The camera is in the eye of a fly as it buzzes round in the dim grey light of a cold November morning of a magnolia coloured living room,
Crucified Jesus looks down from the wall. The TV is on and is hissing white noise.
The sound of keys turning a lock and a door opening are heard as a womans voice calls
“Hola Marquito - Estas dispierto?"
"Donde estas…Marco… Marco…”
The fly follows her down the hallway as she reaches the open door of an empty bedroom. The bed appears unslept in. She turns back around, as she looks back up the hallway towards the living room as the camera moves into her eye, a pair of outstretched legs are visible through the open doorway.
The camera cuts to the eyes of Jesus. The camera pans slowly out revealing a frantic hysterical woman, a mother, screaming.
“MI HIJO MI HIJO NOOO!!! MARCO MARCO MARCO!!!”
As the camera pans back, the scene of woman shaking someone lying on a couch is revealed.
She is shaking her son. She shakes her only son, who is slumped back into the corner of the plastic covered couch. A half drunk 40 stands by his feet. She shouts and shakes the body in vain.
Nothing can help now, its too late. He aint waking up… he aint coming back. Her son is dead.
"HIJO MI HIJO NOOO!!! MARCO MARCO MARCO!!!”
Image freezes as the woman lets out a primordial scream
Screen goes black.
The scream becomes the ring of a phone.
The camera pans back as a hand reaches out from under a blankets fumbling for the phone.
“What happened with you and Foe this weekend?”
“Huh… Whose that…?”
“Its Cleo. What happened with you and Marco this weekend?”
“Who…? Cleo? O… er Hi. Cleo Whats up... How are you? Er. Er… Nothing … what do you mean.”
“My Mums just walked in and found him. He’s dead. My brothers dead. He’s just lying there on the couch. What the fucks happened.”
“What, what… what… er Cleo. What. No No Foe’s fine, what do you mean, I left him Saturday nite… Nah he’s fine.”
“He’s pretty far from fucking fine Harley, he’s dead. Harley what the fuck has happened.”
“Er Saturday… yeh Saturday afternoon we met up uptown … er… we hung out went down to 117th street and scored … and we … he just got paid, you know er he bought some groceries and shit and we went back to the apartment and you know just hung out. I left him about midnite, to go back downtown, yeah about midnite and he was fine. He’s fine. What time is it?”
Camera cuts to an old alarm clock face. Mickey's gloved hands point out 7: 45. The clock turns into an hourglass with the sands of time running thru it.
“No he’s fine, Cleo... are you fucking around… your fucking around right? I know he’s fine… He must be...”
“No Harley, mi hermano es muerto. I’m here now standing over him, he’s lying on the couch.”
“Wait… no wait he cant be. I left him Saturday night and he was fine… “
“The police are here, he’s fuckin dead Harley.”
“Wait wait… I’m coming up. O my God… No he cant cant be he cant be… He must have done up the second bag, I told him not to do it, I told him not to do it, I tried to buy it off him but he wouldn’t sell it. And I told him I told him not to do it. I said to him I said don’t do it. No no he wouldn’t have… I told him not to… I told him I said yr too stoned don’t do anymore and he said he wouldn’t… I tried to buy the bag but he refused, he wouldn’t sell it. So I left and went back to 117th and scored again and went back downtown back home. I told him not to do it, I said it to him several times cos he was really, you no pretty damn fucking stoned and nodding out and shit, we left the apartment and went down to the street together and he went to get a 40 from the store and I headed down into the subway. I left him on the corner of 138th. He cant of done it, I told him... he said he wasn’t going to … those were our last words as we parted… I said
“DON’T DO THAT BAG UP, YOUR TOO FUCKING HIGH”
“and he’s like”
Voiceover of Marco's voice saying
“Yo Chill man... don’t worry, I wont”.
“No… No… That cant be right … Wait wait
“it cant be”
“I’m coming up, im leaving now,”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“I’ll be right there”
Camera pans back as Harley gets up and stumbles into some clothes and to the door. Still dressing, he falls thru the door - past the elevators – he leaps down the 8 double flights of steps - to the lobby – through the door - Out onto the street and on through the swarming anonymous faceless shuffling forms that pass as blurs – down into the subway.
The camera picks out the ashen refection of Harley in the ticket office window, a faceless figure stares from behind the glass
He thrusts a dollar bill under the grill and automatically mutters
Camera cuts to a close-up of a hand stuffing a screwed up $1 bill under the screen gap. A token falls in black and white slow motion into the change dish. Clanging sound of money falling with massive reverb in sync with slow motion image so sound is also stretched.
He turns and disappears thru the turnstile.
Sound of deafening roar of a subway train tearing through a station.
