9171. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 326

326. EAST SIDE

There were always

things of passing

interest that used

to catch me. I tried

to retain them all,

or as much as I

could. In the earliest

days of this nation,

for instance, all it

took was 600 people,

within some area-

wide connection

to each other, to

then qualify for

a post office.

Probably, out

in the wilder areas,

you could also

incorporate and

make up your

own town. That's

where all those

weird small-town

names came from :

Smithburg, Laceyville,

Langston Hill. It was

so basic it startled. I'd

be walking the city

streets where, in some

places there were 600

people per building.

I always wondered

how the government

and those people dealt

with all that.

-

There was (is) a place

called the 79th Street

Boat Basin, out on the

Hudson, along the upper

west side, at Riverside

Drive and that area. It

allows house-boats,

and is a sort-of

permanent berth

for any number (or

was, anyway  -  it's

still there but has

since been cleaned

up a lot, gated and

given security and

all that) of eccentrics,

and strange people.

They lived at the

very fringe of the

idea of Manhattan

-  they were often

beatnik types, scarf

and beret sorts, artists

and writers, rich, crazy

old people, hopping 
between boats with 
a cocktail in hand,

with even a real

Popeye-type or two

thrown in. Anyone

could sit there; there

were benches about,

at the entry areas. I

would now and then

talk to a few of the people

living there, yachtsmen,

let's say. They were

always interesting

but I never went

onto the wharves

or any of the boats.

It never came to

that, and I remained

wary of some of

the people I'd see

-  homosexual gents

mainly, I guess, is

what I'm saying.

Couldn't be bothered

with that whole

routine again. One

too many Chauncey

Wigglesworths for

my taste). Those guys 
are always cloying, 
always after a make.
Malcolm Forbes, tyes, the
 famed rich guy, used to

keep his yachtthere

as well, 'The Capitalist

Tool', I think it was

called. He'd occasionally

be out on the water,

floating about or

returning, from a

harbor cruise. Better

than a taxi, and quicker,

to get around. It was

all as if the old call

of the fundamental

birth-Yankee was

operating beneath

all this : New York,

in its way, like Venice,

having risen from the

sea. All those huge

buildings and pilings

of stone and granite,

glass and steel,

reflected back

onto itself in the

most impressive

and miraculous

manner. Navigation

was the underpinning

of all that Manhattan

had even been. If

Leif Erickson had

never sailed in past

Sandy Hook 800

years previous, so

be it, but by 1600

for sure there was

already a steady

form of boat traffic.

Billowing sails and

mustering mariners,

all a'bustle. South

Street berths, the

Battery, the forts

and little islands

in the harbor, with

their gun emplacements

and thick, brick walls.

The upper bay, all

those portions of

connecting waters

rolling down from

upstate, to Liverpool

in 13 days; 18 knots

out on the water,

and even Honolulu

could be had in

82 days.

-

The naturalist John

Muir said: 'When we

pick up one thing in

the universe we find

it hitched to everything

else.' This was so true

there, and then. I was in

a maritime universe,

bounded on either side

by water, movement

and the rise and flow

of tidal currents, boat

traffic, ferries, fog-horns,

tugs, garbage scows,

freighters, cruise ships,

and fire-boats. It was

not a big stretch to

realize an entire water

mind-set anywhere along

the island, and once you

got that 'island' idea into

you head, everything

changed. The piers out

at the ends of Christopher,

Jane, and Perry Streets, that

entire area, were natural

outpoints for sharing the

Hudson River's heart and

soul. It was everywhere;

that river smell, the breezes

and the moisture, and  -

in the Winter  -  the

constant and biting cold

of the river-cooled air;

seemingly never warming

up. I've mentioned before

ice floes and the sounds.

On the other side of the

island, rounding out the

picture, was the East

River. It was different

in its respects  -  more

saline thus less prone

to solid freezing, more

turbulent and murky too.

It was, as an estuary, tidal

in its effects of the ocean

waters out past it  -  into

the broad and wide New

York Harbor and out

to the Hook at Jersey.

Sandy Hook. Just ten

or so blocks up the

East River, New York

City had its own  spit

of land called 'Corlears

Hook' which was all

dedicated to boat-building

and all the  industry and

work that went with it

 -  sailmakers, ship

carpenters, rope and '

twiners, iron foundries

for anchors and chain,

wooden beam and board

mills, and more. The

whole and entire city

industry was based

there. For years.

