“He found him in a desert region

In an empty howling waste,

He engirded him, watched over him,

Guarded him as the pupil of His eye,

Like an eagle who rouses his nestling,

Gliding down to his young,

So did He spread His wings and take him,

Bear him along his pinons,

The Lord alone did guide him,

No alien god at His side.”

Book of Genesis

I encountered four of them in my 7-year sojourn in the flat colorless environs of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. I initially thought they were lost, that they had strayed from some well-traveled path from subway or bus to avenue to house. They could not possibly be from here, the way they looked, or so I thought. After all, “The Neighborhood” does not welcome the presence of strangers, peculiar individuals, or anything out the ordinary. The Yusef Hawkins incident contained strong elements of racism to be sure. However, I would argue that a more fundamental dynamic was at play when that black teenager was killed on that fateful day in August; the need to control life in what is perceived as one’s personally owned space. Those here who succeed in preserving things as they reassuringly are have for one more day insulated themselves from the ever-maddening changes that a hostile culture assaults them with.

And yet these strange wanderers were here and could also be counted on to be about their rounds day in and day out, just as women dressed in black would sweep their sidewalks, just as car horns would play Tarantella, just as teenagers would smash empty quarts of Bud in the schoolyard. What was the wanderer gestalt that attracted me to them? Was it shirttails sticking out of ill-fitting pants? Disheveled rolling heads scanning things that I could not see or hear? Conversations with entities that I could not perceive? Well yes, I admit, I am most comfortable around such “unusual people” – indeed much of my family is characterized by others in this way. However, I am certain that these people had a rock solid sense of purpose that guided them to some unseen end. Their faith in this seemed so strong, I felt compelled to learn more.

I first encountered Grotnac on my way to Key Food to pick up some eggs. He wore a Civil War cap, had a Jefferson Davis style beard and carried a saxophone case with his name written on it. The hem on Grotnac’s coat was ripped and the laces of his scuffed brown oxfords were untied and threatening to leave the shoes entirely. As I crossed Avenue O and approached the supermarket entrance, Grotnac stopped, put down the case and in a deep cantorial tone began to sing:

“Mrs. Gans, Mrs. Gans, she’ll investigate your plans,

Can you sing can you type, we’ll confound you

with our tripe

The Department of Labor commands

that we all see Mrs. Gans”

From the looks of him, I could see that Grotnac would never get anywhere with Mrs. Gans. Suddenly, an adolescent bellow disturbed my reverie. “Hey Grotnac!!! Grotnac !! Hey Grotnac, my sister’s having a birthday party. Can you play that fucking thing ya know the trumpbone.”

Six slouching teenage boys approached Grotnac. The tallest one, the leader came up to him and pulled out a copy of Penthouse. He unfurled the centerfold and displayed it in front of Grotnac. “Hey Grotnac, whaddya tink?”

Grotnac studied the magazine while stroking his beard. “She looks like healthy young specimen. I believe I encountered her half-sister on my recent excursion to Belize. She spoke no English, but we were able to communicate through telepathy, no doubt enhanced by our ingestion of copious amounts of Yage.”

“Hey Grotnac, you’re fuckin crazy, you know that.” The other boys had passed and were entering the subway station. “Hey Frankie, c’mon man, stop talkin’ to that fuckin’ mental case and les get goin’.”

“Hey Grotnac, get a job you crazy motherfucker. I’ll see you later.”

Wow, I thought. A modicum of respect, even concern from one of the locals for this oddball. I needed to find out more about him but I had to be careful not to upset the balance. I went into Key Food to do my shopping and when I came out, Grotnac was sitting in front of the subway station rocking back and forth humming to himself. I approached him slowly.

“Excuse me – is that a Selmer alto sax you’ve got? See used to play a long time ago and ..”

“Yes I know, and no, its not a Selmer. But it is a splendid horn. Have a look.”

Grotnac opened the tattered case to reveal no instrument at all, but hundreds of pages of various sizes, some typed, some handwritten in a tight scrawl. He grabbed a fistful of paper and handed it to me. “Bon appetite”, he exclaimed.

I studied the top page. It was written on public school stationery with the following heading:

Jonas Grotnac      November 23, 1969

Albert Wilson HS     Class 9-123

Blues for My Lover’s Hip

My Lover’s Hip

Is Hip to me

To state otherwise would be hypocrisy

Her womanly form curves abound

from the straits of Magellan

to Long Island Sound

I’m going way down in Florida

Where the sun shines everyday

Hip shaking woman in Florida

Where the sun shines damn near everyday

I am a steady rollin’ man

and I roll both night and day.

Angrily written on the bottom of the page in red pen was the following comment:

JONAS YOU ARE A TALENTED STUDENT, BUT IF YOU PERSIST IN TURNING IN SUCH TRASH I SHALL HAVE NO ALTERNATIVE BUT TO EXPEL YOU FROM THE HONORS PROGRAM!!!

MR. MALLARD

I looked up to see Grotnac pushing his way through the turnstile on his way to the N train. “Hey Grotnac,” I yelled. “Your papers!”

He just waved to me and with much noise and little forward motion bounced and bumped down the stairs to the platform.