Ft. Pillow Live: Backstage at the Apollo
SCENE ONE: THE CLOVER HIDES
Showtime!
The Clover crouched behind a half wall on the Upper West Side.
The tin foil wizard hat on his head crinkled in the wind. It had been repelling things all morning: a tax bill, a job listing, a very interested Golden Retriever. The hat worked. The hat worked good.
Around the corner, the Lion and the Owl appeared.
Lion walked like she owned the sidewalk — not in an arrogant way, but in the way of someone who knew exactly how much space she was allowed to take and take it anyway. The Owl perched on her head, blinking slowly, seeing everything.
They spotted the Clover immediately.
“Found you,” said the Lion, and pulled him into a hug so warm it melted the last ice block off the sidewalk.
The Owl produced cookies and a cupcake from somewhere — nobody asked where — and they stood there on the sidewalk, laughing as the city rushed past.
“Coach would’ve loved this,” said the Clover, crumbs on his chin.
“Coach would’ve eaten the whole plate and asked for more,” said the Lion.
“WHO,” said the Owl.
They didn’t save him a piece. They ate it all. But they thought about him while they did.
The Lion noticed the Clover’s trash bag sitting by door. “That need to go out?”
The Clover nodded. “It’s trash day. I was hiding from it, too.”
The Lion grabbed the bag. “No point hiding from trash. Let’s go.”
The Owl hopped onto the Clover’s shoulder for a moment. “WHO.”
They walked to the corner together, dropped the bags in the cans, and kept walking.
SCENE TWO: THE MEDITERRANEAN DETOUR
They were looking for a Yemeni restaurant.
They found something else instead — a place with mosaic tiles and brick walls, olive oil in tall bottles, hummus in bowls, pizzas bigger than the Clover’s entire torso, and omelets so fluffy they seemed to be made of clouds.
“Is this Mediterranean or Turkish?” asked the Clover, biting into a pillow-sized pita.
“Yes,” said the Owl.
This was the kind of answer the Owl gave. The Lion didn’t mind. She was too busy eating everything in sight.
Outside, the wind picked up. The Hudson River glittered through the trees of Riverside Park.
“Coach would sit by that river for hours,” said the Lion, watching the water. “Just staring at a duck like it was his oldest friend.”
“Coach makes friends with ducks,” said the Clover. “Ducks, squirrels, pigeons, that one rat by the dumpster —”
“The rat was a gentleman,” said the Lion.
“WHO,” said the Owl.
They kept moving. The city kept spinning. And somewhere behind them, miles south, Ft. Pillow waited in a window, held together by a dog who was not there.
SCENE THREE: COLUMBIA, OR NOT
They walked north, past brownstones and bodegas, until the gates of Columbia University rose before them.
“We should go in,” said the Lion.
“We should,” agreed the Owl.
They approached the entrance. A metal scanner stood guard. A sign read: FEE — $500.
“Five hundred dollars to see a university?” said the Clover, adjusting his tin foil hat. “That’s more than my student loans.”
They stood at the gate, peering through the bars. Students walked past, carrying books and coffee and existential dread.
“Coach would’ve talked his way in,” said the Lion.
“Coach wouldn’t have needed to talk,” said the Clover. “He would’ve just stood there until someone opened the gate for him.”
“WHO,” said the Owl.
They didn’t go in. They walked around the long way, past a church where someone was singing something that sounded like the Constitution — We the People, in Order to form a more perfect Union — and a restaurant where people sat at the counter eating cereal and talking about nothing.
SCENE FOUR: SEINFELD’S AND THE LONG WAY BACK
The restaurant was called Tom’s, but everyone knew it as something else. The Clover stared at the neon sign.
“This is where they filmed that show,” he said. “The one about nothing.”
“Everything’s about nothing,” said the Owl, “if you look at it long enough.”
The Lion didn’t know what they were talking about. She was watching a pigeon fight a squirrel over a bagel. The pigeon was winning.
“Coach would’ve settled that dispute,” said the Lion.
“Coach would’ve made them share,” said the Clover.
