RUDIMENTS, pt. 456
(the lately lamented everything)
'They have redness of eye,
who tarry long with the
wine.' Boy did that ring
true. It used to be that the
city drunks were all called
'winos.' I saw hundreds
of them over time; never
knowing what they drank
nor what it was called.
Thunderbird. Night Train
Express. Red Scorchy.
All those little bottles,
left about everywhere,
and the prone bodies of
the dead or passed out
from those bottles before
being emptied. Sometimes
they could talk, these guys,
or still try to, with or without
teeth. Gumming their words
like a suction-cup thought,
their deep-seated feelings
did sometimes turn to tears
- there's nothing worse than
having to witness a man
crying over his past, yet
in his useless present. It
was a speechless section
of time, to see that, and
one without a script.
-
Igor Stravinsky said, 'One
lives by memory, not by
truth.' I always agreed
with that, from the first
I came across it as a quote.
As life lengthens, it's like
more goes behind and less
stays in front, so I guess in
its own way it's only natural.
-
I had never been attracted
to alcohol; never even
thought about it, but when
I hit the streets of NYC,
from the Bowery on up
through that student corridor,
alcohol was prevalent : NYC
was a 'bar town' to be sure.
I'd known of the old artist
quarters, the taverns and the
bars of the old writers and
painters - all that Cedar Tavern
stuff, the famous photos, the
tales of brawling and loving,
all along the Village streets.
But I'd never seen it in person,
nor 'up close and personal' as
they say. My friend Jim Tomberg
could spin a bottle of whiskey
like a juggler with three balls,
and I often saw him plastered
and down and out. I even had
to help his predicament a few
times - I've written of that
hole in the floor episode, and
his occasional women, in past
chapters here. Booze was
just booze. If you tried, back
then, walking through the
Park (Washington Square),
alcohol immediately took a
back seat to the surreptitious
and whispered trade of joints,
marijuana, and any other name
for hand-held drugs of that
nature. Unlike now, when
most all of it's legal and
probably even pasteurized
for you, in the years I'm
speaking of, it was all a
secretive, and dangerous,
trade, mostly proffered by
seedy looking black guys
who always talked low
about what you may
have been seeking. Or
not. Quick cash changing
hands, or a quick sit-down
at the bench, for the
transaction. There were
always cops lurking, it was
still a real crime, and the
busts and fines and lock-up
times were serious matters.
All of this was delineated
by sections and corridors,
and just out of this area
was the Bowery. That was
an entirely other raft of
Medusas : Men lost, and
I mean lost. Soiled, fouled
and dirty, wearing their
own excrement sometimes,
as a cloth. There used to be
a word often heard, though
it's no more in use - 'uncouth.'
Yes, and what a premise is
that. Like the old uncle you
bring to the table, who then
burps and barfs all over it,
these guys danced alone at
their own small parties of
woe and dread. Sad cases.
The street was littered with
them, for sure right up into
the late '80's. Drunked, or
passed out, zombified, or
dead. You'd see them in
doorways and frontages,
or bent over curbs and
hydrants; barely alive. I
can recall - this is a bit
different, but it catches the
quality - being there with a
friend from Sewaren and his
girlfriend from Minnesota.
The guy had to pee. And so
he did. Right there, on the
side of a building, broad
daylight. It was a category
of event I'd never thought of
before, and I was astounded.
No one cared, looked up, or
squinted. It was just as natural
as a dog pees. Since 1967, I'd
never once given a thought to
doing something like that. These
Bowery guys, and this Sewaren
guy too, they just rolled right
into it as human-aspect moisture
behavior. Floored me near to
death. I must have missed
something all those years.
-
Everything has certainly been
flipped. Now, 25 years later, if
you get caught peeing in public
they'll drag you away with a
hand-cuff necklace; but you
can stroll through Washington
Square Park with a joint in your
mouth, and a spare single one
in your pocket, and get the
high-five, hail-ye-fellow routine
as you walk along. I don't
know where all those black guys
went and what they do for a
living now, but that world
is a different place.
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