307. TRAMPS AND THIEVES
The whole gypsy thing
was always very weird.
First off, they've gotten
mis-named. The very
sort of mis-naming
that often happened
back in those bleak
old days when no
one really 'knew'
that much. They
have nothing to do
with Egypt. And
Gypsy Moths, in
turn have little to
do with them. The
whole idea was of
a thieving, crummy
people always on
the move with no
settled place of their
own. An ersatz Jewishness,
of sorts, except the
Jewish aspect of all
this got all high and
noble with the God
connection by which
they bolstered their
being. And travels
too. East Euro Khazars
would be more like it.
If I called the Jewish
people a race of thieving,
on the move creeps. I'd
be in big trouble. But
that's another story. For
Gypsies, it's OK.
These Leo guys had
it all wrapped up.
In the old movies, if
you see a Gypsy portrayal,
they're always done as
shorthanded for a nasty,
conniving, dishonest,
duplicitous person who
would steal from you
the breath you just
exhaled - stealth,
secrecy, weird
dances in the woods
around campfires,
with wagons and
earrings and scarves.
They'd pull into
some forest-clearing
town and everyone
was immediately
on edge and aghast.
Somehow, in
movie terms,
the way movie-guys
thought then, and
still do, they can
make the merest
'suggestion' of a
trait without having
to actually show
the trait, for if they
did, then they'd be
accused of something
nasty. But they knew
that the people
watching whatever
film it was would
get the message.
Period. It was all
encoded. It wasn't
too much work at all.
So, I'd wonder, what
do all these Leo guys
think of that? And
their womenfolk,
stuffed in cars
and producing
endless babies,
what did they get
from all that?
Difficult to tell.
-
As far as I could
tell, this bunch,
these Leo guys,
were always
above-board with
me. What else I
might have been
missing, I never
saw. It was a
decent relationship,
among fellows. I
wish I could see
them now. In the
rest of Manhattan,
there'd be all these
doleful old-timers
sitting around,
always in clumps,
silent ad all get-out
and yet commiserating
with each other
through silence.
Survivors.
Concentration camp
people, tattooed
forearms - like I've
written of previously;
the 11th street crowd,
the old Polish Jew
on the corner with
the eyes that were
always tearing,
and his little
luncheonette and
diner-counter thing.
That's where I first
saw the tattooed forearm
situation - and then
Yonah Shimmel's
and then Katz's and
Russ's and the rest.
They were all over
the place. Tompkins
Square Park and
its benches held
a hundred, I'd bet,
at any one time -
plus all the center
aisle walkway and
bench people up
along upper
Broadway, through
the west 70's and 80's.
A bunch of them,
and they were all,
back then, approaching
their end; one after
the other, they slowly
dropped off. Today
you can't find one.
It's all other nationalities,
younger people, and
an entire 'other' way
of going about things.
I don't know what
these Leo people
would ever have
made of these scenes,
but I know, as well,
that Hitler did his
share of slaughtering
these people too.
It's all gone now,
from every angle.
-
My friend Paul had
a studio apartment
in the west 60's a
block or two in
from Central Park.
I always thought
it was really cool,
a great spot - he
never thought
much of it. He
never, actually,
thought much of
his own situation
no matter where
he was. At least
when I knew him
- he went through
about 5 apartment
locations, and about
three female companions
too. Of course, I never
had to live in these
places, so my liking
them was a bit
dishonest, on my
part. Me liking
someone else's
misery, sort of -
so I never went
on about it, just
kept silent and
listened to his rants.
Any number of
cool things were
there. In the late
fifties or whenever
it was, Fidel Castro
had been in or
come to New
York City and
stayed right around
there too, then. He
wasn't the successful
revolutionary leader
who later took over
the country; but
while here had a
grand following of
his own people and
was sort of the
revolutionary toast
of the town. I forget
where he stayed,
but I remember it
was around there
somewhere and it was
still often mentioned.
A New York studio
apartment can bear
many descriptions,
starting with 'closet.'
