3771. HERE'S A PIECE FOR THE MAN WHO HANDLES OILS

HERE'S A PIECE FOR THE

MAN WHO HANDLES OILS

Then as now they begged the loggers for

the logs : time and place and energy,

anything to keep it going. Five black cars,

racing down the street, straight for the shed

at the end of the warehouse harbor. That's

where most of the goods were kept. I slept

there a few nights, in a row in fact, in the

rear of an old container truck kept there for

just that purpose. Me and Judy Tenenbaum,

she of the temple'd bicycle and the stolen

vegetables  -  all things she'd eat under

cover of the night. All the times we stayed

there, there beneath the covers, there was

gasoline dripping on the pavement, old leaky

trucks and all their soggy oils and smells.

It was a wharfside mess, for sure, but no

one ever bothered about a god-damned thing.

We would talk for hours  -  I thought she was

so smart. Wealthy too, but smarter  -  old family

money somewhere in Long Island. She was hiding

out, and so was I. Back then  -  this was 1967  -

the West Side Highway was elevated and it still

ran trucks and cars. Underneath the trestles, that's

where all this was  -  dead cars, broken trucks, and

more than a few very active piers where the workmen

worked all night. I've never seen anything like it again,

and only wish I could. Oh, only wish that I could.