Cousin Harold by Wayne Scheer
First appeared in Free Verse News, December 6, 2006.
I see the Village Voice finally gave you your fifteen minutes, Mr. G.
At least, that's what the Voice called you —
The family, of course, knows you as Cousin Harold.
You'd been showing porn at the Polk Theater in Jackson Heights since 1959,
"Nine dirty films a day," you say proudly.
That's some accomplishment, Cousin Harold,
What with the way the city cleaned up Times Square,
Turning it into a haven for T-shirt buying tourists.
The article said the Polk was only one of three porno theaters left in the city.
And now you've sold the Polk.
It's expected to become an apartment building,
As if New York City needs another apartment building.
"I shouldn't have sold it," you say now. "I have nothing to do."
It's not like you had a choice. Down to twelve customers a day,
Including the man with one glove
Who spent much of the time outside the theater talking on his cellphone.
Still, you loved the Polk, despite it smelling like piss and old carpet.
"All it needs is a paint job," you told the reporter. "Look at it, it's so nice."
You wanted to save it, but like your bowler hat, black overcoat and ever-present handkerchief
It had become an eyesore, an embarrassment. Especially to the family.
Your daughter moved far from New York, claiming only that you were in real estate.
Your most loyal employee, Sandra the ticket-taker, attended church every morning
Begging forgiveness for the sin of selling tickets at a dirty movie theater.
How will she feed her sixteen cats, you worry.
The family still remembers when you were young and your mother, Tanta Susha,
Sold tickets. When people asked how she could work in such a place, she said,
"What? I shouldn't help my Harrilah?"
The Cousins' Club stopped meeting years ago.
Now you make your calls to their children and grandchildren
And you tell stories about the old days, how you had to dress like you were connected.
You tell them about the article in the Voice. You're famous, you say.
The Polk is gone, and you, at seventy-five, sleep most of the day
Because you have no place to wear your bowler hat.
After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. He's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. Some of his work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, The Pedestal, flashquake, Apple Valley Review and Triplopia. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.