The drain pipe came down the side of the building like a scar. Cast iron. Painted the same color as the building because the building was embarrassed by its plumbing. The drain pipe carried the water from the roof to the street and the water hit the sidewalk and ran to the curb and the curb took it to the sewer. The drain pipe was the exit wound of every rainstorm.

In winter the drain pipe froze. The water turned to ice inside the pipe and the pipe expanded and cracked and the crack dripped when the ice thawed and the drip made a stain on the building and the stain was the shape of a river. The super wrapped the drain pipe in insulation and the insulation looked like a bandage and the building looked like it had been to the war.

Kids on East Seventh Street used the drain pipe as a ladder. You grabbed it and climbed the wall like a monkey and the pipe held you because cast iron does not bend. The pipe was bolted into the brick every four feet and each bolt was a foothold. I climbed the drain pipe to the roof when I was twelve and the view was worth the rust on my hands.

The drain pipe made music in the rain. Every pipe had a different pitch. The wide pipe had a low voice. The narrow pipe had a high voice. A building with three drain pipes was a chord. A block with thirty buildings was an orchestra. The rain conducted. Nobody bought tickets. The concert was free and it played whenever the sky decided.

They make drain pipes out of PVC now. White plastic. Hidden behind the wall. You cannot see the plumbing anymore. You cannot hear the water. You cannot climb the PVC because PVC bends. The building no longer shows you its scars. The building hides everything behind drywall and the drywall hides everything behind paint and the paint says nothing happened here.

See also: Copper Pipe, Rain Gutter