236. THE SMELL I FOUND
At the bottom of Manhattan
well, sort of, westside, of
Varick Street, just above and
west of, the Holland Tunnel,
at 326 Spring Street, there's
an awesome, fine, old bar -
having been there nearly
forever, in NY terms. It
was, a long time ago, titled
with an old neon sign above
the door that read 'Bar' and
below it, 'Inn'. Years ago
half of the neon on the 'B'
was taken away, or burned
out, and it's forevermore
been known as the 'Ear Inn.'
It's a very old, original, early
Manhattan building - you
can look it up and see fifty
references - and was
originally known as the
James Brown House.
Based on the name of
the grand, old and original
owner, from 1817, who ran
it as a sailor's dive - at that
time, unbelievably, it hugged
the river. Yes, the Hudson ran
right to its side door. That
same Hudson River is now
at least six blocks off -
over 200 years of Manhattan's
growth and stretch, through
landfill and all of the diggings
and foundations for growth
that have been dumped into
the river, as footings for
new land, and have increased
everywhere its width. The
James Brown House itself
has not much changed, just
gotten new neighbors all
along the way. It's still an
odd, crusty, and a little-yet-
strange bar and hang-out.
Through the 1990's it's been
only a wee-bit 'gentrified' or
classed up, perhaps. Tables
out front, sometimes. And
inside, each of the tables
have large drawing paper
'tablecloths' and come
supplied each with their
own buckets of pencils and
crayons - idea being you're
supposed to scribble and
draw while you drink and
dine. Oh wow.
-
Most people have no clue,
when dealing with Manhattan,
what the original premise and
land is upon which they tread.
It was, originally, only a very
small enclave of river people,
on each side, and up from
the bottom, where the greater,
salt, harbor was and its opening
out to the sea lanes of the
Narrows. That's the same
sea-route in which all those
millions of late 1800's
immigrants sailed their
passages and entries into
the then-teeming metropolis,
which took them in, and
did actually welcome them,
provide for them and put
them to immediate use,
crooked or not. The west
side (the Hudson) was the
side for meat, vegetables
and hard-goods. The east
side, the East River, was
port of entry for all sorts
of fish trade, and ship-builders
too : there were once rows
of ship-building emporiums
all up to Turtle Bay. Freight
and goods were rolling in
and out of the harbor, and,
at the other side, the newly
opened (about 1830) Erie
Canal, brought goods and
foodstuffs pouring in from
all upstate and inland. The
'new' Port of New York! All
of this has, of course, been
changed over-time so that
pretty much nothing of it even
exists any longer, except in
dreams. Lurid or not; and
mine or not. The James
Brown House was typical:
wharf-side, sailors, brawn,
strength, muscle, cursing,
whores, hookers and homos
too. No holds barred, of any
sort, and each endeavor went
wild. you lived, or you didn't,
by the landlubber's code of
'temporary' restrictions. On
the east side, where now is
the play-toy called South
Street Seaport (all bogus
bullshit), there were endless
dens for dog-fights (to the
death, in pits, and heavily
bet on), and cock-fights,
same deal. You died, or
something did, and someone
else collected. At the James
Brown House, on the other
hand, something or someone
died, whether or not in
someone else's arms, and
YOU collected, of you wee
smart enough. Go the the
Ear Inn some day; see for
yourself. Better yet, tell
me. I'll take you.
-
The point of my foray here
into the subject of the Ear
Inn has to do, again, with
the destruction of the Twin
Towers. I use to frequent
the Ear Inn - to drink, yes,
but also to hang out, attend
poetry readings and writer's
discussions and the like - a
trove of surly, odd, and
eccentric characters
always. In the days and
weeks after the collapse
of the towers, all of that
time, there was a complete
disarray in this part of
the city. Power outages,
water floods, back-ups,
emergency vehicles,
grand pile-ups of things.
I had brought my friend.
Donald, down there with
me and we stopped into the
Ear Inn. They were only
on partial power, and no
bathrooms, flickering
generator light, and really
poor water pressure. Asking
to use the bathroom, as he
did, was not a good omen
for starting-off. The
bartender - a thin,
blond guy I'd seen a
hundred times, not very
friendly to begin with,
simply snapped when
friend Donald asked a
compound question -
innocently enough, I
guess, and naively too,
of 'what's the latest
body count, how many
did they find today?'
and 'Are the firemen
coming here to use
the bathroom?' The
guy snapped. Two-weeks
of pent-up rage I guess.
The gist of his almost
nasty response to Donald
was : "you people fucking
kill me, coming in here
from the safety of wherever
you're from and asking
stupid-ass questions. The
'body-count?' The fucking
'body-count' you ask?
Yeah, they found 20
more, all splattered like
that on the sidewalk! Is
that what you want to
hear?" It went on from
there. That's just the gist
- we didn't really 'respond'
in kind, I just tried calming
him down, understanding
the situation, and his
predicament and inner
turmoil as well. In turn,
I assessed the insult-factor
taken by Donald, and it
seemed manageable.
The whole scene was
sad, everywhere. What
else to expect. And, yes,
as we sat there one or
two fireman came
through, bathroom
use or not - since
they were fairly useless
anyway, the bathrooms,
and there were port-a-johns
galore most everywhere
right then. Everything
was still white, coated
with like a thick
snow-fall of calcium
dust, or whatever it
was - chalky,
particulate, and
smelly some too.
The entire downtown
bore an unmistakable
stench. I never quite
knew what it was,
only partially death,
yes, but much more too.
It reminded me, all this,
of some Lynyrd Skynyrd
Southern-Rock Biker tune
I'd heard over and over
about a million times
at endless biker runs
and concert : 'Oo-oh
that smell, can't you
smell that smell, the
smell of death
surrounds you.'
No comments:
Post a Comment