10,839. RUDIMENTS, pt. 328

RUDIMENTS, PT. 328

Making Cars

I didn't often like to sit still;

therefore I always kept on 

some sort of move. Idea-move.

Something would hit me,

and I'd get possessed, of

some notion or idea, and 

drag it right to completion.

Sliming myself through the

muck, if that's what it took.

I had no other ideas about life.

It still drives me crazy to see how

some people can sit around for

five hours, in one place, yapping

over their food, cake and coffee;

about nothing at all anyway.

-

Spectacular results? No, never.

It was just a means, for me, of

staying alive. I'd get enamored 

of not so much the things

in and of themselves, but the 

ideas behind the things. One

time, over by the area where

Canal Street intersects with

Hudson Street  -  a spot I was

at twice a week, at least, for 

some years  -  some guy, as an

art installation one Summer,

erected this hand-built hut or

shelter or whatever, authentic

and made from wood, tree-limbs,

anything. It was incredible, but 

it was also nothing at all. The sort 

of hut, the explanatory sign said,

that was all over the distant

rural roadsides of his homeland.

Slovenia, or Serbia, or Slovakia.

One of those; I actually forget.

Itinerants could sleep in it, stay,

rest. Some were made into shrines

and pilgrimage spots, others just

kept as ruddy and poor shacks.

It was all pretty cool, and, at the

time then, right across from it in

the old American Thread Company

Building at that same Hudson 

Street Square, they transformed 

it, for a few years until it was 

outgrown, into the Manhattan 

Brewery, and made beer. This 

was in the mid-80's. One time 

they had their grand-opening 

party, and a few of us went. 

It was pretty cool; plenty of

beer, and I even got a memento

6-pack of the night's event, of 

the beer. Collectible, supposedly  -  

though how one ever knows 

that is beyond me. Hype, public 

relations, and wishful thinking 

all combined. Trouble was,

in the idea of 'collectbility' I

just never opened it, stored it

away, and in my hot attic, and

eventually it got heaved, like

10 years later, for being probably

skunked (real advanced beer term

for going sour) from the heat.

By the time I didn't care anyway

and the company was gone.

'Brooklyn Brewery' made it big.

'Manhattan Brewery' did not.

-

On one side (south, below it)

was a cool old bar named 

'Puffy's', and above it (north),

was another bar called 'Nancy 

Whiskey Pub'. Both were the

sort of venerable old places

that had legacy and stories

behind them. The preference

was for Puffy's  -  for it was far

finer, older, wood, much more

traditional. Nancy Whiskey Pub 

was sloppier, more slapdash, 

and rowdier too. Those who

frequented Nancy-Whiskey

were a rowdier, looser crowd,

more apt to be snarly, or even

decrepit. Nosy old guys from

when there'd been more of a

neighborhood there. If they

didn't know your face, the

instant assumption was that

you were an idiot tourist 

passing through and along.

Which didn't cut it for them.

In my own case, the people 

I'd be with usually mingled

over to the pool table, or the

shuffleboard thing, or outside

to the little drinking porch they 

had. I tended to just sit at the

bar and stay there, thus getting

mixed in with the locals  -  

who, seeing my camera stuff 

would assume I was perhaps 

from Dubuque and awed by the 

sights I was taking photos of.

Then they'd get all interested

as I disabused them of their

dumb notions and matched 

them point for point on the 

sights and places I'd scene. 

Background information,

history, names and events 

they'd never dreamed of. I'd

eventually charm them over 

to seeing me as the answer to

their prayers (if they prayed).

A number of the old guys

were as gay as clams, and 

they'd get all chummy with 

this 'new' wunderkind in their 

midst. I'd steer clear, because

I'd seen all that operation in 

action other times and certainly 

didn't wish to get in their 'mist' 

either. And anyway, there were 

always some credible enough

babes around to share my 

attentions. (I wrote 'attentions'

not 'intentions,' fool). Nancy

Whiskey Pub  -  and yes, there

actually was a Nancy, whom I

met once or twice there. She 

had bar-name backstory, but I
forget it now. She'd gotten the 
place, there on Lispenard Street, 
in a divorce, or settlement or 
something.  Maybe she was a 
widow-owner. Lispenard Street
was once a busy spot, but over 
time, with the larger streets and

the re-routing, and the 'square' 
built there, it was all like a leftover 
outpost,  not much more, just beyond 
Canal, Street (busy always). And, 
if you sat outside  drinking, on their 
little porch, the view went straight 
down to the Twin Towers, looming a
little ways off, which was  pretty cool. 
To the left was a plain, busy Chinese 
take-out (no seating) with bicycle 
guys always madly dashing on their
bicycle-basket, Chinese food, 
deliveries. Next to that was an
abandoned parking lot which had 
mostly been taken over by serious 
flea-market types, selling, out of
suitcases, what seemed like acres 
of live, bootleg cassette tapes of 
rock n' roll concerts  -  'You like
Clapton, in Toronto? Jethro Tull,
in Edinburgh?'  -  all catalogued 
and listed; used clothing and 
furniture, musical instruments, 
bicycles, etc. There's a funny

side note to all this, two, actually:

For years I'd pass Nancy Whisky

Pub, and be terrified of it. It

seemed a real hardcore, serious

drinking kind of place that I'd 

be a'foul of, sticking out like

a sore thumb. My fear kept me

far from it. There used to be, 

right next to it, at sidewalk 

level, a walk-down place that

sold Southwestern artifacts,

for the Georgia O'Keefe hidden

away, apparently, in each New

Yorker  -  New Mexico and

Arizona bleached steer-skulls

and cattle bones, belts, turquoise

jewelry, artifacts  - any and all

of that stuff. It was always too 

dear for my wallet, and I never

sought any of that stuff, but

I'd linger there to have an eye

on the comings and goings at

the bar next door, and then,

one day, I just first braved

it and entered. It turned out 

to be nothing at all. I fit

right in, as did my friends,

and I never looked back. One

of the 'attributes' of frequenting

a bar (I had about 6 like this)

is that over time and steady 

attendance the bar-keeps do

begin throwing you free drinks,

and the more they 'like' your 

presence, the more they do so.

Of course, you're still tipping, so

it really hardly matters. But a

good level of acquaintance can

get you to, maybe, every fourth 

beer. Which isn't too shabby at

New York prices. The more

you drink, too, the easier it

becomes to be friends. Or make

friends, or whatever. As a drunk,

you can live in a sort of bi-level

Paradise of glibness and

ease, as long as you don't

go getting yourself in trouble

with your mouth, opinions,

reactions, politics and/or 

wisecracks. Or (another hazard

of the bottle) by getting to

close with, or touchy-feely

with, some oaf's babe who's

suddenly seen how bright your

light is compared to the half-wit

moron who 'brung'em in.' And

it's all downhill from there.

Next chapter? Puffy's. Oh joy!