RUDIMENTS, pt. 252
Making Cars
One day I was sitting in the
NYPublic Library, on one of
those great marble seat panels
they have against the wall just
before you enter the public
reading and reference room
area. It was quite some time
ago, and the section there was
mighty impressive, and still is.
What I more mean to say is
that the area I'm referring to
was heavy with its own past -
histories of learned people and
the dogged investigators of this
and that over the years. You
couldn't avoid the exaltedness.
I was sitting there, with a book
or two, slightly hunched over
a notebook (this was old days
stuff, no laptops, no handhelds),
scribbling away at something.
And this lady walked up to me
- presentable, late-aged lady,
reeking only a bit of royal NY
culture and old money. She
bent over to me and started
talking, in a slow, hushed and
dignified fashion: "Do you know,
I can't help but mention to you,
as you sit there like that you
remind me so of someone else.
Do you know that, in that very
spot you are sitting, for fourteen
years the author Luigi Barzini
came here, nearly very day,
diligently researching and
working on his wonderful
and famed book, 'The Italians.'
This is such a sight, I just
wanted you to know. And if
you are here with an undertaking,
I wish you as well in it as he had
good fortune with his." A bit
stilted, but those were her words,
and I will now tell a few things.
Firstly, it was my good fortune
to actually have read and have
some knowledge of that book.
Don't let the title throw you, it's
not like a Mario Puzo 'Godfather'
thing - no crime or mob stuff -
rather it's a well-written, and with
local color, history of the entire
Italian nationhood history, saga,
cultural and national. An intriguing
book. I felt fortunate to know of
what she was speaking, though I'd
known nothing of the author but
his name. Secondly, the manner
in which she spoke his last name
was magnificent. 'Bart,' with a
slightly rolled 'r', and then a
minuscule pause, for just an
iota of moment, from which to
roll into a very nice 'zini.' More
like, perhaps, 'Bart-ah-zeeni.'
Whatever it was comprised of, it
was impressive, and I sat there
thinking if this was really how
ex-pats, or others, go around
referencing their compatriots
or fellow elite within NY society.
But, I didn't know, and I didn't
really even know where Barzini
lived. Anyway, it was just a
moment. I guess it didn't take
much to impress me, but I still
figure luck was on my side in
my at least knowing what she
was talking about, and actually
(strangely enough) having read
the book. I think back now and
wonder if I should not have just
hit her up for a hundred thou,
saying, 'yes, yes, my project is
massive and I need help in
continuing it. I need support,
and you shall be my patron,
OK?' (Of sterner stuff than
this are dreams made?)...
-
There was, and still is, a fine
statue of Garibaldi, in Washington
Square Park. He was the guy
who, sometime in the late 1800's
I think, 'unified' Italy, into one
state or country. Or led the varied
revolts and things into unification.
A real hero. Not that it's been
any sort of a big success, but the
problem here has always been
a severe divide between north
and south. The Italians of the
north consider themselves nobler
and higher than the ignoble
peasantry of the south. And,
yes, it's all true. In fact, they
detest the south, and it's a problem
yet ongoing into this very day.
Presently, the leading political
party in Italy changed its name
from what used to be the 'Northern
League' (guess what that meant)
to simply the 'League.' And now
they rule. It's a bit as if, in the USA,
the North and South had NOT first
been unified and only later broken
away from each other in bitter
warfare. The backward way they
did it in Italy was to do all the
hating and separating first, to
realize their differences and
problems, and then threw up
their hands anyway, over a big
plate of spaghetti, and said, 'So
whattsa' matter for you? Anyway
so what, we unify, OK?' So they
did. It never worked, but this
Garibaldi guy gets all the credit
and statues. In New York, along
Sullivan Street and the Village,
down that way, this was serious
stuff, and the unification warfare
and movement affected immigration
and arrivals into these Italian sectors
vastly. That sectionalism and its
supposed pride lasted well into the
1960's, when very often the tough
Italian guys would go about
slapping heads and punching people
out for sullying their sacrosanct
neighborhoods, yes, even in NYC.
That meant Folkies, Gays (Fags, then),
the effeminate of the male and the
male-sort of the female. Trickey
world. When I was a young kid,
there were a few local guys - and
this was at home, (Woodbridge) -
who'd refer to me as 'Garibaldi',
referencing the name Gary. I never
knew, at first, what in the world they
were getting at. Barzini filled me
in, and it wasn't at the library;
I read it.
-
So, see, there's always some silver
or gold lying around when you
think all you're slogging through
is mud. Things are funny like that.
-
I've mentioned him before, but a
Studio School chum of mine - an
older guy, actually I was his sidekick,
if anything - Jim Tomberg, was most
responsible for my immediate, worldly
education once I got to NYC. Jim
was from California, and had most
recently been a madman sculptor
in residence at the San Francisco
Art Institute. That was a place I could
have gone, having been accepted, but,
as I mentioned in the previous chapter,
it was a freedom-choice I opted out
of, deciding to remain on the east-coast
instead. Good, bad, or indifferent, I
don't know. At base, old Jim was a
good guy. He had a sweet spot for
booze, and the tales and stories are
plentiful. He also had a sweet spot
(let me put this gingerly) for that
certain sweet spot of the female
gender wherein things go. I don't
know where he actually 'lived,' but
he often just crashed out in the
scuplture studio where he worked;
often miserably dead-drunk, and
usually with some sort of 'female'
companion who'd stay over until
they both regained consciousness
and cleaned up. To my 20 Jim was
probably 32, so his women were
always in the category of what I
then considered 'older.' It's really
funny now and makes no difference
at all; but back then after seeing a
few of the sights and scenes I saw
that, for most practical purposes,
(in Tombergian terms anyway),
that sort of advanced age slowed
nothing down and the gymnastics
still went on. I wasn't quite there
with him on that stuff, but I let
it slide. Jim kept me fed, sorta'
as he was a fixtured barkeep-
waiter too at the local Cafe
Bizarro, I think it was, or maybe
Cafe Wha. At the corner of
Bleecker and Macdougal, which
was maybe three blocks off
from the Studio School (we
entered from MacDougal
Alley, where the rich people
lived). So, I felt I owed it to
him to keep him well, uncluttered,
cleaned up and sober enough, at
least to function, and to be nice
to any and all of his disrobed
lady-fanatics who'd be lurking
around. As waiter and barkeep,
he not only kept himself well
juiced, but he'd slip me any sort
of food I'd want, mostly, even
including sometimes massively
grandiose, untouched or leftover
portions of other people's leavings.
The good stuff, I mean, not junk.
It sure beat the 25 cent knishes and
the dumpster dive antics I'd grown
tired of anyway.
-
I never did find out much more
about Luigi Barzini, but each and
every time - to this day - when I
pass that statue of Garibaldi, I think
only of the good times and the fine
ladies I've been exposed to. Or, well,
perhaps the other way around. I
never know where Jim Tomberg
ended up though. I hope it's
a good place.
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