Caesar sells newspapers on the causeway, just below the entrance to the Trenton Makes Bridge. "Trenton Makes…The World Takes" in huge red neon spanning the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. Decades ago some aged urban planner fancied this a suitable slogan for his industrious little city by the river. Today it glows a sad punch line to a long forgotten joke.

True enough, during the post-war years the thick soot that belched from Trenton's forest of smokestacks fell for miles around lying like black velvet on the shiny new tract houses and trailers of Levittown, the suburban pipe dream of yet another demented utopian. Back then noontime whistles screamed across the city calling workers home for lunch where their young sons sat wide-eyed and listened to fanciful embellishments of the jobs they hoped to one day inherit.

But today the railroad tracks that carted uncountable tons of steel and consumer goods to the far corners of America sprout weeds and garbage and junkies; and the sons, and their sons, have long abandoned the city -- or else gaze at their old home through the cell bars of Trenton State, which has towered over the city since colonial times and sits now indomitable among the industrial ruins: a timeworn monument to the failure of the American dream.

Trenton no longer makes. The world takes from elsewhere.

On these cold winter mornings Caesar stands mummified under layers of wool while the sign blinks overhead: ..enton .akes, The World Ta.es. And he laughs at the broken slogan, hopping from one foot to the other trying to stay warm. The city can't afford to replace the missing letters; wouldn't if it could.

He laughs and laughs and laughs to himself -- the cars blast by -- the leafy pages of his pile of Sunday Times -- double-thick today packed with colorful glossy pre-Christmas circulars -- flutter in the wind, held in place by a brick. His pockets bulge with coins -- jingle, jingle, cling, cling -- setting a rhythm to his street-corner dance. Hardened clumps of snow stained gray with car exhaust spot the cracked sidewalk.

Caesar is huge, with a thick head and the hands of a giant. He is gentle and soft-spoken; did his time behind the walls of Trenton State and never wants to go back. As a young man he was angry and frustrated and found validity in the small gang of hoodlums he ran with. They were hopeless just like him. He never meant things to go so wrong that night; after all it was just a simple hold-up. But who knew that Korean was holding? Shit, wasn't it Ham's job to case the joint? Nigga never could do nothin right. No matter, it was all past now. He was grown, 43 years old, not no boy no more. Shit, these kids ain't got no heart today, no respect for no one. Been five years out now, times sure do change.

"Sunday Times, Sunday Times!"

The temperature has dropped and the snow falls heavy again. The wind bitch-slaps Caesar as he binds what's left of his newspapers in a strand of old hemp twine and starts on his way back to the Rescue Mission.

Now it's Martha all that matters, yea.

Ceaser'd known Martha since the third grade. They grew up on the same block -- the same Frazier Street complex -- walked to school together and later ran with the same crowd. When he went away, she visited him for a while. Jus' a while.

Then shit got bad and Caesar didn't hear from Martha for three years. When he got out, he tracked her down. She was still hanging in the same spots with the same lowlifes: Wasn't hard to find. But she had a habit now, a bad one, and word was she was trickin. His bid toughened him up, leveled him some; he came to his senses, knew the value of freedom. Ain't gonna let no rock break me down, Naw.

He didn't like what he saw. And besides Martha was the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend, a real friend you know, someone that cared about him, for him. But she'd changed, and he didn't like what he saw. Ain't gonna let no rock break her down. She was skinny, and smelled like piss and sweat. Her hair was nappy with little bits of fuzz stuck all in it like it hadn't been combed. He didn't like what he saw. No Sir.

That first night she had offered to suck his dick for ten dollars. Know you been away for a minute, baby, I'll fix ya up boy, jus' help me out, huh Caesar? It made him sick to hear. He smacked her good across her nappy head. Pissed her off.

What's your problem nigga? Her skinny arms flailed at him. Her head was cocked to the side; she moved like a marionette on strings. You come out the joint now you a saint or sumpin, you can't look out for an old friend? Shit! She was screaming now, glaring at him with wild bloodshot eyes, the eyes of an animal, some undiscovered beast animal. Who came out to see you all them times anyway, huh? Me nigga, that's who!

He threw a ten-dollar bill on the ground in front of her and turned to go. He heard Martha pick up the bill and start to run the other way. He didn't turn to look. She was right, she had been there for him. For a while anyhow. Who the Fuck did he think he was? In the beginning, when he was new to the Block and had no hustle of his own, Martha would put money on the books for him so he always had luxuries like hand lotion and snack cakes. Real commodities on the inside. He owed a lot to Martha. Needed to help her. For both of them.

Ain't gonna let no rock break her down.

Things hadn't changed much since Ceasar'd been away, but nothing was really the same either. Kook still ran the projects, selling his dope and ready-rock to the tricks and lowlifes that came over the bridge from Morrisville and other parts of the city. Kook had to take out his fair share of young knuckleheads. They crammed up on him every chance they got, testing the waters, seeing if Kook had gone and got old, weak; trying to knock him off his square. Then he'd have to make an example of some one, and for the next few months some dumb kid would be seen hobbling the block on crutches. But they never did get the lesson.

For nearly a year Caesar worked to pry Martha off the block, away from the rock. Felt he owed it to her. Got to a point where she'd sense him coming and be gone before he got there. Then one day Kook got shot up. Killed. Right there on Frazier. Right there at Martha's feet. The blood sweatin right through her canvas low-tops. The people screaming, running for cover. Martha ran and ran and ran too -- right to Caesar.

Now she stayed with him, at the Mission, in the women's building. They took their meals together and talked about saving money and moving to Arizona where it's warm all the time. Ya know. Can't stand this cold shit bro.

In the early mornings Caesar would walk the mile or so to the bridge through the fresh snow to sell his newspapers and spend the day imagining what Martha must be doing. He never knew for sure, but he was content with his imaginings that she was somewhere dreaming of him too.

As he gets closer to the Mission, Caesar loses the stack of leftover papers into a dumpster and searches the ground around it for a dry cigarette butt. He finds half a Newport and smokes it where he stands before walking the last two blocks. He walks slow, turning his face from the wind and the snow that burns his eyes, squinting to make out the lights of the War Monument just up ahead, and beyond that the faded brick walls of the Trenton Rescue Mission.

At the Mission they're already lining up. Sorry footprints trace a lonely pattern in the fresh snow. Here and there the tracks bunch up, grouping into small clumps of mud and ash before breaking off again. But most just trace the travels of solitary walkers.

Caesar considers this for a moment, straining to make out Martha in the line of hooded figures.

Chris Moraff