RUDIMENTS, pt. 275
Making Cars
'I'm but a lout, boy; you don't want
to be what I've become. A lout -
when you live amidst debris you
just become debris. Make note,
don't just listen, take note and
mark it, what I say.' That was John,
or someone named John, he said.
Faltzfeld, or something like that.
Some people just have big names.
We were having beers at the Peter
McManus bar. The only reason
I even came in the place was to
look for the two-way mirror, I
think it's called, that I'd read was
installed here at the rear wall. I
didn't believe it, and couldn'
tell anyway. Supposedly - and
was in the late 1980's - the story
was about Bob Dylan, what story
wasn't, 'round there, and it was
all half bullshit, every one of
them, but anyway, supposedly
he came in here and they'd given
him a rear room of his own and
the fake mirror allowed him to
watch the door, see who and what
came in and out. While he drank
coffee. Yep. This was a bar that
prided itself on numerous kinds
of fancy beers and booze, and
this guy demands coffee and
gets it AND a room of his own,
like he was Virginia Wolfe or
something. The whole story was
so bogus. I had to see for myself.
The last time I'd been in there,
quite some time ago, was with a
group of friends, five or six strong.
It was some sort of NY event day;
that's all I remember, into night,
crowds of people, swarms of the
usual then fags and reprobates. That
whole 'let's dress up and go nowhere'
crowd. We got drunk, except one of
us, a Scottish guy named Alan, he
got so drunk, even with food in him,
that soon enough he couldn't stand,
and when we got outside he just
crashed and collapsed into the
side of another building. I
stayed with him, and someone
else contacted his then-girlfriend,
a really nice India girl who lived
up in the east 90's. She eventually
came down in a yellow cab and
we hauled him into it like a
dead guy and they went back
uptown. That ended our night,
of course, of being out with
Alan, but we continued on
anyway. And, like I said
that was a long time ago
and I don't know why. It
was late October, harvest
time, Halloween too, because
I remember one of the bar
girls there in a this half-sexy
German milkmaid costume
- except she was way too
heavy for the look she was
trying to carry off - but
anyway Alan saw that
pound of flesh and couldn't
help himself. But she was
good-natured about all the
taunting, and said little
negative back. Poor Alan
though, he was wanting that
pile of girl pretty badly. Then,
once we got outside and he
passed out, it was all forgotten
anyway, and we'd left her a
decent tip to make up for any
annoyance we may have been.
Actually, I think they live for
this stuff, and we probably
didn't annoy her at all, and
made her night. Also, we made
sure that nothing of this was
said to Miss New Delhi there
when she came and got him.
She was supposed to have
been down there with us anyway,
two hours late as she was, but
it all came out to be just a
roundabout useless up and
down return trip for her, with
her comatose boyfriend in tow.
Alan was pretty cool though,
and he really was from Scotland
- with a funny story too. His
family, they'd all arrived to
America, to NYC, one day,
about 6 of them, off a ship,
with a few sacks of possessions
and stuff, and whoever had
sponsored them over to here
immediately took them away,
by bus, to Asbury Park, NJ
where they were going to be
staying for a while as they
got settled and jobs and all that.
So the first night there, in Asbury,
there in the rooming house they'd
been put up in, the place burns down,
and they lost everything, absolutely
everything they had, except for
themselves - they got out and
no one got hurt, but they'd lost
all their documentation and
papers and all. He said that
was a real annoyance and
became a time-consuming
process afterward - but they
eventually did get it all squared
and got to stay and start a family
life. Wherever it was, I forget.
He's still around now, as is Gurinder,
that was Miss New Delhi's name,
or maybe it was Gurinda, I'm
not sure, and they've gotten married,
last I knew anyway, and had a
nice house in Princeton Junction
that he was getting all done over
to her specs. Now, that's NOT
Princeton itself, it's a small little
jumble of homes about 5 miles
away, the 'junction' being at the
rail line, main line, NY to
Philadelphia, which stops
at Junction for the little
connecting train to Princeton.
Plus, because of her good
NYC job, job, they kept the
NYC apartment too.
Cool stuff.
-
Anyway, this guy here was
telling me not to become him.
Go figure. I didn't know what
the special magic was that
brought that out, but he repeated
the scenario that he was a
complete waste and that if I
ended up as he ended up I'd
be equal to his waste. Then
I get to learn his name, he
tells me, like I care. Sometimes
in bars, or old bars anyway,
you get these fiercely weird
old-timers who are already half
in their cups when you arrive
and then they latch onto you
nearby and that's the end of that.
Whew! They think they own
your ear. One time, at some
other bar in the east 60's, the
same thing happened - this
tall, googly-eyed strange guy
with a constantly-running nose
(a large, deformed, alcoholic's
type nose too) that kept dripping
as he talked (pretty gross) and
to which he kept dabbing with
napkins and tissues. You could
watch these clear droplets form
as he talked, right at the tip of
that big, puffy nose nib. Ugh!
He was strange enough to be
strange for sure. As the story
went, he said he was an old
actor, from Abbott and Costello
movies. He said he was the
Butler, for instance, in Abbot
& Costello Meet the Wolfman.
I actually thought I remembered
that one from when I was a kid,
with Saturday morning kiddie
movies and things, and he kept
weaving the story, and he was
so distinctive-looking as that
tall, weird, estate-butler type,
always at the door, mysteriously,
letting people in, walking them
through, etc. Yeah, I thought I
remembered him, in fact I got
certain of it. He just went on
talking about those old movie
days, and people he knew. I didn't
care much, but even so after a
while it too got boring. The best
part of it all was when he told
me where he lived, in the
Rockefeller Apartments,
not that far off, by the Museum
of Modern Art (it's all family
Rockefeller-owned stuff; fancy)
I piped up, 'Hey! That's where
Megan Marshak lives!' He was
amazed, and got all interested in
how I would have known that.
He knew her, did I know her?
(No, I did not). And then he
went over the story with me,
and we found our versions matched,
except he said she'd aged now and
had gotten very heavy, still
dignified and all, but just had
put lots of weight on, but he
was intrigued that I knew
everything on the issue of her
life. (Megan Marshak, back
about maybe 1976, I forget,
was Nelson Rockefellers
personal assistant, a really
nice looking young girl of
about 28. As it turns out,
he was porking her brains
out too, for a few years.
He was then in his late 60's
I guess, maybe 70. One night
he'd called her in for some
'extra work,' and while they
were going at it he died,
right on top of her, hell IN
her, from a heart attack.
It was a scandal, of course,
and the Rockefeller family
had paid her a huge sum of
money to keep quiet about
it, plus, they'd given her,
for life, an apartment in
that fancy Rockefeller
Apartments set-up connected
to the Museum - doormen,
fancy entrances, posh apartments,
etc. She made out really well, if
you consider the trauma of a
dead famous guy on top of you
and still connected. But, I guess
she survived. I don't know
anything abut the present day,
for either Megan, or this butler
guy. But it made a good story
and he'd have to be well over
90 now, if still alive. Her. I
don't know but you can figure
it out - her being 28 in like
1976.
-
That's a few good tales right
there. I enjoy telling them.
And I'll have more. But, back
to the Peter McManus bar,
that guy telling me about
himself as a lout; I never
got to the bottom of that
one. Heck, what is
a lout anyway?
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