337. SURE TO BE ME
Far, far afield from
anything of the real,
I conspired with myself.
Had to. Couldn't not.
Sometimes I'd sit
around in the Mayflower
Cafe - which was
nothing more, really,
than a foul Chinese
Restaurant that had,
at one side, a long
counter and served
coffee and various
pastries. Remember,
this was 1967 or so,
there weren't any
Starbucks kind of
things around. If you
weren't drinking alcohol
- for which there were
10,000 bars - you
were stuck looking
for rough and tumble
coffee places. There
wasn't much. Twin
Donuts, and Schraft's
or Andrews Coffee
Shops weren't for me;
they were more heavily
invested in the regular,
working guy, normal
people and tourist
class. They bored me.
The three or four
'diners' I knew of,
they were OK, but
sitting at the counter
all night meant talking
it up with one of the
counter-girls or guys,
and after a while,
once it all gets that
friendly, I always
began avoiding it.
Most all of the
Automats were
closing up (they
often became Burger
Kings. Go figure
that out) - and
perhaps the last
one was right by
the Chrysler Building
back then, something
like 41st and Lexington
maybe. I went there
too, but towards the
end they really started
ruining the place
- in fact, right in
the center, they
nearly gave the
whole thing over
to a big cookie
dispenser-counter,
a thing called Famous
Amos, some black
guy who made these
supposedly grand
cookies. The cool
China-men at
Mayflower, they
were so far off and
distant that I never
had to talk. They
served - the Chinese
food restaurant side
of course was regular
Chinese Menu stuff,
but really cheap and
really good - all
sorts of pastries
but they were all
Chinese pastries,
which was weird,
meaning they
weren't anything
like American stuff,
donuts and all. These
were gummy
concoctions of
a really cool texture,
and usually filled
with any sort of
bizarre filling,
anything ranging
from either chopped
and pasted almonds
to some kind of
prune-pudding stuff.
It was strange, but
good. And the coffee
- just regular stuff
out of a big urn -
was intense, thick
and dark and strong.
It was a lucky
break and pretty
cool. Most of
the time it was
Chinese, but not
always - there'd
be little clumps
of two or three,
intense poetry types,
political debaters,
crazed NYU socialists.
You could always
tell them, non-stop
going at it into each
other's faces about
arcane issues while
they chomped
down on piles of
75 cent lo mein
and a pile of rice.
I could always
tell the real politics
nuts, those leftist
types, back then,
were all about
Sandanistas and
Nicaragua. Which
were just normal
words and places
to me, but they'd
spit out the
Spanish-inflected
words with some
oddball guttural
tone. It made them
sound as if, or think
that they were really
from there and
authentic fighting
leftists battling
whoever it was
those guys battled.
Arturo Sandino, I
think his name was.
It was a real kind
of drama, a personal
role-playing that kept
them going. You could
see it as they acted it
out. Satisfying and
intense, as if they
were trying out for
the role of Che
himself, in some
cheesy flick. Every
so often, an older few
would come in,
big-time guys (this
was Allen Ginsberg's
last favorite haunt,
back when he could s
till make the 15 or 20
block walk; constantly
talking, intense, with
whomever was with
him. It was always
fun to see). I guess
I was just 'funky'
enough,in the terms
of the day back then,
to get along with
this stuff - I really
had little and wanted
less. And I lived a
really slum life, the
slummiest you could
think of. It was all,
for me, just things I'd
face off. What used
to scare me the most,
I'd admit, was, below
11th street, rather
east of 11th street,
the avenues, A, B,
C, and that area.
It was wildman
country and I seldom
stepped in without
real hesitance. Two
girls I knew, from
the Studio School,
they lived there,
in some corner
walk-up that
seemed impossible
to live in. I had
given them my
cat, Blake. I don't
know what I was
thinking, or why
I'd done what I
did by even bringing
it into NYC with
me. But once the
apartment was raided
and everything taken,
all I was left with
(again) was the cat.
The whole thing
was a pet nightmare
and I was an idiot,
and I knew it didn't
work - so I let
them take it. But
I never really saw
it again, and even
just writing this
now is painful.
I'm do for a spell
in Petkeeper Hell,
I think. Couple of
bad mistakes in
that department. Anyway,
down there, once past
Avenue A, all Hell
broke lose : needles,
pushers, users, killers,
and everything in
between. By the 70's
the world down there
had crash-landed,
everything had just
fallen dead onto the
heads of the people
who were still there.
I don't know how
they managed;
they too were
walking dead.
There was no
money, unless you
could steal it. There
was no frolic, unless
drugs and crazy sex
and madness were
your thing. None
of that was mine,
and I even hated
the smell. It was
from all this rubble,
in a little bit of time,
that an interesting
derivation of rock
and hippie culture
broke out - after a
year or two of death
and bad bodies and
countless OD's left
on the curb where
they died, You'd see
them, looking so
much like a garbage
bag out for pickup,
that you could walk
right by. Or maybe
wonder...last night,
what time this one
happened? How'd
he pass? I always
wanted to lay my
hands on, raise the
dead, say a powerful
prayer, do something.
Life sucks, but that
kind of death
sucks worse.
-
Well, anyway, let
me get back on
track. About this
time, amidst all
else, I really knew
I wanted to be,
had to be, a writer,
had to set all this
crap down sometime
and somehow. I
was determined
that Id start and
do it right then.
It was doable,
and I knew it.
Craziest thing is,
everything else
always got in the
way and it took me,
out of control, nearly
40 years to get down
to it. And there is
was, finally, coming
out of me like blood
from a knife wound.
I found these things,
to sort of explain
myself : 'Here's a
book that has been
conceived unashamedly
and directly without
a thought either to
critics or to the
book trade, to the
prevailing tastes
or styles of the day.
Nor fitting into
any of the pigeon-holes
of style and content
which prevail now.
Neither novel, play,
essay, history, or
travel book. A book
that exists because
the author was so
moved to write it;
amused by a certain
slice of his existence
in which these things
happened freely and
cantankerously and
were committed to
writing. And he had
the nerve to let such
things happen. To
tell about. In this
pattern-cut time
of being, most
writers are too
afraid of losing
their private
reputations as
red-blooded,
clear-eyed,
hundred-percenters,
well-dressed and
well-mannered,
to make any attempt
to feel and express
directly the life
about them and
in them. And why
is it, in addition,
that when anyone
commits anything
novel in the arts
he should always
be greeted by the
same peevish howl
of pain and surprise?
The interest people
show, or claim to,
in these endeavors
cannot be very
deep or very
genuine when
they wince so
under any
unexpected impact.'
Yep, that was
going to be me,
and I was sure
of it.
-
*****THE END*****
-
*****THE END*****
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