Love is the Secret
A knee replacement surgery sparks a moment of time travel to the source of the pain. A work of creative nonfiction by Steve Bernstein.
By Steve Bernstein,
“Good morning Mr. Bernstein. So, can you tell me which knee we’re replacing today?”
“My left knee, doc.”
“What’s today’s date?”
“November 14th, 2023.”
“Good. What’s your birthday?”
“9/6/54.”
“Good job. Now we’re going to start you off with a mild anesthesia and move on to the spinal. Sound good?”
“Great. I’m ready. It’s an old injury. When I was a kid, I got beat up. It’s been killing me for years.”
“Okay, last question: Where did you grow up?”
“The Bronx. I been thinking a lot about growing up there.”
“Oh, I get it. Now, start counting backwards from 2023.”
“Okay, doc.”
“2023.”
I felt relaxed. A little buzzed. No worries.
“2022.”
I started thinking about the Bronx, my old neighborhood, the kids on the street.
“2021.”
Then I remembered something, a day that for fifty-five years, I didn’t like thinking about.
“1968.”
* * *
August 12th, 1968, South Bronx. I live on Sheridan Avenue, between 166th and 167th. I’m fourteen and, until lunchtime today, I had two good knees.
Across the street on the corner of Sheridan Avenue and McClellan Street is P.S. 90 where, most summer days, I spend hours in the schoolyard, the chain link fence torn off its rails, concrete cracked and caving in, graffiti on every inch of the brick school building within reach of a gang member’s arm and a can of spray paint.
Latin Kings, Black Spades, Latin Aces, Turbans, all the gangs tag the bricks. The colors, the lettering and designs are pretty cool. Surprising, since I know this artwork is created after dark with only the streetlights on, if they worked, and sometimes a full moon.
No white gangs. The white people left in droves over the course of the 60s.
I come to the schoolyard to play basketball but mostly to get away from the apartment, especially my dad who is either drunk or hungover but almost always belligerent.
To get into the schoolyard, I climb through the hole in the fence and dribble over to the hoop. Today I’m alone on the court. Thank God because when I’m alone I don’t have to deal with the fighting at home or in the streets.
Even though I have the court to myself, getting a basket is not easy. First of all, there’s my ball. The grainy bumps that are on a new ball so you can grip it are long gone. The ball is now totally smooth like a watermelon. Also, to avoid the ball taking a funny bounce, I have to watch out for cracks in the concrete, broken glass bottles and syringes. The hoop is another issue. Yes, it is a hoop, but only a hoop. No net. Also, if you happen to be looking for that friendly roll of the ball from a soft touch shot, it doesn’t happen with this hoop. Why? This hoop is loosely attached to the metal backboard. When a ball hits the hoop, it shakes and rattles and that ball doesn’t have a prayer of going in. Plus, the backboard is cockeyed. The pole it’s mounted on is angled down to the ground about fifteen degrees. Lastly, this hoop is six inches higher than regulation, forcing me to adjust the arc of my shot. This is my home court.
Basketball is my obsession. But Elaine is my fantasy. I stand under the hoop and look out to McClellan Street. All I have to do is look up to the roofline of the apartment buildings and look a little to the right at about one o’clock and then stop and then lower my gaze to the top story fire escape to the window to the right and that’s where I see the most beautiful, perfect, special girl ever. That’s Elaine.
She’s not always in her window, but if she is, she’ll be watching me and I’ll be watching her. She puts a blanket on the windowsill so she can lean out and rest her arms as she waves at me and watches me play ball.
Her watching and waving from the window is almost the totality of our relationship. Her mother is strict, and the neighborhood is rough, so she doesn’t let Elaine get out too much.
Seeing Elaine in that window, gives me a thrill that never came my way before. I think about her 24/7, hardly get my jobs done or the dog walked. All I want is to free up, go down to the hoop, and check out that fifth story window at 225 McClellan Street. Seeing her watching me is what I live for.
Sadly, today isn’t one of those Elaine days. I keep looking up. No Elaine. I figure I’ll practice my jumpshot for a few more minutes and then get back to cleaning up my dad’s plumbing shop and then walk my dog.
As I look up at Elaine’s window, the brothers Frankie and Robert and their two cousins come through the hole in the fence and onto the court. Shit. This is bad. Aside from being the leaders of the local Latin Kings, they had it out for me. Mainly for being white, but more than that, for going out with Elaine. White boy, Latina girl, not happening on their watch on their streets. All summer long, they had been letting me know these sentiments. A shove here, a kick there, and threats like “Stay the fuck away from PR girls! You’re a dead white boy if you keep it up.”
