11,442. RUDIMENTS, pt 553

RUDIMENTS, pt. 553
('god us forbid')
As an artist, God wrote

the folio of this world and

wrote it badly. Hmmm?

Another good one; this

time, James Joyce. I've

never (yet) been one to

presume to write about

the ways of God, (though

I suppose I have come close

enough. But what matters

that now?)...

-

It used to be you could walk

up or down Bleecker Street

and always find something

to catch your attention. If

you wished for something a

bit better-classed, a simple

left down MacDougal or

Sullivan would get you that.

Chess clubs, a little less nose,

not as much honking in the

street. Alcohol could be had

most anywhere; no code word

or any further lies needed.

If you went into the park,

any of ten black guys would

immediately come at you with

their weirdly whispered chants

of marijuana to buy. Mr. Furtive.

They all had the same name.

Washington Square, though

'neated-out' much differently

than Tompkins Square, pretty

much served much the same

purpose, though a bit more

nice about. It was very funny,

all the protocols of finesse and

the differences that went into

the park trades. Guys and

girls  -  make your choice

please. Reefer or whatever.

The mad fellows at the chess

boards; back then they were

a different sort, not like now.

These were old guys, slow and

deliberate, playing and staring

down at the boards, probably

in their old suits and hats too.

Now they play speed chess,

timed by the move, running the

clock, and they all act and move

like some speed-freak Kramer

wiped out on caffeine. It was

all a different world, not at all

slap-stick, though that's almost

the feeling you got. Remember

Joan Baez, singing that song

about, 'that crummy old hotel

over Washington'Square.'

-

One time, when I had a car,

I was cruising up Route One,

by the airport, on my way in  -

Holland Tunnel bound.

Somewhere between the

airport and the skyway I

saw two hitchhikers. They

caught my eye immediately

because  -  I've got to say  -

it was Summer, and she was

eye-catching. (Ok, I'm a jerk).

Even back then, whatever it

was, 1969, hitchhiking was

fading away  -  considered

unsafe, unsavory, whatever.

I couldn't have cared less.

These two were French, and

they were traveling the USA.

I'd seen it all a thousand times

at the Studio School, where

there was an American Youth

Hostel right next store. Euro-kids

everywhere  -  exotic fabrics and

footwear, clothing, even faces

and habits. French cigarettes

thick like baseball bats. German

guys at 6"2', with German girls,

at 6'1". The most fantastic people

you'd ever imagine  -  all about

the same age as I was, give or

take, and all out for the grand

pleasure of their walk or bicycle

tour of whatever Province of

'Amerika' they'd get to  -  the

mix of cross-country plans,

New England, the South, or

Texas, or D.C. Who cared?

Anyway, these two, and their

paltry bag or three had skipped

buses or mass transit or taxis

(economy move) and had

decided, like Dorothy to Oz,

that they could hoof their way

to that magic city, direct, and
from the airport. I assumed

they'd already successfully

known the difference between

the skyline of Newark ('God

us forbid!' were his words),

and that of New York City.

I guess it was doable, using the

meager side-walks and grasses

of the truck route. I don't think

one would wish to walk the

skyway, and I certainly couldn't

see, let's say, a successful fare

at the Holland Tunnel. So

unless they could walk on

water, which feat I still harbored

as being saved for me, they'd

be pretty much stranded. So

I took them on. They were

really great together; we talked

as I drove. The whole language

thing worked fine, plus, I was

driven a Renault 4CV! They

felt right at home. Entering

the city, they gave me their

destination  -  if I'd be so kind

to get them there - as the

Waverly Hotel. A cinch, I

knew it exactly, and got them

right to the front door. Said

Au Revoir, and that was that.

Never got names or places,

and all this way predates any

computer stuff. So, 2 French

people who are now too nearing

70, if you're out there and can

recall the fool who drove you
to the Waverly Hotel, that
was me. Please contact...

-

I'd never really been exposed,

back then, to the urban hotel

scene. It's quite different from

the highway 'Motel' scene. In

fact, it's fascinating. Strange

and exotic too. For me, it

always remained out of reach,

except for the few times when

I went in because whomever

I was with or visiting, was

lodging therein. Lobbies.

Thick, real armchairs and

lounges, glass pedestal ashtrays,

wood, large spaces, heavy

carpeting, rows of phones (in

the really big ones, like the

Pennsylvania Hotel at 34th,

near Penn Station - thus the

Pennsylvania Railroad name

touch). Up on Lexington

Ave, just a little above Grand

Central, was the Roger Williams

Hotel  -  totally unique and

self-identifying. But, these

village hotels, like the Waverly,

the Greenwich, or Earle, they

characterized the ambiance of

the place they represented.

(There was always the Chelsea

Hotel, (or Hotel Chelsea) but

that was another case and

completely of its own). When

you got to one of these places,

you knew where you were.

There was no gauze for the

wound. Things just developed,

and you accepted them, or 

you (please) moved on. The 

questions and categories were 

all different. That's what I used

to hate about having to explain

or answer questions, especially

to Avenel people, or Woodbridge

people (often, like, COPS),

about what I as doing, or how 

and where I was 'living' in

New York City. The questions

and the categories really were

all different, and whatever I

was 'doing' had no real way

of being explained. It was

always a very difficult moment.

People expect uplift and effort

towards their already

pre-conceived notions

of progress and success. The

assumption was/is that a person

was on their way up; working

at something to achieve a

goal. It was all such balderdash.

In much the same way as, today,

saying, 'I'm a bike messenger,'

or 'I deliver restaurant orders

to any of a million apartments,'

or, even 'I drive for Uber'  -

the conclusion is that you're

slumming, slacking off, a fool

and a goof. Get real. These

are all problems for others;

they were never mine. 'I'm

getting accosted by gay, black 

men; I'm eating out of dumpsters;

I'm stealing; I'm sleeping in

the park, or on a theater 

overhang.' Yeah, OK, try 

any of that the next time 

you're in HR speaking with

a local Human Resources

Manager. You'll go far.
-
There's maybe only ever a fine
line between expectation and reality.
These two French kids did it for me;
it was as if taking on another portion
of the outer world and holding it.
watching it along, even helping. They 
came from somewhere so different that
it immediately appeared to me that all
Americans had ever done was pantomime.
Some derivative and pale imitation of
the Old World we all so proudly heard
about. Why did we hold such reverence
for the immigrants in our past? My
grandmother used to refer to them as
'Greenhorns.' She say, in talking about
someone, 'Oh, he came here as a 
Greenhorn and moved where he could.'
Talking about the neighboring grocer
family in old Bayonne....or whatever;
it was just always her general point.
The only thing I ever made of it was
like deer, in the woods, when they 
get that  mossy coating on their new
horns, the males. For that period
of time, their 'horns' are green  - 
they are young, restless, wild.
Their future awaits.