Kings in Queens

By J. 'Joey' Guida

A short time after my dad's death, my slumber began filling with startling sights and scary sounds. And they were not just random dreams but recurring nightmares. And these night terrors were the inspiration for Kings in Queens, a 106-page novella. My father, a Pearl Harbor survivor, died at eighty-three after a three-week battle with cancer. But my dreams were not of my dad but instead of my best friend, tragically killed when we were in fourth grade. This story describes the ecstasy of school children at recess one day and then their agony the next morning when one student did not return to class. For this story, I try coming to terms with my friend's death, traveling through glimpses of memories, both funny and sad growing up in Queens, New York, and all along paying tribute to my dad, my mom, and their generation. I am also forced into finally accepting a dark family secret. I have been told this story is a moving experience and well worth your time. After all, two family members and one close friend cannot be wrong. And with such an overwhelming response, I have started a sequel titled Rockaway Beach Blue, continuing my search, trying to reconnect with my long-lost friend. Thank you for considering my story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098045463

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Kings in Queens

J. 'Joey' Guida

Copyright © 2020 by J. ‘Joey’ Guida

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 1

I am a haunted soul. My world is a sinister destination, completely engulfed in shadows. It is nearly pitch-black, and I just cannot wake up from the dream. The bedsheets are soaked with sweat, and yet I am shivering from an icy, arctic wind that seeps throughout my body, my very being. I am hopelessly trapped in the cold dead air, with my blanket offering little protection, all the while either believing or pretending to believe that I am sleeping soundly at home in my bed, safely, in my room. And all this horrific theater that has me so terrified probably is just the gruesome stranglehold from an all too familiar nightmare. But on this night, I just cannot be sure of anything, and nothing can be taken for granted. It feels so damned real.

My heart races and pounds as if it will suddenly explode from my chest. And the shrieking screams that have me paralyzed with fear must be my very own. And now, there is a stabbing ache in my chest and a strangling knot in my stomach. What is happening to me? Am I dying? Please somebody help me. I think I’m sleeping and I can’t wake up. God, please let me wake up. I think to myself, What if I am not asleep? Could I already be dead and buried? Did I go to an afterlife? And did I go straight to hell? What in the world ever happened to judgment day?

Sobbing hysterically and gasping for air, I struggle to awaken and escape the nightmare. Foolishly, there is some small part of me thinking there must be a way out of this place. But once again, a dark fury powerfully overcomes any heroic breakout attempts. And without a prayer for forgiveness and survival, I am swallowed whole and immersed back into the shadows. Faster than a lightning flash, yet taking a lifetime, scenes resume flashing before my eyes. The grim reality is still being trapped in the subway, riding the train endlessly station to station and all along clutching for dear life itself, a faded black-and-white Polaroid of a young boy. From under the blanket of terror, I desperately search everywhere. I must find this kid and then stop him before it is too late. This is my mission. First, I find him and then bring him back home where he belongs. He is my best friend. And we have a game to play. He would never give up looking. He would find me.

I, courageously, approach a stranger. Excuse me, lady. Can you please help me? Holding the photograph to her face and with breathless panic in my voice, I plead, Have you seen this kid? Distant screaming seems muffled as piano music sounds softly in the background, filling the air with a hauntingly sad melody that echoes throughout the station. She does not appear to hear me or even see me; and I race off to another platform, another station, and another train. And so once again, I am completely lost without a map, somewhere under the ground in Brooklyn or Queens. Have you seen my friend?

It is always the same dark setting, the same dark dream. I can see me, as a fourth grader, in after-school playing ball clothes and not my customary parochial school uniform. I am riding the E train, drowning in a dungeon of darkness while frantically trying to find the kid in the picture. After countless, sleepless nights waking up physically and mentally drained, I can be certain of one thing and only one thing—I must find the kid in the photograph. Only then will everything be okay.

A solitary, brightly lit neon exit sign madly flashes and lights up the platform like the runway at LaGuardia Airport on a dark and foggy, moonless night. I am feeling slightly relieved, as the sound of the downhearted piano and the rats shuffling along the tracks are suddenly drowned out. But they are now replaced with roaring thunder, as an approaching train speeds out of the darkness into the station. A thick rotten egg-smelling odor fills the already decayed and putrefied dead air. And smoke gets in my eyes as the train, menacingly, charges into the subway station, screaming to an ear-shattering, screeching stop. But, even after stopping, sparks continue flaring from the tracks like shooting stars. They put a spell on me. There is only one harshly lighted car, extending the entire length of the station. And again, I hear the sound of music. And this is not my favorite kind of music; this is the saddest music in the whole wide world. The doors never open, but even so, instantly the platform is jammed with rush-hour commuters. I secretly pray that someone in the crowd will be a Catholic and then be willing and able to help with the search for my friend. Unfortunately, though, they are all faceless bodies in oversized gray-colored, monk-like cloaks. They look right through me. And all these apparitions are chanting in the same mystifying and mumbling voices, as they stride toward stairs that are only going down. There seems to be no way back to the surface and no stairs that go up and outside into the light. And so I, like a shadowy spirit with blind faith, follow them to the next level down. It does not matter how much they scare me. And then, mysteriously, the cloaked figures and the stairs are gone, now, once again, leaving me all alone, lost and clutching my precious photo. But I refuse to give up and will never abandon my mission.

