Kwanzaa for Conrad & the Survival Tango

“Right here, right here in this spot where the sidewalk is split, I lived for three long crazy years. Or was it four? Sometimes it’s hard to remember. A voice told me that I would die if I strayed too far from this spot.” It wasn’t easy to believe that Emmanuel Conrad, brilliant scholar at a prestigious university, ex-pro football player (quarterback), best-selling author, once lived on a crack in the sidewalk on 4th Avenue, downtown. I looked up at him, that wasn’t hard to do; at 6’4, he towered over my 5’8. “How long were you out here?” After just a couple days I was beginning to use the language of the people surrounding us – “ ‘ey Conrad, you ain’t out here no mo,’ huh?” “Naw, my brother, I ain’t out here no mo’” “I was out here for 25 years.” “You lived on the streets for 25 years?” “That’s right, up ‘til two years ago when “San Julian” broke out.” Summer time on Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles. I strolled along beside big-big Emmanuel Conrad, feeling less afraid than I had felt for the past three nights. Alone, I felt vulnerable, a pale faced nerd making his way through the garbage, the make shift cardboard shelters, the tents, the rats that littered the sidewalks. “ ‘scuse me, my name is Michael Bronstein, I work for City Beat magazine and I’m looking for Emmanuel Conrad.” “Get the fuck away from me I don’t know no ‘Manuel Conrad’.” “Emmanuel Conrad, he’s a writer, they told me I might be able to find him down here.” “I just told you! I don’t know no fuckin’ Conrad, now get the fuck outta my face.” “Well, if you should happen to see him, here’s my card, ask him to give me a ring, we’d like to do a feature on him for City Beat magazine.” They guy I gave the card to, a grizzled relic from some dark horror movie, stared at it as though it were contaminated, and then tucked it into one of the layers of his multi-layered rags. What was I supposed to tell my editor? I was assigned to do an interview of a guy who had a best seller on the LA Times list for the past six weeks now and was invisible. “Look, this guy is down there on Skid Row somewhere, he can’t be invisible, after all he has a book on the best seller list. Find him, Bronstein, interview him, earn your daily bagel, o.k.?” Shirley Brown, Editor, City Beat magazine, was not into being nice when she wanted a story. “Find him, Bronstein, make your family proud of you. Give us the atmosphere, the stench, life on the streets, you know what I’m asking for, we’ll make it a series for our December-January issue. Or maybe the Black History, February issue, I haven’t decided yet. O.K.?” “Honey, I know where Conrad is. Well, that is, I knew where he was ‘til yesterday.” I stared into the old, old face of what might’ve been a young African-American woman. It was twilight and I was beginning, once again, to feel that I was an outsider. My emotional antenna was up. Was she trying to play me for something? I’d already passed out $200.00 of City Beat slush fund money to locate the mysterious Mr. Conrad. “O.k., lady, where is he?” Maybe I was becoming callused, hard. I slipped the $20.00 bill into her grimy paw and tacked a hard look on my face. “Well, mister, like I sayid, I knew where he was ‘til yesterday.” It sounded like a sly plea for more bribe money to me. I took casual note of the disgusted look on the dark horror movie-faced guy as I palmed another $20.00 into the ancient-youth crone’s crack cocaine wrinkled face. I’d been on Skid Row long enough to recognize that look. “So, where is he?” She did a surprised, surreptitious study of the $20.00-bill. Dammit! I could’ve had her for $10.00. “Well, like I said, I knew where he was up ‘til yesterday.” I palmed her another ten spot, anything to get to the Heart of the Darkness. Hello! Hello Ms. Brown, City Beat magazine editor. I was going to do whatever was necessary to locate Emmanuel Conrad, best selling African-American author currently living on Skid Row, somewhere. “So, where is he?” I probed deeply. “He may be up in here,” she pointed to the hotel behind us with her chin, “check the desk.” Her hangdog expression certainly warranted more money but, courageously, I resisted. “You say he’s here.” “Noooo, like I said, he might’ve been here since yesterday. But he might be somewhere else now.” Dammit! Foiled again. Now what? Nobody at the New Hampshire School of Journalism had ever taught us anything about finding interviewees on Skid Row. I strolled thru the tired, funky, tobacco stained lobby of Mr. Emmanuel Conrad’s assumed residence. The Ghetto Sketches Hotel . . . “Uhh, Mr. Emmanuel Conrad? Just a moment, sir. Would you kindly take a seat over there while we locate Mr. Conrade?” The desk clerk turned back to fiddle with the remote. I’m thinking out loud. Whooaa! Wait a sec! This has got to be the Ultimate Unrealville! Here I am, trying to locate a “citizen” of Skid Row who has just written a best selling novel, and they’ve put me on “hold” to deal with the immediate concerns of a jive ass television show. How do I know it’s a jive ass television show? Well, aren’t most of them? I sat in the lobby of Hotel Ghetto Sketches for an hour before the woman I had given the latest bribe shuffled in. “Conrad outside,” she whispered and held her palm out for another $10.00. Damn! I meant to break the cycle of bribery and all that, but this didn’t seem to be the right time. “Well, where is he?” I whispered back. “Right here,” she announced and scurried off.