Looking around is hard when your eyes are closed, but he muddled through the day anyway. The slits that let in the sights would open up at some point in the day when he wasn’t high, and for that short period before he lit up again the garish world around him was frightening. Too bright, too fast, too loud, man. Still, he liked to walk about everyday, as if taking the bitter to better love the sweet, and each block he passed made him yearn more for the incense of his apartment. He’d learned to wear a jacket above his sleeveless, in case he wandered too far, or ran into another partier, and didn’t turn around toward home until after the cold of night set in. Leather. Big inside pockets to hide your stash. The older guys taught him that when he was just a kid – that and a few other things, like opening the door for the ladies, splitting what’s on you in two so you might keep one package if you get rousted.

He bumped into a street lamp. No problem. The slow burnout gait made obstructions less painful. He heard a giggle. No problem.  He heard giggling in his head all day. What was the difference if someone else was laughing? Let them join in. He was a happy person and to stay that way he knew others had to be happy too. Giggle away, people and laugh out loud, I may be the object of your mirth but I  don’t care because I can’t see you. You are just a bunch of happy sounds to me, the way the world should be. A bunch of happy sounds.

-Danny Grosso

Time was when he was everywhere. Everyone knew Deco Love. Sliding into a jazz club, or shuffling past a beat cop, he’d flash a grin and a wink and leave you with a smile on your own mug. Some said he was a pusher, or a bootlegger, maybe a pimp, but no one ever saw him plying such trades. Maybe he just looked right for those parts, with his long custom dusters and his wide brimmed lids; and that walk, with the little hitch that seemed in sync with every basement playing band he passed on the avenue.

At night he’d arrive with a lady and leave alone, only to show up later at another club, with another lady. He’d drink with the heavies – the club owners who were connected with the powers on both sides, and after-party with the bands after three or four sets amid the sinewy smoke. Some said he played the ivories, and would sit in once in awhile when the joints closed up, with a coronet player or skin banger that needed tuning up. There were tap dancers around who said he’d frequent their hoofers’ clubs, learning musical hooks, rhythms that he’d weave into his speech patterns; Lady, Lady  Love-el-lee Lady…

At night, his long coats would hide every bit of him but his shoes, and they were enough of a sight on their own. He had this thing where he’d kick up a heel at a corner, like a sprinter in a block, then skip off with a little t-Tap against the asphalt, It would send him gliding off, coat tails in the air ever so slightly, so gracefully, vibing to some song bouncing around in his mind.

The echoes of the life we lead are with us while we are here and with others after we are gone.

-Danny Grosso

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