I continue running, looking, and searching everywhere. And although absolutely determined to check every possible staircase and entryway, I am not even certain if this is the right station and not even remotely sure why or how, but being so convinced of certain facts. I am somehow thinking, I am trying to find something resembling a catwalk, or passageway, hiding under the ground, somewhere along the Queens and Brooklyn border. On the surface, for people passing by, perhaps the entrance to this unknown would appear as an ordinary, everyday subway entrance. Or maybe it would just look like a perfectly guiltless-looking railroad crossing booth. Or possibly, somehow cleverly, it might have been camouflaged and innocently posed as a long abandoned, almost unseen, boarded and locked stairwell. The authenticated proof verifying this exact location was acknowledged only on the sly and in strictest confidence behind closed doors. And this evidence was only accessible to certain New York City transit workers. They are top-level executives armed with special, emergency-only, password-protected, priority-coded passkeys. I have come to believe the factual confirmation for this location was inconspicuously, and yet secretly, tucked away. And it was probably safely hidden somewhere in an underground vault. I strongly suspect this proof may even be buried in the Transit Authority’s Brooklyn headquarters. But no matter what is said or done, I fear knowing the deadly secret it holds. Yet, somehow, in some way, I will find out exactly what happened to the kid in the photograph. And if I must, I will search the whole damned underground.

I approach two men wearing identical black suits. The type of suit a pallbearer is required to wear or the type of suit a family member would wear when attending a funeral. They also wore big, round, strange-looking hats. At first, they seem to look right through me. They are immersed in a physical struggle, being preoccupied trying to move a piano, right here in the subway, to some unknown destination. The piano looks as if it long ago played its last song. And what remains standing before me now is ready to fall apart. These two guys look vaguely familiar, but hard as I try, I just cannot seem to remember who they are. The sweat drips steadily from my face, and yet I continue shivering from the bitter cold. And with a knowing need to summon all available help, I try remembering some really good prayers. Perhaps, prayers an altar boy would be obligated knowing backward and forward—that is to say, prayers with proven results from the past—and, for extra reinforcement, even reciting them in Latin.

Holding the photo up, with a shaky hand and hoping they will notice me, I am nervously addressing the little skinny guy, Excuse me, sir. Catholic school children are always polite, even if, after school hours and not in school uniform, according to Sr. Lucille. Have you seen this kid? I take a deep breath. Please, mister, take a good look. It’s really important, I have to find him. There’s little time left.

The bemused and laughing in another world, friendly face, instantly, vanishes before my very eyes. Now he wears a disaster-stricken and ready to cry grimace. With barely a glance to the photo, he quickly looks away from me and nervously turns to the big fat guy for guidance. And the big fat guy, after taking off his weird-looking hat, sadly, looks down to me. Then he politely responds in an unsteady and yet musical voice, We would love to help you, and it pains us to tell you this. It’s a tough break, kid. He too ignores the black-and-white snapshot. They sure looked like close friends, and I was confident they would want to help me. They must see my desperation. So why won’t they point me in the right direction? And why don’t they do something to help me? Putting aside their appearance, I strongly suspect they certainly must know something about the boy in the photograph. Then in a split second, and as if I disappeared into the grimy air, they resume their struggle with their beat-up old piano. And, as if they were facing a deadline, they continue pushing the piano to some unknown destination with all their might and determination, right here in the subway.

It is so clear to me now, I think. All at once my goal is obvious. Maybe all I have to do is find my friend, before he takes that dangerous underground passageway home. Find him, stop him, and then take him home. So perhaps my mission is to locate that perilous and unsafe subway catwalk, which runs under a four-lane avenue, a street that is always jam-packed with traffic. There must be a clandestine staircase that leads from the surface to somewhere deep under the ground. I believe I may have heard of its existence years earlier. And for some of the more daring risk-takers, this little-known passageway serves as a tempting way to avoid crossing Atlantic Avenue. But sometimes it is a deadly way avoiding crossing the avenue of death. All I need to do is find the entrance or staircase and stop him. It is exactly what a best friend is supposed to do, and I know he would do the same for me. Please, anybody, help me. I can’t find my friend. I have to stop him! He would find me. He would never give up looking.

The train, huffing and puffing, groans loudly in protest, as it reluctantly resumes its journey into the pitch-black void, again