11,949. RUDIMENTS, pt. 761

RUDIMENTS, pt. 761

(who among you...)

Rattles abstract the quart with

no bottom : the painter is cleaning

his brushes. I sit nearby, in some

ancient wicker chair that's so

dry from age the wicker turns

to powder when you touch it.

Who among you should dare

for any more than that? There's

a flashlight on the shelf, an old

style kind, basic, batteries and

a little lamp  -  not those fancy

super-bright things they peddle

now. Painters don't buy junk

like that. Anyhow, this old loft

used to be a carpenter shop once

too, and then they stored paint

gallons, later. Who among you

knew any of that? The place on

the corner, called Phoebe's; as

I recall, from experience, it's

been here for years. In the 1980's

it stuck out like a sore thumb.

Now it rather fits right in. High

toned shoes, ambi-sexual men,

girls in light stockings and things

in their noses. But, still, I don't

go there; it's not for me. The

kind of ugly drinking I ever do

I do at Swift's, over there, just

across the way. That's the Bowery,

and I think that's east 4th Street.

Down there, see. Had I brought

you there, 40 years ago, you'd be

dead already  -  some nasty eel

would have had you down. The

bums here, they used to just sleep

on the sidewalk, like major guys

in a homeless domain.

-

There was no caroling on the

street corners, let me just put it

that way. One time I saw a guy,

passed out and gone, maybe even

dead, I don't know, over there,

Amato Opera Company, or

something, was right there. He

was getting stripped of everything

by two other bums  -  shoes, jacket,

pants shirt; they leave him there,

not quite bare but close, and it was

only early March. Who knows

what happened to him. They don't

drive hearses up and down this

street, or didn't then. When I

first got here, July, 1967, I was

astounded  -  right there, that

building, made of metal and it

was rusting - rust stains and leak

lines everywhere, and I think

it was the home too of some

now-famous dance or ballet

group, some guy and women

ran it  -  kind of incendiary,

street theater with anti-social

kind of 1960's messages. Not

Judson, but it'll come to me. The
Living Theater. Julian Beck; 
Judith Malina. Live goes on. It

was my first exposure to metal

buildings, and only then did I

learn about Soho which has

always had rows and rows of

cast-iron buildings. Most of them

still there, and treasured now. It's

a real sight to see. Lots of bright

colors and new, fresh paint.

-

Those bums I talked about, back

then they were always white guys,

usually in suits and stuff. The oddest

thing  -  dress clothes for bums; like

it was 1940 still and their lucks had

not yet run out. Poor stiffs; I always

felt sorry for them, but I go around

a lot feeling sorry for all sorts of

things. If I see a guy getting a

damn ticket, I feel sorry for him,

or her, whoever it is, and then I

feel sorry for the stupid traffic

police person who has to do that

to others, enforcement and all.

Once I get rolling, I never stop. I

get sorry for the whole goddamned

world. Nobody ever gets sorry for

me though, isn't that weird  -  I've

gotten tickets, even been towed

twice, and they treat you like crap.

Nobody gives your grief a second

thought  -  you have to go find your

car in the impound yard, pay to get

there, or walk, across town. Then

when you get there, it's cash only,

last I knew anyway. Like a hundred

and forty bucks, and they expect you

to just have that on you  -  as if

you were headed to a gentlemen's

club or a nudie bar (NY is famed

for all that crap) and rolling in the

cash you need to just peel off on

some cute little bare-babe dancing

lithe body. See what I mean? What 

the hell's the matter with people?

Once you do get there, they're

all surly and nasty to you, and if

you complain about something, 

it's some beastly bear of a slob

muttering some half-English,

'Shoulda thought about dat when

you wuz parking, buster.'

-

Who among you would even think

of that stuff? See that spot right there?

The building's gone now, they tore 

it down in the early 'oughts (Boy,

I hate that, using that dumb word;

it means like the early 2000's.

Sometimes Britishisms are cool;

sometimes they're bloody rotters).

The building that used to be there

was called McGuirk's Suicide Hall.

From the Civil War era up, right

into the 1920's and past, probably,

it was a thriving whorehouse, filled

with girls on shifts. Like prisoners.

Men came in droves, arriving in

some cases like royalty, and in

other cases like dogs. Over and

over, they'd arrive, weekly or

whatever, pay their dough, call

out or pick their favorite or the

newest, and go upstairs. It was

so bad  -  and how it got that

name  -  that girls used to despair,

and just go upstairs and jump off

the roof, to their deaths. That's

the truth, ain't making nothing

up. By the 1980's it was vacant,

derelict, sad and probably filled

with bad, miserable spirits. I used

to go through the fence they'd put

up, to the side alleys, just to figure

the jumps, and where the poor girls 

would have landed and all that.

Tough stuff, and I wasn't no rogue.

-

You don't need antennae to pic

up on things. Any jerk with half 

a brain, if he pays attention, can

intuit stuff everywhere; the way of

the world, male and female and all

the rest. It's said women are even

better at all that than men. If that's

the case, with all that sensitivity 

and feeling and intuition, then 

I'm probably half or more female

myself. Just goes to show. Who

among you would ever know that?

When the camera lights come on,

you're supposed to know they're

filming  -  that's like Hollywood

crap, and they do it all with signal

lights and the director's clappers

and all. It's so simple for the rest

of life too, but no one ever knows

when the 'important' lights come 

on. They just go about, continuing 

their same stupid ways and 

blunders  and compounding it 

all by convincing themselves, 

over and over, that their wrong 

is most certainly right.