But this was, a studio
yes, but I'd say maybe
at least a room and a
half anyway. It opened
right to the street,
was long and
narrow, maybe
10 feet wide, and
just ran straight,
almost as one
long room. The
front window
was to the street,
so you'd always
have street activity
going by. I can't
remember the rest
- sinks and
kitchenette and
bathroom and
all that, but I guess
they were there. I
can't even remember
the street number,
thought I think it
was maybe 72nd.
Paul was always
on the edge of despair,
I mean big-time.
I remember one
time, his best
friend had run
off with his
(Paul's) girlfriend
- just stole her in
a mad jumble -
and Paul was
deadly morose,
for a long time.
One night we
went to the White
Horse Tavern,
down on Hudson
Street, by Jane
Street, usual
scene, crowds
and noise, beer
and beer and
beer - all Paul
did that whole
night, in the back
room beneath the
portrait of Dylan
Thomas, was play,
on the jukebox,
repeat mode,
some ridiculous
song current at
that time, by
Joe Jackson, a
guy I forget mostly.
It was called, or the
main refrain (which
I heard 10,461 times)
was 'Is She Really
Going Out With Him,
Is She Really Gonna'
Take Him Home Tonight?'
Yes. There was another
one too, Gloria Gaynor,
'I will survive.' I almost
forgot. Now that kind
of girlfriend stealing
is real gypsy theft.
More like what
I'd expect.
-
Another weird
thing I always
thought about
was how ordinary
people got to be
that way. It always
seemed to me
that people
weren't necessarily
'born' stupid; they
just somehow let
themselves get
that way after
a while. By
believing in
the most ordinary
and mundane factors.
The entire gamut -
made up religion
stories, tales of war
and valor, Fatherland
and Motherland stuff,
duty, honor, and
conviction. For
what? it was all
a junk heap of
the same sold
metal mishaps
that these Leo
guys collected and
sold. No chemical
coating. OK, I'll
sign that. They
always were getting
these contracts done
up, a I said in the
previous chapter.
What if there was
a contract we each
had to sign, early
on, to the effect
that we'd not fall
for any of that
stuff that makes
us later on brain
dead and stupid.
The Gypsies
maybe had an
inkling of all this
- because their
gravesites are a
real trip. Some
of the gravestones
and slogans and
manners of portrayal
on these huge things
are really something
to see. Beyond -
way beyond - the
usual morose
sensibility of the
dead by which
most people
mark a passing.
These people die
flirtatiously, almost
as if they knew all
this stuff was and
had been really
a joke. Playful,
a winning attitude
of just throwing it
all away and going
at it. Yep. I'd
sign that.
-
Everyone else gets
real savage and
serious about things
that, at base, are all
lies. In my time
there, I could have
met 10 New Yorkers
a day who'd be more
than willing to fill
me in on all this
serious stuff about
the history of their
city - how this
happened, who did
what, where, and
the rest. I already
knew it was all bullshit;
and then I met the
gypsy people and
I realized that all
the negatives and
evil stuff, the crooks
and slime-balls just
like these Gypsies
were made out to be,
weren't them at all.
Instead, it had been
the most revered and
high-reputation
bullshit people of
New York's early
days who were the
crooks and renegades.
They don't call them
'robber-barons' for
nothing, even though
the truth about them
is never told. These
guys make Gypsies
look like altar boys.
Jim Fisk, Brady,
Vanderbilt, Morgan,
and a bunch of
others too - all
with big-deal
family names and
fortunes you'd easily
recognize, (I'll write
some more specifics
in the next chapter),
they cornered markets,
artificially sunk prices
so they could buy
things up and then
shut it down,
whatever it was,
rail, steel, even food
and merchant goods,
so they could sell
again, real high,
making like 160 times
their investment, digging
up streets and roads
for the implementation
of rail and cartage routes,
stealing contracts by
double-dealing. It goes
on. They're rich and
famous, with big corrupt
Kennedy-family-like
fortunes and reputations
- even though they
were crooks and creeps.
Like I said, these
Gypsies were altar
boys compared
to that crap.
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