“The storm shouldn’t hit us too hard. Things are safer out there in many ways. When I was younger, people were afraid. There were so many reasons, they sometimes wouldn’t get in my car, they called me names, they did not like my name, or where I was from. But . . . things have changed a bit for us. My children are safer, now, than I was.”

“Things do get better,” I said, sitting back. And it was nice, that this man believed that, too, after what he’d been through. The Water Wars have given us so many immigrants that it’s hard to believe that, even when he was younger, things were that bad. I mean, people should be used to people coming over. I thought for a second, maybe I should start a nonprofit for these issues. Then I thought of what he said, that his children were safe out in New Jersey, playing sports and having fun even. Things always get better, they have to. Pollock yipped once, as if in agreement.

We got closer to Green-Wood. Normally, I walk to Basquiat’s grave from the main entrance, which is through the entire cemetery. I like experiences. But today, I had the driver take me to the entrance nearest where he’s buried. It would be a brief walk for Pollock, but there was really no time for strolling through the whole place.

I handed the driver an extra twenty dollars and asked him to stay put until we came back out. I hurried to that little gravestone nestled in the row of people he was so much greater than, Pollock running to keep up. The wind had blown a lot of the little gifts people left behind off the top of the grave. I knelt by the stone, my hand on the ground. I could almost feel the greatness his poor body had contained radiating out of the ground. Pollock was pulling at his leash. I always struggle with what to say when I get there. Usually I just end up thanking him and going, but this time felt different. I felt like I might never be back. I cried a little, for the first time since initially finding the grave. Still, I could not figure out any words that would match what I felt for him, for his art, for the life he had lived.

I took a hundred dollars out of my purse and put it on top of the headstone with a little rock holding it down so the wind wouldn’t blow it away. I do that every time I come. Maybe someone who was so much like him will show up one day and need it. I wondered if they would take it, a person standing there with nothing, but feeling it had been left as a tribute to him. Probably it just blows away, eventually, every time.

Part Three Jesse—November

PART THREE

JESSE—NOVEMBER