Camera cuts to a subway train roaring thru Astor Place station. The sound slowly fades out but the train continues to race past in silence. The train passes to reveal a platform crowded with faceless individual human forms. The crowd crumble into relics and dust and swirl away with the wind, a lone figure stands staring blankly into the tracks… on onto the 3rd rail and onto the white porcelein insulators. The camera swings rapidly around Harley from left to right and then back to straight in front of him and zooms to the eye of Harley. The camera becomes the eye of Harley as he stands alone and stares down deep deep deep into the tracks.
The camera is still in the eye of Harley as the train doors part and he steps thru onto the platform of 138th street subway station.
The swishing sound of train doors shutting.
His mind is awhirl and he walks as if in a stupor - thru the turnstile and up the steps into grim daylight and reality. He turns right - into the Mitchell projects and looks up to 10th floor to the end apartment on the left - the one with the spray painted F under the window.
The screen breaks into a million images of memories and flash backs cut back in and out. The camera cuts back to the eye of Harley as he passes the zinc grey railings, the view flashes across the street to the stoop were they met and became friends 3 years before, across a joint of Angeldust on a drunken sunny Sunday afternoon deep down in the Belly of the Beast Boogie Down South Bronx.
The screen breaks back into a million memories and flashbacks. The camera cuts back to eye of Harley as he looks across to the FOE piece sprayed onto the wall of the Community Youth Center.
Cuts to the entryfone as a finger pushes button 10G.
“Its Harley… “
The door releases and he crosses the lobby, he hits the call button for the elevator.
An old man he has seen before follows him through the door across the lobby and hits the call button repeatedly.
A couple smoking crack slide greasily through the doorway into the flickering gloom of the stairwell and obscurity.
A cockroach unwisely runs into the corner.
The camera moves into the eye of a scurrying cockroach as an old wet leather boot comes down on top of it.
“Este puta cucarachas HA ... anuddahwun bite de dust man...”
growls the old man from a toothless grinning dry mouth.
The old man steps into majestic decadent opulence of the velvet drapped interior of the elevator of the Ritz Hotel.
The camera becomes the eye of Harley as he follows the old man into the warm glow of the elevator.
The chirpy satin uniformed lift boy and his jaunty pill box hat brightly ask
then fade into dust and eternity.
The eye of Harley exposes a stark steel elevator alive with graffiti and fluids bathed in a dim greenish reality.
Harley leans forward silently - He is incapable of speech - He hits the 10 button
He leans back into the corner eyes cast onto the powdery white piss stains on the dark grey green lino
As if thru glass doors the elevator rises revealing a black space into which the camera zooms as the elevator disappears up out of shot.
Black screen fades to white noise hissing TV screen. Screen flickers into old black and white film.
Camera cuts to the smoking summit of Suribachi while US Marine Ira Hayes pushes up the flag. The flag is the Stars and Stripes - The flag is upside down
The camera spins to the lone figure of a tough US Marine sergeant chewing a broken cigar - He urges his men forward yelling
"Onwards to the 10th"
and gets cut down in a hail of bullets
The film turns sepia and is scratched and marked by time, the clicking sound of a finished film spool on a dusty old cinema projector is heard. A figure stands next to a guillotine shouting to the crowd
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”
Camera cuts to the image of Geromimo and Cochise laughing by a campfire at sundown in the Happy Hunting Grounds.
Camera cuts to images of falling numbers, tumbling playing cards and six shooters and whirling calendars with dates flying off, memories of speakeasys and pictures of dead heroes and renegades - Geronimo, Machine Gun Kelly, Blackbeard, Clyde Barrow, Bonnie Parker, Legs Diamond, Cochise, John Dillinger, Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Cole Younger, Ned Kelly, Crazy Horse shouting
“Today is a good day to die! Hoka Hey!! Hoka Hey!! Hoka Hey!!…”
directly into the camera. The camera is swallowed by the mouth of Crazy Horse.
Close up of an elevator floor indicator 10 lighting up.
Camera cuts back to opening elevator doors and the sound of metal on metal as the battered doors screech their way apart.
Bathed in flickering green neon light the figure of Harley cuts down the seemingly endless corridor and eventually reaches the end.
Harley turns to his left and reaches for a door - He stops to breath - He knocks his knock.
The sound of silence...
The door creeps open revealing the red-eyed mother, they look into each other’s eyes… and she cries
“PORQUE HARLEY PORQUE
P O R Q U E…?”
and cries and cries and hugs him close and collapses into his arms sobbing. Cleo is close behind her and others are gathered in the kitchen. Everyone is crying, even the men.
As she releases her grasp and pulls him into the apartment the camera pans back into the eye of the fly as he passes over the body of Marco lying 3 feet to Harley’s left. In a white tank top and checkered boxers. His mother’s frenzied efforts have disturbed him slightly from his relaxed position. His legs are crossed and outstretched and his feet are swollen fat and purple and gorged with blood. So is his left forearm. Mouth open. He lies at a gravity defying angle, his stiff right arm raised in rigor mortis sticks up uncomfortably into the air and his eyes look down eternally
The fly settles on the couch and then his arm and then his open mouth.