I reached the sidewalk, he had gotten in and shut the door. I watched for a moment wondering if this was really who I thought it was, and with the flash of a passing car, he was gone. As the traffic blurred past me, standing there in front of the broken down church, I saw a flock of small white birds fly up between two water towers. Then slowly, like a painting, the sounds of the city seeped in with the evening breeze, and for the first time in my life, I realized I was not alone.
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