There were ships

and boats everywhere

and, back on the Hudson

side as well, Robert

Fulton worked and

tested his steamships,

various versions

that failed, blew up,

or went nowhere.

Even the water-front

of Perth Amboy,

some mere 12 water

miles off, had testing

sites and foundries for

Fulton's use.  (There

are plaques there now

that attest to this, though

all that boat-working

is gone). Edward Holland,

as well had his submarine

works and all the tests

and tryouts here, at

Manhattan's west

bottom. (I used to

imagine the Holland

Tunnel at one end

or the other, bringing 

me to the land of

wooden shoes.

Alas, not : merely

named for John

Holland, that

was all).

-

Remarkable stuff :

people used to fish 

right there, at the 

end of Cherry Street, 

where the footings 

and pilings of the 

Brooklyn Bridge 

came down into 

the water. There 

had somehow 

been made this 

weird little beach 

thing, most by 

accident, and a 

person could 

enjoy a real 

basking time there. 

People fished, or

walked about, or 

just hung out. Sea 

gulls and sea birds, 

the weird drone 

of the Brooklyn 

Bridge, tires on 

steel, sound, boats 

going by every so 

often. I don't know 

what anyone ever 

caught, nor what 

they dd with it once 

caught. But it was a 

nice space  -  all that's 

gone now. Fences and 

parking areas have 

taken it all over, 

and mostly you 

can't get anywhere 

near the water. I 

don't even know 

how the Mob guys 

dump bodies nowadays; 

certainly no longer 

from there. I'd sit 

there sometimes, 

whenever I could 

or felt like it, and 

the fish mongers 

and wholesalers 

would start rolling 

in for the Fulton Fish 

market, when the 

new daily catch came 

in, off the boats. 

Hundreds of strange 

little Jewish guys, 

bargaining boisterously 

over fish and price 

and weight and size 

and scale. I'd guess 

three hundred of 

New York's finest 

Hebraic ghetto delis 

and fish shops were 

supplied, swiftly and

easily, but with that 

constant braying 

of an almost Yiddish 

cat-calling. Small 

trucks, freezer cases, 

refrigerator trucks, 

Queens, Jersey, Long

Island, everybody, 

all at once. Guys 

would throw fish, 

like pillows, from 

one to another, 

catching them as 

easy as you and I 

breath. The 'catching' 

was a sort of wet 

cradling while the 

person's body who 

was catching sort 

of moved with the 

momentum of the 

thrown fish. On 

the whole, it was 

a flow more than 

a stop-catch. I 

always thought 

it too was all very 

nautical  -  the 'catch' 

and the 'flow'.  It

had to be done just

right. Whole, big, 

shiny, fat fish, taken 

off big fish-hooks, 

five or six at a 

time, hung by 

the gills, and 

each fish flung 

like a jaunty 

air-bound missile. 

There'd be muscular 

Spanish guys 

shouting and 

hollering, stabbing, 

jabbing and cutting 

fish, quick as lightning, 

scraping scales, trimming, 

whatever they do to 

make fillets. It was

nightmare-logic, 

bright as light and 

brought to life. 

Running. Hoses, 

water, noise, 

shouting, radios, 

music, cars and 

trucks, food trucks, 

shiny, wet bricks 

and cobblestones, 

traffic overhead. 

There were fish-mens' 

diners and coffee shops, 

places where they just

hung out to pass the 

time, before they 

had to leave again 

after load-up, or 

whatever. Domino 

tables, spare chairs, 

everyone just 

looking out. Not 

too many black 

people, but some. 
And no women, ever
that I saw anyway.

1967 had a different 

world thing always 

going on. Hard to 

imagine. There was 

one place I'd sit, 

'Frame's Chowder' 

I remember it as  -  

just a little dive 

that served stuff. 

35, 50, 75 cents, 

assorted fish soups

and whatever, breads 

and rolls and oyster 

crackers and coffee. 

Who knows what 

they got, from where, 

to put into their fish 

soups and chowders  

-  probably all those 

cuttings I'd see. It 

was good, and there

 was always a bowl 

of crackers around 

to just chow down 

on. There was always 

some old guy or two, 

in a hat, old-style 

stuff, always 

someone who 

knew it all about 

everything : Just like 

it used to be; How 

we did it; What's 

gone wrong?;

 All the same, 

just like now. 

These fish guys 

were just like 

the book guys

on Fourth Avenue, 

I wrote about in 

the last few chapters: 

dark and mysterious, 

with a business at 

hand that I could 

never quite 

figure out.