318. BUILT RIGHT IN
Supposedly the last
words of Casanova
were, "I have lived
as a philosopher, and
I die as a Christian."
I never new if that
was true or not, but
it always seemed to
me to be, first-off,
pretty late-in-life,
on his own part, for
that sort of switch.
Kind of cheating, in
a way. But, based on
my own Christian
education, whatever
it was, I also thought
it was probably just
what they've always
deserved - always
with their talk of the
all-forgiving God,
with no reservations
and with your only
task being to profess
that faith and all
is forgiven. What
else was the use of
anything? Someone
with a fairly debauched
life crawling back to
them at the end of
their life, claiming
a conversion and
thereby affording
to themselves all
that last-moment
forgiveness and
salvation which
this Christian
scale-maker
God would extend
to pitiful humans.
On the other hand,
you had some
regurgitant ascetic,
always praying and
humble, doing
good works, sweating
and slaving all his
or her life for
Heaven's purposes,
and, at the end,
he or she gets
the very same
thing? It seemed
as if - by their
logic, any fool
could jump to
the front of the
line whenever
they felt it was
time, putting aside
all the blood-curdling,
nasty and brutish
life they'd been
leading until then.
Consider Hitler,
with his final words,
'OK, God, I'm in.
I truly believe.'
It just never
seemed correct
enough to be real.
Casanova
notwithstanding.
-
Another thing
I never got to
the bottom of
was if and whether
other people thought
of things in the
manner I did -
all this give and
take about religion
and fate and
mannerisms and
history and such.
I never knew if
it was just me,
unique to me
anyway, or if
it was the sort
of thing all
mankind is
constantly living
with. I kind of
hoped that was
the case, but
if it was - at
the same time
- I really
thought it was
a bum deal for
everyone. Some
of the people I'd
meet just seemed
like regular, nice
people - and I
could never
even imagine
them dealing
with a dark,
doubtful,
questioning side.
As time went on,
I visited Chinatown
more and more -
the real heart of
Chinatown, like
in the guide books,
Mott Street, Doyers,
Pell, old-line stuff.
I never sensed any
of the strange,
dark brooding
there. The sort
of thing that was
within me didn't
seem to exist there.
I had someone
once tell me I
was the most
'haunted' person
they'd ever seen,
that I came across
to them as haunted.
That was weird to
hear, and it rang a
little true, although
I couldn't understand
why it would be
apparent to another.
Anyway, Chinatown
never presented me
with any 'haunted'
characters. It was
different and startling
and strange - with
sorts of weird habits
and things everywhere.
The cultural difference
was vast, and that
allowed a complete
anonymity. Food,
tea, people in
clumps - Chinese
people seem very
social, tight with
their own kind,
sitting around
together, always
yapping that
sing-song language
of theirs. I even
learned a few words -
for oddball things:
'too expensive,' and
of course the dumb
things like 'how
are you?' and
'hello.' Not that
they were used
much, but it was fun.
At this time, the
borders of Chinatown
and Little Italy, as it
was called, were
bleeding into each
other as Chinatown
grew and the Italian
section began
shrinking. Those
people, the Italians,
had a tendency
to eventually become
successful and
move away, to
overdecorated places
like Staten Island
and parts of Brooklyn
(or into he Witness
Protection Program)
- with houses and
little lawns, space
for cars and the rest.
As they did that,
they left a void, and
that was the void
that the Chinese
needed, and quickly
filled. There were Italian
restaurants around too,
and still are; it's just
that the area is, overall,
smaller now. Back in
that day, when it wasn't
all plastic and false,
you could still get
a plate of spaghetti
for something like
.85 cents, maybe a
year or to later a
$1.25, with a meatball
too. There were all
sorts of dumb little
pasta joints. There
was one place called
'The Blue Grotto', real
mysterious and
blue-lit, with half-lit
tables and a long bar.
Pretty cool. There
was another place
called 'Luna' which
was white, concrete
walls that looked
like they'd been
shaped and molded,
papier-mache like,
of concrete - all
rough and pimply
finished. It was
low and busy and
dank, with a couple
of different rooms
within, and waiters
and stuff. Noisy.
Either one of those
places, still Italian,
could lead you to
expect some mafia
gunman to burst
in at any time, up
to something. And
then of course, there
was Umberto's Clam
House, where it
really did happen.
Joey Gallo got shot
to smithereens right
there where he sat
- with his family
and kids all around
him. DOA for sure,
extra red sauce on
your spaghetti that
day. No charge.
-
Umberto's, by the
way, was - no
offense Mario
Chiccolini - a
really butt-ugly
place. Gross blue
and white tile panels,
bad decor, it all
looked some out
of control 1950's
kitchen where
they'd expect
you to eat and
shut-up. There
was an outdoor
dining area too,
for good weather,
that ran around
the front of the
place, equally
ugly. From the
street you'd
look at this
place and just
keep going. I
went there with
a friend once and
he left his camera
behind. Go figure.
We went back about
20 minutes later, and
they had it and gave
it back. I figured,
if not stolen outright,
it was going to be
dismantled in case
it was explosive
and set to blow.
In a place like that,
it could happen.
-
Back then, where
Umberto's was located
was at the last spot
before it began being
Chinese. Kind of a
bad run-on sentence.
They've since moved,
and Chinese stuff has
usurped a lot of that area.
Luna is still in place;
the Blue Grotto, last I
saw, was closed up.
There's development
and new buildings now
in places where before
there was nothing but
parking lots manned
by killers, for some $14
for ten minutes, starting.
That's all gone now, and
I don't know what the
visitors with cars do.
It all used to be dead-stop
traffic, always; all those
little, cramped streets.
The two cultures met
and merged, it seemed.
even with conflict here
and there - they were
each equally tacky and
bad with decorations and
taste. Horrid. Filthy pet
and parakeet stores next
to 'fine' Italian eateries
with linens and greeters.
One place was a trinket
shop, with gross, nasty
tee shirts outside, for
sale. Italian themed. One
had a woman in an apron,
at the stove, cooking, with
one hand done the front
of some guy's pants
next to her. Her husband,
I guess. The caption was,
'Now, THA'T'S Italian!'
Yeah, I'm gonn'a wear
that to the next Knights
of Columbus cook-out
for sure.
-
Italian people there were -
I wouldn't call them 'haunted'
but they were laced with a
major dose of powerful
emotion, something that
came through in their
emotional voices and
loud vocal ticks. They
sounded like brutes , even
the women. If they weren't
hairy and ugly, they were
tough and anxious. The
women, I mean. A real
'get in my way and I'll
have to kill you, bunch.'
And that too was, yep,
just the women. The
guys, mostly they were
born with bruises and
bullet holes already
built right in. Yeah.
it was something.
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