The four of them swarm me, grab the ball, punch me in the chest and drag me over the broken glass to a concealed space behind the school building. They throw me onto the cement, but on the way down, I belt one of the cousins in the jaw and kick the other one in the balls. That fires them up.
It’s Frankie who has the baseball bat. Robert and the cousins hold me down and push my back up against the building wall. Frankie looks at me, hate in his eyes: “Take that you white mother fucka. You wanna be with a Puerto Rican girl, this is what you gonna get.” He slams me twice, first the left knee and then the right. He drops the bat. The four of them take off.
This is where my anesthesia-induced memory takes a turn. Suddenly there are two Steves. My 69-year-old self, lying on an operating room table about to get a new knee goes over to young Steve laying on the concrete schoolyard, bloodied, alone and in pain.
My 69-year-old heart is breaking for young Steve. I sit down next to him, my back against the brick wall, and say, “It’s gonna be alright. I’m gonna look out for you. We’ll get through this. Listen, I know it’s gonna be a long haul, but today, this very moment, I’m getting our first new knee. In a few months we’ll get the second one. You’ll see, it’s gonna be a good life. And you will have love in your life. Don’t ever stop loving. That’s the secret. Love. Don’t forget.”
I hope he heard me. I think he did. My 69-year-old heart knows he’s going to be okay.
I watch young Steve limp out of the schoolyard. When he reaches the hole in the fence on McClellan Street, young Steve pauses for a moment, looks back at the hoop and then makes his way through the fence.
I said what I needed to say. Now, I can leave young Steve.
Mr. Rivera, who owns the bodega on McClellan Street, sees me hobbling out of the schoolyard and calls me over. He looks me up and down, shakes his head, sighs and says, “This was those punks Frankie and Robert, verdad? You’re a good boy. Don’t let them scare you. Come on in the store, I’ll give you some ice for those knees.”
“Gracias, Mr. Rivera.”
Carrying my basketball, a plastic bag of melting ice and the bat which I grabbed, just in case. I head up the street to my stoop and sit for a long while. I decide to wait for my older sister, Amy, after her day at City College in Harlem. As she approaches from 167th, she sees me hunched over on our stoop, blood dripping from my elbows where the glass cut me. She sits down next to me and puts her books on the stoop. With her arm around me, crying, she asks, “It happened again, didn’t it? Is Elaine worth it? This is worse than ever. Is it worth getting your ass kicked? Looking over your shoulder? Steve, you’re pushing it. You’re the only white guy out here. I’m scared for you.”
“Ame, I’d do it a million times. I love Elaine. Nothing’s gonna stop me from loving her. I need love in my life. Ame, that’s the secret. I know we didn’t learn how to love from mom and dad, but love is the secret.”
C’mon, let’s go upstairs and clean you up.”
I call Elaine to tell her what happened. She’s pissed, fuming. She wishes she had been in her window. She says she would have come down and kicked their asses. I believe her. That makes me feel great.
* * *
“Mr. Bernstein, you awake? Did you have a nice snooze? Congratulations, you are now the owner of a brand-new beautiful titanium left knee! Everything went magnificently.”
I hear whirring noises and distant voices. I’m shivering. The overhead fluorescent lights hurt my eyes, but I can see my nurse’s face. He’s smiling. He brings over some warmed blankets and covers me up. When my teeth stop chattering, I tell him I’m feeling great.
The next thing I know, Dr. Bridgeman is standing beside my gurney. All smiles, she says, “Your surgery was a great success. I have no worries about your recovery. But how are you feeling now? Any pain?
“Doc, I’m feeling wonderful. Your drugs are great. I went on a journey back in time and space. I needed to go visit somebody on one particular day.”
“Interesting. Every once in a while, a patient reports a profound experience under anesthesia, but seldom can they remember much.”
“Oh, I remember every moment. I realized I don’t have to live with the pain of the past. This new knee is a big step to saying goodbye to pain. I’m recommitting my focus on healing. And love.”
“Just curious, did you go back to a day in 1968?”
“Yeah, I did. How’d you know?
“I asked you where you were from and you said the Bronx. Then I asked you to count backwards from 2023. You started counting: 2023, 2022, 2021. And then the very next year you said before you went under was 1968.”
“Yeah, makes sense. Thanks for my new knee. I’ll be back for another one. Soon. It’s been a long time coming. Hey, doc, you got a few minutes?”
“Sure Mr. Bernstein.”
“I want to tell you a story about a boy, his knees, his girl, a basketball, and a baseball bat. It’s a love story.”
Steve Bernstein is a plumber turned author whose memoir, Stories from the Stoop was published by Skyhorse Publishing in 2021. The memoir is a window into Bernstein’s life growing up in the 1960's South Bronx among racial tension, street violence, and trouble at home.