79. COOL
People used to tell me not
to 'lose my cool'. I never
knew what they meant.
Now I do, of course, and
it makes a difference. It's
about detachment, more
than anything. Not the
detachment of irony, which
is more about just getting
attention, like 'look at me,
oops, doing this again, I'm
such a cool dude.' It's more
the more serious detachment
of distancing yourself from
the world. I was OK at that.
One time, in Sea Bright, NJ,
a few of us, at a friend's
urging, went down there
to do an evening ocean swim.
There was a serious riptide
in place,warnings were up,
and the lifeguards had gone
home, the beach was free.
The riptide caught me,
out past the jetty, and
struggle as I might, I
could not stop from just
getting farther and farther
away from the shore. I
was losing it and getting
really winded, and then
nervous, and then panicking.
They thought I was, once
more, just goofing and
fooling around - so they
paid me no mind. Until I
was way out, screaming
for assistance. They, or
someone, must have called
a local emergency crew,
and the next thing I knew,
I was being hauled into
some rescue boat, with
a few really intense EMT
rescue types manhandling
me, to safety. When the
boat got me back to shore,
they hustled me into a
waiting ambulance and
high-tailed me to Jersey
Shore Medical Center,
Emergency. There was
nothing wrong with me,
but they said that at that
point 'policy and procedure'
had kicked in, and they had
to do it. I was there for about
three hours, and my friends,
with the car and the ride home,
had to come and get me, and
wait. They said I'd 'lost my
cool.' That was like the first
time I understood what the
phrase meant. At home, my
parents thought I was whacked,
and then when a bill for all that
stuff came, a week or so later,
my mother freaked. I think she
lost her cool. I told my friends
it must run in my family.
-
Being in New York, the entire
place, what it's known for, is the
opposite of cool, for sure. The
entire New York attitude is of
belligerence, intensity, pushing
and prodding, rudeness and
swarming. Nothing cool about
it. At one level, even though
I was scared shitless, it was
perfect for my temperment,
yet at the other level it kept me
from the intended 'maturation'
into coolness, into distance.
The Zen monks and the
Buddhist guys around, the
Mennonites on 9th Street, in
what is called 'Menno House'
(still there to this day) they
live and remain totally aloof,
committed completely to the
needed detachment which all
around them in the fierce city
rages. I felt more that that
was what I really wanted.
-
I was cool when I first paid
that landlord guy my 60 bucks
for rent and then another 60
for 'security'. I was cool when
I worked alongside Jose, some
big, hulking Mexican-Indian
guy who was hiding out from
Colorado where he said he'd
thrown his wife out of a
fast-moving car along a
mountain cliff. Pushed her
out the door, and assumed
she was dead. He washed
pots and pans when we worked
together some nights at the
hamburger and ice-cream place
next door to the Fillmore East.
I was cool when I walked up
and down St. Marks Place, in
every business doorway asking
if there was any available job.
I was cool when they all said
no, and they mostly told me
to go over to Second Avenue,
some laundromat with an
address I tried to remember.
They said to ask for a guy
named 'Sy'. I was cool after
that too, when I got by the
laundromat. Most everything
right there was Rapoport this
and Rapoport that: Rapoport's
Children's Furniture, Rapoport's
Shoes, on and on, endless
businesses. Furniture stores,
bicycles, coats and clothing.
And the laundromat.This guy
named Sy Rapoport, from
Long Island, he owned it
all. He had a small, hot,
cluttered office at the
back of the noisy and
humid laundromat - filled
with chubby old ladies and
wifey-sorts, folding and
sorting clothes, sitting around,
or yelling at their little kids.
Sy's offcie view took it all in.
As it turned out, he owned
like 50 businesses all around
there, St. Marks Place, around
and down the blocks. The gist
was if you were seeking a job,
pretty much Sy was the guy who
could find you a slot; the most
simple, stupidest, cheapest slot,
often just cash, 'no questions and
we don't even care what your
real name is.' I told him my deal.
Desperate. Hunger. Rent; all that.
He sized me up, thought a minute,
gave me an address not far off,
and said to go there and say Sy
sent me. That's how I got my
little job, late evenings and
night, cleaning all the dairy
crud after the place closed.
The rock-music crowd would
come pelting out of the Fillmore
East, after some concert or other,
all smattered and drugged-up,
and want food and ice cream
and pretzels. Just like that. It
was crazy magic. The place
closed about 2, and all that
dairy equipment had to be,
by law and for inspections
at any time, cleaned and
sterile by the next morning.
A total pain in the ass. Little
scoops, spray hose-wires,
milk lines, all that junk. I
hated it. Through it I met,
as well, Andy Bonamo, of
whom I've written a few
episodes back. He and the
Mexican guy were my
'eager' co-workers. Probably
for about 20 days. I don't
remember. From them I
heard every imaginable
real-life horror story in
the world - stuff I'd
never even dreamed
about or imagined. I was
Avenel, remember, the
equivalent of a trailer-park
Podunk. Not a chit of class
or hip - no cool - there.
These guys had it all over
me. Sy was cool, rolling in
his dough, a big diamond ring
on his pinky, fancy Jewish
grey-stripe suit, driving
home each night, probably
to his fancy Long Island
palatial estate....and
returning each morning
to his paper-strewn, muggy,
laundromat office! It's for
this that people live? That's
cool. Every bit of me was
straining, at the bit. I was
seeing colors by then : the
tones of the entire world
all changing in my hands.
Everything was different.
-
After hours, the kids would
never leave, never want to
leave. It was good for Andy,
and Jose too, because all they
ever did was peddle pot and
stuff to the kids. A real
payday some nights. I
really didn't want to get
involved - I did and I
didn't. All that money
was cool; I was less so.
It was just a scene I
couldn't make. too hot
by far. I didn't need nor
desire it. Yeah, all those
girls around were wonderful.
Amazing happenings - the
usual stupidities too. Dumb,
stupid, suburban kids
overdoing everything,
with no knowledge of
anything. Too stoned for
the train home, not aware,
nor remembering what
they'd meant to do. People
passing out, zonked and
stoned. Girls and guys
making out, or just falling
asleep together, propped up
on some wall. I just left it
all alone. I hooked up, like
I said, with Andy - a place
to sleep, and then, with the
expense of an apartment
and rent, all of a sudden,
a roommate too, who said
he'd cover all the costs.
Great. That was cool.
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