cement manufactory

Heading toward the cement manufactory, along the slim park, I noticed several fishermen, some with a few poles going at once. I’d seen one man catch a blue crab earlier, in another part of the park, so maybe there was something good to be had from the River. Maybe.

The fishermen I’d seen earlier had pieces of newspaper heavy with bait- chunks of bloody fish soaking into the newsprint. Here, the fisherman didn’t seem to have any of that bait and didn’t seem to be catching anything. What they did have was plenty of King Cobra and Country Club beer. Several sat in lawn chairs and one unattractive, slightly soused-looking woman eyed us suspiciously as we passed. We weren’t the typical folk strolling around this part of Harlem.

The park ended abruptly beneath the Bridge, where it became a large open lot with huge piles of salt, for de-icing the roads. The River to the right of us smelled fishy and sour. Up ahead were even more fisherman, in what was now turning into some kind of no-man’s land between the River’s edge and the Expressway. Ahead was our destination- several structures comprising an old cement manufactory. The first structure was composed of three huge rusty, polka-dotted tanks held high on steel legs. This deteriorating construction had a small room at the base, the entry-way partially filled with asphalt. I peered inside, figuring there might be some old boiler equipment. Instead of boiler equipment, I heard a man coughing, and realized I had found a home. People carve out homes in the strangest places.

Moving on, there was another set of tanks atop a structure with a stairway and small cabin-like area at it’s base. There was a wooden door, unattached and unrelated to the structure, that lay next to the cabin’s opening. Now I wasn’t surprised when a plump, Hispanic woman stepped outside the tiny hut. She was dressed in light blue leggings and a dirty shirt, but looked somehow clean herself. A tattoo of leaves curled around her ankle.

I said hi and asked if she would mind if we took a few pictures. She said to go ahead and shoot, but be careful of some of the people around here. When we asked if she wouldn’t mind us climbing the steps up to the tank, she told us someone was living there, but they weren’t home. She warned, as we climbed up, “be careful, it’s rusty.”

Reaching the top, I noticed the living quarters in another cabin like space, with sheets for curtains over slabs of glass propped up for windows. A barbecue made from a steel barrel rested nearby. Music drifted up from the woman’s radio below. It must have been running on batteries, because I couldn’t see how they would get any electricity here.

After inspecting the area, we headed down. The woman was still milling about, popping in and out of her cabin, apparently washing some towels and tidying up. I peered inside her ‘door’ and saw a very dirty mattress neatly rolled up and shelves lined with bottles and cans. It seemed like she was trying her best to make it a home. It was filthy and rusty, yet she seemed to take pride in it.

We moved further up the area, towards another large salt pile, when a slender black man in green work clothes appeared from around the pile. He was muttering to himself and carrying a crowbar, which he stroked affectionately. He yelled at us- “Hey- watcha doing?!” He walked swiftly by us. After passing, he stopped and turned back again- his speech was peppered frequently with the word ‘fuck.' He spouted out some gibberish then said “There’s some crazy mother-fuckers over there, be careful. Some crazy motherfuckers. What are you mother-fuckers doing?” Then he ran off.

In the distance was a little camp, with tents made of old tarps and cardboard boxes. Parked squarely in front of it was an orange dog who was definitely aware of our presence. He didn’t look particularly mean, but you just knew he’d gnaw your arm off if you got anywhere near him. Since there were no structures left to poke through up ahead, and a crazy crowbar carrying man had warned us that the folks up ahead weren't friendly, it seemed like a good time to head off.