Read "SoundSparks" Stories
Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain
by Susan
Wing
There were four of us - three students and one jack-of-all-trades,named
John. The neighborhood we chose for our weekend getaway was Bedford
Stuyvesant, a ghetto in one of the poorest sections of Brooklyn. Even if we
could’ve afforded Upper Manhattan, we knew better. We were hippies -
“freaks”- and weren’t welcome uptown. It was 1967, the United States
was in
Vietnam, and the only people who seemed to care were people like us.
This apartment was to be our refuge, our safe port. It didn’t matter if the
area was poor and depressed…so were we. Back then, Bed-Stuy didn’t
have
Harlem’s reputation for violence and hard-core drugs. But it sure was run
down. The buildings were derelicts, wanting to collapse. The sidewalks
crumbled underfoot, and the streets looked like H-bomb test sites. But we
soon discovered the rough streets were rivers of life, bearing old folks and
kids, lovers and loners, gently along, all sharing the warmth of the early
spring sun. As we stumbled around, giggling and dragging each other in six
different directions, we knew we were being watched. We figured we’d
passed
inspection when the old men on the corner waved “hello” and the kids on
their bikes gave us the peace sign.
Our second-story flat was long and narrow, a goose-white, lacquered dump.
Our furnishings consisted of three mattresses, a metal table, and some old
stereo equipment. The first three weekends there we were broken into
twice.
I guess “they” discovered there was nothing worth stealing ‘cause they
left
us alone after that.
For 20 long weekends, we lived on Frosted Flakes, friendship and music in
our Bed-Stuy home. I can still remember the aroma of Drake’s Cakes cooking
in the factory down at the corner. Even though we were hungry most of the
time, the warm, sweet smell made me feel comfortable and secure, especially
at night. Food often does, especially cake.
Rainy days were especially nice in that worn-out part of the city. Walking
up and down 8th Avenue with John, talking to our liquid reflections in store
windows, hanging around music shops until they played our favorite songs. He
really liked “MacArthur Park: “Someone left the cake out in the rain. I don’
t think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it, and I’ll never
have that recipe again…oh, no.” Odd metaphor, I thought. John couldn’t
boil
water without setting himself on fire. But I think he knew about sad
endings.
Later that spring we moved to a bigger, more expensive place near St. Mark’s
Place and the Filmore East. But it was dark inside, dead grays and greens,
with tall ceilings and tinted windows. Something had changed. I guess things
were getting to me - the war, my estrangement from my family, the
aimlessness of my life. I began to understand what it was about MacArthur
Park that moved John. He knew…before I did. We separated that summer.
Even now, some days I see our faces, together, in that rain-streaked window,
listening to the bittersweet lyrics. And I think about how much simpler and
nicer it was when the four of us ate Frosted Flakes for breakfast, lunch and
dinner, and lived on music and friendship.