Monster Alley
by
Robert Ocala
Published by Kormic, LLC
Copyright 2015 Robert Ocala
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Lyman trudged up the grungy, deserted lamp–lit street slowly becoming aware of the dirt–gray brownstones and occasional businesses around him, but most of all he found himself becoming aware of how tired he felt since fleeing the cops this morning.
Dented garbage cans littered the sidewalk before him, TV antennas prickled the moonlit sky above, but two blocks ahead—lights, traffic, people. He slipped his cuff to glimpse his watch: 2:00 am. At 2:00 am all that life ahead could only mean one street in all of New York City: Broadway.
So, he was in mid–Manhattan now, the forties no doubt; two blocks west of The Great White Way. He had no idea of how many miles he’d walked since hoofing it out of the Bronx this morning but slowly rousing from his daze, he began to feel a tremendous urge to immerse himself in all that life ahead when suddenly his huge problem came roaring back.
He had to find a new hustle—and quick.
Who’d of thought the law could get so worked up over the theft of a few wheelchairs? Christ, didn’t he always point Huey to the sickos he stole them from and have him offer them first crack at buying their chairs back—at half price yet! Who said he had no soul? He had a soul. If anything it was how to keep body and soul together now that he’d lost his only source of income.
But with the law onto him now, he dared not even sneak back to his pad to get his duds, much less the book with all his contacts in it. He was stuck, out in the night, with nothing on but his pants, slippers and Yankees jacket—not even a T–shirt, socks or skivvies.
He’d ducked out this morning for his usual coffee ‘and’, and immediately heard that Huey had gotten busted—again. He’d wondered how the little crack freak would wiggle out of it this time. Then, scuffing back to his pad in his slippers, he’d spotted the two ‘suits’ sitting in the ‘unmarked’ parked by the fire hydrant in front of his pad—oops cops!—and realized exactly how the little crack freak had wiggled out of it this time, by ratting out the Notorious Wheelchair Thief, was how.
There went his livelihood.
He’d done an immediate one–eighty and been walking ever since, trying to get his mind around this shocking reversal of fortunes, oblivious of everything; bumping into shoppers, mail boxes, wind–whipping cars skimming by, shouts of “Asshole” and horns blaring in his ears.
Now, shoulders hunched against the autumn chill, Lyman shuffled up the deserted street, not a sound to be heard but the scuff of his slippers; the only signs of life a splash of light across the sidewalk from a bar up the block and a peon across the street sweeping out a bistro with a jack–o–lantern in its window.
Suddenly Lyman felt hungry. Jesus, to be down to forty bucks in a city that eats money; thank God for his watch, gold ring and bracelet; these he could hock for a quick duce, but how far would even two hundred get him in this money–grubbing town?
Besides, the jewelry wasn’t for food; it was his case ace, his quick conversion to cash for just such emergencies as this, but where to find or buy into a new hustles in the middle of the night?
Who said a sucker’s born every minute? Damn! Lyman kicked a tin can through a cone of lamp light. Out into the garbage–strewn gutter it clattered till swallowed by darkness when a tall, thin figure in a high–collared cape leaped out of the alley before him, claws raised, and boomed, ”I vont to dreenk your blood.”
Lyman’s heart leaped to his tonsils and he threw up his dukes to fight.
“Oops, sorry, sir,” the figure piped in a high–pitched voice, “I didn’t mean to scare you quite so bad.” He lowered his claws to the tray hanging from his neck.
“A pitchman,” Lyman blurted, “youse’er a pitchman?”
“Au contraire,” the figure piped with a Victorian sweep of his cape, “pray, not a pitchman, sir, but an actor, if you will.”
“An actor, youse’er an actor?”
His fear subsiding, Lyman sized the fool up quick; and Lyman had a keen eye for the brown spot on a piece of fruit: cape, tie and tails sagging off tall, skinny frame, chalk white Dracula mask and rubber claws right out of Woolworths; throw in the high-pitched voice and he realized he’d been confronted by a six–foot–four–inch string bean of a kid who couldn’t weigh over a hundred–and–fifty pounds.
