built the tower is crazy. At the very least he is amazingly
skilled at being a pain in the ass. Used to be there were these little public gardens all
over Alphabet City, a bunch of empty lots that people in the neighborhood split up into
tiny plots for their flowers or vegetables or whatever. Nice if you're into that kind of
thing. So these gardens were on land owned by the city, but Alphabet City was just a pit
full of spies, niggers, junkies, queers, squatters, gangbangers and artists, so who gave a
fuck. Then came the real estate boom. Pretty soon the city sells off all these lots and
the gardens are paved over and another couple dozen yuppies have new condos. And once
again, who really gives a fuck. But this garden on B is still there and so is the tower
and the nut job who built it.
When they set up this garden they split it up into the tiny plots and everybody started
growing geraniums and basil. Except this one guy was a sculptor and he didn't want to grow
things on his plot, he wanted to build things. Pretty soon his little area is spilling
tools and wood and mess all over the place and the gardeners are all getting pissed and
want to kick him out. People are starting to threaten lawsuits and everything. Then they
hit on a pretty reasonable compromise. They agreed that anyone who has a plot can do
anything they want in that plot, as long as it doesn't reach anywhere
outside
of the plot. Everybody shakes on it. And then the crazy fucker builds the tower.
It's about six stories tall, made mostly out of wood, and looks kind of like the
dilapidated skeleton of a very skinny pyramid. And wedged into every crack and hanging off
of every plank and board, nailed to and dangling from every square foot of its surface, is
a simply in-fucking-credible collection of crap. Old street signs, toilet seats, a jumbo
model of an airliner, toys of every shape and size, a kitchen sink, several effigies,
flags, and at least one huge stuffed giraffe. It sits there and looms over the entire
garden, dominating the landscape. The one thing it most definitely does not do is reach a
single inch outside the borders of its own tiny plot. You got to admire the pain in the
ass that built this thing. As for me, I'm just hoping he built it well, because I'm
already about ten feet up in the damn thing and if that dog jumps any higher I'm gonna
have to go twenty.
It took me just a couple minutes to get over to that garden. No Leprosy. I walked around
the fence for a minute, took the scent of the air and climbed on over. It's dark in there
and the air is clogged with the rich, growing odors of midsummer, all that loam and sweet
blossoms and bursting fruit and crap. Anyway, it wreaks havoc with my nose and as I try to
sort it out I hear a little whimpering sound. I edge around a tiny stand of corn into the
shadow of the creaking tower. Up against the wall of one of the tenements bordering the
garden I see a dog snuffling at something and whining. I step around the corn.
--Hey, Gristle, hey there, boy.
His head whips around at the sound of my voice.
--Easy there, Gristle.
A growl starts up in the back of his throat.
--Let's not have any trouble here, boy. Easy. Where's Leprosy, huh? Where is he, boy?
Why am I asking the dog where Leprosy is? Fuck do I know. Seems like the thing to do. At
the sound of Leprosy's name he starts to whine again and turns back to whatever it is he's
interested in, and I know things are all fucked up.
--What ya got there, boy?
I take a step closer to get a look. Gristle's head snaps back around and the rest of his
body follows. He doesn't growl or bark, just comes straight at me. I hold the bat out in
front of me with both hands and his jaws clamp down on it instead of my throat. I hear his
teeth crack the wood as he bites down, and his weight sends me flat on my back. He's on
top of me, his
skilled at being a pain in the ass. Used to be there were these little public gardens all
over Alphabet City, a bunch of empty lots that people in the neighborhood split up into
tiny plots for their flowers or vegetables or whatever. Nice if you're into that kind of
thing. So these gardens were on land owned by the city, but Alphabet City was just a pit
full of spies, niggers, junkies, queers, squatters, gangbangers and artists, so who gave a
fuck. Then came the real estate boom. Pretty soon the city sells off all these lots and
the gardens are paved over and another couple dozen yuppies have new condos. And once
again, who really gives a fuck. But this garden on B is still there and so is the tower
and the nut job who built it.
When they set up this garden they split it up into the tiny plots and everybody started
growing geraniums and basil. Except this one guy was a sculptor and he didn't want to grow
things on his plot, he wanted to build things. Pretty soon his little area is spilling
tools and wood and mess all over the place and the gardeners are all getting pissed and
want to kick him out. People are starting to threaten lawsuits and everything. Then they
hit on a pretty reasonable compromise. They agreed that anyone who has a plot can do
anything they want in that plot, as long as it doesn't reach anywhere
outside
of the plot. Everybody shakes on it. And then the crazy fucker builds the tower.
It's about six stories tall, made mostly out of wood, and looks kind of like the
dilapidated skeleton of a very skinny pyramid. And wedged into every crack and hanging off
of every plank and board, nailed to and dangling from every square foot of its surface, is
a simply in-fucking-credible collection of crap. Old street signs, toilet seats, a jumbo
model of an airliner, toys of every shape and size, a kitchen sink, several effigies,
flags, and at least one huge stuffed giraffe. It sits there and looms over the entire
garden, dominating the landscape. The one thing it most definitely does not do is reach a
single inch outside the borders of its own tiny plot. You got to admire the pain in the
ass that built this thing. As for me, I'm just hoping he built it well, because I'm
already about ten feet up in the damn thing and if that dog jumps any higher I'm gonna
have to go twenty.
It took me just a couple minutes to get over to that garden. No Leprosy. I walked around
the fence for a minute, took the scent of the air and climbed on over. It's dark in there
and the air is clogged with the rich, growing odors of midsummer, all that loam and sweet
blossoms and bursting fruit and crap. Anyway, it wreaks havoc with my nose and as I try to
sort it out I hear a little whimpering sound. I edge around a tiny stand of corn into the
shadow of the creaking tower. Up against the wall of one of the tenements bordering the
garden I see a dog snuffling at something and whining. I step around the corn.
--Hey, Gristle, hey there, boy.
His head whips around at the sound of my voice.
--Easy there, Gristle.
A growl starts up in the back of his throat.
--Let's not have any trouble here, boy. Easy. Where's Leprosy, huh? Where is he, boy?
Why am I asking the dog where Leprosy is? Fuck do I know. Seems like the thing to do. At
the sound of Leprosy's name he starts to whine again and turns back to whatever it is he's
interested in, and I know things are all fucked up.
--What ya got there, boy?
I take a step closer to get a look. Gristle's head snaps back around and the rest of his
body follows. He doesn't growl or bark, just comes straight at me. I hold the bat out in
front of me with both hands and his jaws clamp down on it instead of my throat. I hear his
teeth crack the wood as he bites down, and his weight sends me flat on my back. He's on
top of me, his
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