322. STICK BALL
You know, some people
bay at the moon, watch
every significance of the
sky above them as if it
really mattered to their
lives. I could never much
fathom that either. It
reeked to me of some
weird primitivism that,
somehow in the middle
of 'world-modern-city'
I couldn't ever accept.
Being a Druid on the
Salisbury Plain or at
Stonehenge, or whatever,
that's one thing, but
under a statue in Father
Demo Square in the West
Village, that's another case.
(There's also a Father
Duffy Square, at 42nd St.,
and that's another case too).
Funny how NYC, this large,
riling den of iniquity, has
all these revered places
named after 'holy' figures
of the past. The profane
and the sacred, always
mixing it up.
-
There were times for me
that almost grew scary.
One thing that kept
happening, and it did
seem weird to me - new
and young and all, to this,
as I was - was that each
time I'd be reading or
learning of something
from the old start-up
past of old New York
City, I'd always be
running into names
from then, and finding
that they would also
be names from now,
from people I knew.
The list was pretty
long : Bill George,
Malone, Walker,
DeLeon, Paul Grace,
Chauncey Depew,
William Ware, Thomas
Preston. Those are just
a few, last names, first
names, but it was weird.
New York being, as it
were, a nation of
immigrants all
starting together
about 1750, let's say,
into the late 1800's,
I sensed or felt to
sense that so many
of these early names
had to somehow be,
incredibly, forebears
of the present-day
people I knew with
the same names.
And that was frightening,
it was scary, because it
closed some odd, psychic
circle of tightening
influence right tight
about me. It shook me,
as if I expected (but
didn't) to meet
someone of my own
or my father's name,
from 1908, having
done something
dastardly and/or
legendary enough
to negatively have
lived on. I kept
always looking for
the big 'Unity'; the
one large over-mass
that would bring
this together for me.
-
Omni, the gravy man,
was feeding a horse at
the curb. The plastic
bucket had some
overflow, there on the
ground, and two pigeons,
in turn, were having
a feast. The cold Winter
sunlight shone to the
ground, making a
warmer scene of what
was. I said nothing but
watched. Omni was a
friend of mine. He was
from Scotland, and
had the snotty attitude
of a tough wrestler, were
you to take him down.
Headlock. Full Nelson.
'Don't cross Omni,' was
all I'd say, 'he'll crush
you like a walnut broken
right in two.' The truest
things you'd ever heard
were true for sure about
Omni. What he was doing
here, I never knew.
Horse-carriage rides
through the park? Eight
Dollars, first twenty minutes?
Seventy cents a minute,
past that? Wow. (Now it's
fifty-four ddollars, first
twenty minutes, plus tip,
and twenty-one dollars
for each ten minutes
after that).
-
Omni had told me his
story - right off the
boat, 36 years ago, put
up that night, by some
late night transit, not
just him, but his whole
family and kin, or 'clan,'
as he put it. To Asbury
Park, NJ, somewhere.
That very first night,
the place burned down.
No one got hurt, but his
'clan, lost everything
they'd brought. He
laughed at it now, 'Gave
us a fresh start, once
again.' He'd laugh at
that; good omen. I was
glad he laughed, because
I felt that I'd have been
terrified in my boots had
that occurred. What kept
Omni going too - which
I'd never then experienced
to any extent - was bourbon
whiskey, and oranges.
Yes, sounds weird, but
he was a goner for that.
I'd seen him handle all of
it real well, and a few times
I'd seen him so staggeringly
awful and dead-drunk that
I feared for his life. Horse
and carriage ride or not.
One time at Peter McManus,
which is an ancient scrappy
local bar at 17th St. and
Seventh Ave., I think it
is, he fell out, just keeled
over, out on the sidewalk -
he might as well have been
drunk. Fortunately, someone
contacted his sister, and
she did eventually come
by in a taxi and took him
off, all the while apologizing
profusely for his behavior.
I managed to at least tell her
'no harm, all good, it was
great.' A guy from the middle
of nowhere Scotland, driving
a horse carriage all day, 6 days
a week, with the strange
back-story of landing in
America and getting burned
the first night here. That's
worth a drink or two.
-
Peter McManus Tavern was
real old-line New York. The
people, the 17th Street locals
and those around it, had all
those faces that gave away
first or second generation
arrivals. I always loved that
(remember, my years of
reference for this; I'm
talking 1967). It's not
like that anymore,
the faces are all
different, the noses
and lips, eyes and
facial structures no
longer reflect that
old strain of
European input,
all those ancient
inter-breedings of
tribes and secreted
groups passing along
the early lands of
the European
nation-states.
Mostly nowadays
everyone looks
as if they're in
quarters - 1/4 this,
and that, etc.,
four times over.
Asian and Indian,
Hispanic and Black,
all that crazy mix
making a different
facial set and
body-presence
entire. Completely
different humanity
make-up. McManus
and those streets
there used to have
it perfectly done,
for that era. And
they had the
local-enough power
that twice each Summer
to shut the street down,
(I guess they worked
with the cops), barricading
17th Street right there
by the side of the tavern
(there was also a
street-serving window,
so the boozing never
stopped) and the locals
- real thugs and killers,
brute, tough, muscled,
like dock guys, which
many of them were),
who all knew each
other and had grown
up together - played
an endless game of
stick-ball, right there,
in the street. Grudge
match kind of game.
As if it were a tourney
to the death. The
Saturday next after
Father's Day, and
the Saturday next
after Labor Day.
No matter the weather,
except maybe for big
downpour rain. I
never remember that
happening They'd
play this brutal game
all day, progressively
getting more and
more drunk, of
course, and then
boisterous, foul,
and even rough and
violent. I'd see fights
break out, street-stuff,
with oaths and curses
and rattled off list
of everything rude
you could ever
think of, and it
all had to be broken
up, before a knife
or whatever came
out. One the whole,
they always made it
through - chairs
on the curb, babes
and wives watching,
everyone cheering
and drinking, arguing
over a play or the
ball, or something
they'd find to argue
over. The funny thing
was, the street is narrow,
thin with four-story
walk-ups and some
apartments on each
side - the tightest
quarters imaginable
for this sort of expansive,
long ball, game. But they
always got it done, and
it was always cool
to witness.
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