Nothing spooky there; though eight inches shorter and a good twenty years older, Lyman was a hundred–and–eighty–pound gang–banger. He’d match his strength and street smarts against this silly string bean’s any day. In fact, one more hinky move out of the kid and he’d kick a hole in him—oops, he’s talking.
“...did you expect, sir, walking through Monster Alley at this time of night?”
“Monster Alley?” Lyman screwed up his face in confusion.
“What, sir, you haven’t heard of Monster Alley?”
Lyman winced to the kid’s high–pitch. “’Fraid not, pally. Bronx boy, born an’ bred.” He planted meaty fists on his stocky hips. One more hinky move....
Ah, well, sir, ask and ye shall receive.”
Oh, no; not a Bible thumper! “Okay, I’ll bite; what’s your Monster Alley?”
“You’re in Manhattan’s theater district, sir, on one of the streets with its legitimate theaters; we call it Monster Alley at the moment because it’s presently offering revivals of all the old horror classics.” With a Shakespearian sweep of his cape the string bean pointed to the darkened marquees up and down the block.
“See?”
And indeed, now that Lyman looked, he did see; on the marquee just behind him, Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein; up and down the block, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the original Wolf Man; tickets now on sale for The Mummy.
“Monster Alley,” the string bean piped, “is where we actors step out in our costumes to get live reactions from the passers–by.”
“At 2:00 a.m.?”
“I know, I know,”—long weary sigh to the moonlit sky—“we tried scaring people in the daytime, sir, but they just laughed at us in our costumes. Still, an actor has to practice. Say, wanna see something neat?” Before Lyman could object, the string bean raised the lid of the tray suspended from his neck to the chalk-white chin of his mask.
Lyman found himself looking at his face in the lid’s inner mirror. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, then over his five o’ clock shadow; another thing he didn’t get to do this morning—shave. “Hey, wait a minute, youse said we?”
“Me, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, the Mummy; they’re all hiding in alleys up the block. We’re not the stars of our shows mind, just their understudies, seeking to get, ahem—hairy claw to boiled shirtfront—“our ‘big breaks.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Ah,”—pointy–tipped finger wagging before bloody fangs—“you never know who might wander through the theater district, sir, nor at what hour. Producers, directors, writers, they all work late. A thespian must be ever ready to demonstrate his talent. Wanna see my Groucho Marx? I got Groucho down to a tee.”
Before Lyman could object, the string bean twisted into the stooped profile of the comedian, monster mitt tapping ashes off an imaginary cigar, and mimicked, “Say the magic word and make the duck come down.” Then, straightening up with a grunt and a mitt to his back, “So, what do you think?”
”I think if that was supposed to be Grouch
o, one of youse is pretty lousy. But, hey, pally, ‘Seek an’ ye shall find.’ ” When it came to Bible thumpers, Lyman could hold his own with the best.
“Touché, sir. But you won’t have to seek to find my cohorts. They’ll jump out at you as you when you reach their alleys.”
“You mean youse’re all out hawkin’ stuff at this hour?” Lyman cocked his head up to the glinting eyes in the holes beneath the mask’s eyebrows. “Why?”
“Why? Why? Our kingdom for a ham on rye is why, sir. You’d be surprised at how little we understudies get paid.”
“And as vendors...?”
“Oh, all the difference in the world.”
Hmm, vendors dressed as monsters. Could there be anything in this for me? Could this Bible thumper be Heaven sent—literally? For the first time since losing his one and only source of income this morning, Lyman felt a glint of hope. Of course, one would have to have a worthwhile product to pitch, costumes alone wouldn’t do it. “Sooo,” he drawled, hiking up his chinos, “what’re youse pushing?”
“Pushing…? Oh, you mean selling. Frankie’s selling golf balls, sir. Titleists at half price. Wolfie’s selling rubbers; a gross or one, he’ll give you a good—”
“Rubbers, at two in the morning? Who buys—?”
“Golly, sir, see that bar still open up ahead? Ever hear the saying; ‘The girls all look prettier at closing time?’ You’d be surprised how many rubbers Wolfie sells to