205. JOLLY DOLLY
One time I fell into a hole, a
chasm. It was part just identity
crisis, and part real life. Her
name was 'Jolly Dolly', and
she ran a strange little cafe,
along 'Bleeker Street' in
downtown Newark - yes,
different in spelling, for
some reason, from the NYC
Bleecker Street (with the 'c')
I was familiar with. The
place was a little walk-down,
three or four steps below in
the sidewalk, in one of those
types of urban buildings
that there used to be
everywhere, but are not
now - urban streets where
the big marble stairs allowed
access up, from both sides,
to the two front doors
there, and which, below
them, there were two other,
basement storefronts or
places to live. I can't
remember how I first
met her, but it was when
I was bringing printing
back and forth to Rutgers
Newark - that story I told
about all the stupid
lawyers-to-be wanting
me to sell them the
exams beforehand - I
probably stopped in
there for something
to drink. Anyway,
picture like a Mama Cass,
big-girl character, maybe
like the singer Adele,
before she got all famous
and slimmed down and fancy.
Just a big, floppy girl; lady,
I guess, about 35. She had
one of those little places
you had to see to believe.
Set up all dainty, like a
little doll house - gingham
curtains, little tables, a
setting on each, flowers,
candles - real hippie vibe.
I never really saw any but
a few other people, ever,
in there. It never mattered
to her. Whether she was
losing money or making
thirty-five cents, it was all
the same to her. She was
just happy. I guess she'd
named herself 'Jolly Dolly'
but I never knew - the
sign out front was like
crazy-hand-painted and
all it said was Jolly Dolly's.
I just called her Jolly, or
nothing. She would talk,
long-time talk. But, funny
as it was, she was in no way
connected - out of the loop,
not involved, not caught up
in any of the day's 'issues'.
Her mind was all frothy and
dumb, actually. Sweet teas,
candies and coffees, in a
doll house setting with
cupcakes. Like a Little
Orphan Annie type and
a Diva in training. I used
to sit there, all caught up
in issues and outrage,
running from this or
running from that, and
she just never got it. I
always tried bringing her
the dark side, but she was
always happy. What was
also weird to me - she
loved the Jersey Shore,
she loved the beach,
and going to beach, and
all those Jersey resort
towns I never knew
about. I wanted to get
lost in the darkness and
the doubt-grinding of
New York City, and
Newark, if need
be. All she cared
about was all the fun
and games of the Jersey
shore - and she envied
me for living, where I
did then, (Fulton Street,
Woodbridge), 30 miles
closer to it than she was.
-
Jolly had a cool place there.
I think back on it now and
just wish I'd have had it - I
would have chucked all that
futzy stuff, moved out the
crud, and served coffee amid
the welter of paintings and
creative work - typewriters
clacking, people hanging
around, and jazz-horns
playing. Strung-out dudes,
hanging by a thread. Done
ghosts-carts of tabulated lost
souls. 'I could'a been a
contender!' It would
have been a neat place.
-
I never found out any more.
One day Jolly was just gone,
her place closed up. Over the
years, the place just turned to
wreckage. I don't know if it's
still there. One time I brought
my cousin and her boyfriend
there. That was probably a
really heavy business-day for
Jolly - the four of us, and her.
My girlfriend, by the way, had
become friends in time with
Jolly. Whenever they saw
each other, they managed
to hit it off. As we sat
there, I kind of realized that
for this to make any sense
to anyone, it had to be both
experienced and explained.
I don't know if either my
cousin or her boyfriend got
anything from this place. I
rather feel the interpretation
of it all was somehow
unique to me.
-
Downtown Newark, in '67
and '68, was a place unto its
own. Like Detroit, maybe.
So much of it is gone now
as to be saddening. Up
and down Broad Street
- all those big plots of
grassy land and wild,
fenced-in areas, were
once tall old vertical
houses, the city-kind,
brownstone and granite.
Each one held maybe
10 or 15 black families,
mostly listless. They'd
just hang out on the
stoops and porches,
congregate, and talk
or stare, while drinking
beer. There are still a few
left, one or two good ones
right across from the park.
Buildings, I mean, not people.
That park is right across
the street from the military
induction center. In 1969 I
drove my friend Jack there.
He'd enlisted for Vietnam.
From Upsala College, in East
Orange, I think, when that
was still there - it's gone
now, the college, I mean.
There's still some hole in the
ground called East Orange.
Jack did two tours, as a Medic.
He saw a lot of shit. He had
wanted to be a brain surgeon,
but when he came back, a
few years later, he'd decided
he'd already seen as many
splattered brains in his lap
that he'd ever care to see.
So he went into tech work.
His house in Rahway, even
back in the late 80's when it
was all pretty much unheard
of, at least to me, had two
spare rooms filled to the
gills, hoarder style workshop
stuff, with metal frames,
circuit boards and all the rest
of that stuff - Jack would
make computers, on his own.
There were piles of stuff and
at least 20, unfinished or worse,
computers, mainframes, boards,
hookups, connections, screens.
Everything. I don't know what
he did, or even if there was an
Internet back then, but it all
much have had a purpose,
somewhere. Inside the house
you had to crawl over stuff,
great crates of things, mostly
plastic or metal tech kind
of stuff. Plus he had two very
large Rhodesian Ridgeback
dogs who ruled the place. His
wife was placid, docile and
quiet. Very weird scene, but
it all worked. Completely
unique. I think, today, he'd
be laughed out of town -
maybe a male version of a
Jolly Dolly type, of his own.
Hard goods, not tea or coffee.
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