They turned south, then west, then north again. The sun was starting to dip. Golden hour. The time when the city glowed like it meant it.
“Almost there,” said the Lion.
“Almost where?” asked the Clover.
“Apollo,” said the Lion. “Coach’s show.”
SCENE FIVE: HARLEM, THE APOLLO, AND THE SIGN
The Apollo Theatre was under construction.
This was the destination. This was where Coach was supposed to perform — Backstage at the Apollo, the show they’d been walking toward all day.
But the front was covered in scaffolding. The marquee was being swapped. A crane shaped like a claw-machine lowered a new sign over the old one.
The old sign read: APOLLO.
The new sign read: RIGGED.
“Well,” said the Clover, tilting his tin foil hat. “That’s honest, at least.”
They walked around to the back. A guard stood at the door, arms crossed.
“Show’s not tonight,” he said. “Construction.”
“The dog,” said the Lion. “Coach. Is he here? The main act?”
The guard looked confused. “Dog? What dog?”
“The dog in the tuxedo,” said the Clover. “The one the whole show is about.”
“Ain’t no dog scheduled,” said the guard. “Ain’t no show at all. Place is under construction. Didn’t you see the sign?”
The Lion and the Clover looked at each other.
“RIGGED,” said the Clover. “Right.”
“WHO,” said the Owl.
They stood there for a moment. The Apollo loomed above them, wrapped in scaffolding.
“So Coach isn’t here,” said the Lion.
“Coach was never going to be here,” said the Clover.
“Coach is at Ft. Pillow,” said the Lion.
“Coach has been at Ft. Pillow this whole time,” said the Clover.
“WHO,” said the Owl.
They looked at each other. Then they started walking.
SCENE SIX: THE IRISH BAR
They found an Irish bar on Frederick Douglass Blvd. Green lights, sports on the TV, people in hats shaped like shamrocks.
It was St. Patrick’s Day. Or close to it. Or far from it. The Clover didn’t care — he ordered a Guinness and raised it high.
“To Coach,” he said. “The dog who was never here and always here.”
“To Coach,” said the Lion.
“WHO,” said the Owl.
They drank. They watched the game. The missile on the TV flew somewhere far away, and the news ticker said something about something, and none of it mattered because the bar was warm and the beer was cold and the journey was almost over.
Outside, the early evening light was still hanging in the sky — that strange, stretched-out glow that comes after spring forward, when the city refuses to let the day go.
The Lion looked at the Clover. “Ready?”
The Clover nodded. “Ready, I’ve got a date with a tax bill and a job listing that my hat hasn’t repelled yet.”
They stood up, left some cash on the bar, and walked out into the lingering daylight, heading south, toward the subway.
SCENE SEVEN: THE SUBWAY HOME
They walked to the subway at 116th Street. The train arrived, rumbling into the station like a tired beast. They got on, found spots, and watched the stations flicker past.
The Owl perched on the Lion’s shoulder. The Lion stared out the window, her reflection floating over the dark tracks.
The train plunged underground.
As it passed beneath the Upper West Side, somewhere under the brownstone where the Clover had been hiding behind a wall, the Clover stood up.
“This is me,” he said.
The Lion looked at him. “Already?”
“Already,” said the Clover. “That’s how subways work. That’s how stories work. You end up back where you started, but you’re not the same.”
The Owl blinked. “WHO.”
The Clover grinned. “Exactly.”
The train slowed. The doors hissed open.
“Tell Coach I said hey,” said the Clover.
“Always,” said the Lion.
He stepped out onto the platform, turned, and waved as the doors closed. The train pulled away, carrying the Lion and the Owl south, toward home, toward Ft. Pillow, toward the dog who had been with them all day without ever taking a step.
The Clover stood on the platform for a moment, tin foil hat gleaming in the fluorescent light, then turned and walked up the stairs, back into the city, back into the chaos, back into . . .
LIVE from Ft. Pillow Backstage at the Apollo . . .
Showtime?!?!?!
No!!! Way better!!!
IIIt’s COACHtime!!!
