12,281. RUDIMENTS, pt. 866

RUDIMENTS, pt. 866

(yes, I was granted entry)

I heard of a lot of things in

my short time, things I never

had known of before. It

was the only thing some

days, that kept me going.

That first Winter, of 1967

rolling into 1968, was the

most brutally cold I'd ever

experienced  -  mainly

because I had nothing.

You need to understand,

about 509 e11th street,

what it was all like. I

stumbled on that place,

as I've related before, in

a sort of blindness, with

the help of Andy Bonamo.

He was the person, AFTER

I rented it and set myself up,

for 60 bucks a month, in

what was basically a brick

cave, looking out, in one

direction (rear) to an airshaft,

and in the other to a door.

Interior brick that's over a

hundred years old, and which

had probably withstood the

use and abuse of maybe 5 sets

of immigrant families, ages

differently. It ages in sorrow

and with a powdering away,

slowly, over time. You'd be

surprised about interior brick,

how it's lie a memory sponge,

of smells and aromas. I'd never

been in a space like that before,

closeted space, raw and clear

of anything. Worn away at the

sills and floor, 3 and a half

rooms, and a 'bathroom'  -  if

you so deign to call it  -  that

was the extent of this kingdom.

I can only say I remember the

first day, setting it up with rent

and a security month, and a

mere handshake. He took my

name and all, I know that, but

I can't remember signing

anything, nor can I remember

setting up any services. I guess

maybe Andy did all that, later,

after he'd invited himself in

I'd accepted. The landlord guy,

superintendent too I guess,

and Andy worked everything

else out. There was electrical

service, so they must have

switched an account. I can't

remember if it has stove gas.

I certainly can't remember how

it went for heat either. I guess

maybe the entire building was

on one boiler or furnace, shared?

In all other aspects that was

about it for me  -  I never

paid rent again  - he and

Andy worked out some deal

between them for a channel

open for drugs, enough to

cover the rent anyway. I

never asked anything about

what was going on. I didn't

care and, soon enough, it

hardly was my place any

more, except in name. I

came and went, having the

newer set-up of living in

the basement at the Studio

School, by myself and in

far better glory, which I

liked much more. 

-

Back to these bricks; I could

get a feel from this building

that there must have once

been a lot of drama here  -

family things, all those heavy

generation of immigrants.

The streets were still crowded

and teeming, but mostly, in '67,

it was Hispanic. The blare of

that culture : radio noise, conga

music, horns, loud people.

Because of the confinements,

mixed with the prevailing

culture, much of it, in the

Summer anyway, was lived

outdoors. There were people

everywhere  -  enough to need

crawlspace sometimes over 

and around them on the entry 

or exiting of the buildings. Of

course, early on too, it was

as hot in August as it was

cold by November. The heat

seemed simply to drive the

people out  -  most of the

living was done outdoors. The

area of e11th, too, was in the

throws them of some strange

transition  -  Tompkins Square

Park having turned into a sort

of hippie-central right at that

time. There was some animosity,

but nothing really ever surfaced,

as people (like me) got these

old crappy apartments for the,

I guess, prevailing rents, or

maybe a little more (hippie

gouging)  -  but it introduced

an entire other 'culture,' shall

I say, or lifestyle, accidental

at best, but a lifestyle. I could

imagine the conflict of the

stuck-Hispanics facing off

these new who-cares-what

freestyle kids flooding in.

The hippie girls were one

thing  -  with their scant 

blouses and free-form ways

of clothing and carrying 

themselves, but the local

Spanish girls  -  believe you

me  -  ran pretty equal in

most of those respects. It

was always awkward  -  super

tight jeans and blistering tops,

 and a sort of exhibitionist

'what-up-wid-you, boy'

disdain for protocol. And

sometimes, yeah, the heat 

really does make you wince.

-

These were the sort of late

60's years when the 'bike' 

in urban spaces wasn't yet

socially acceptable. I had

French racer, like 16-speed

I guess, (sprocketed 4 in 

the front and 4 in the rear; 

so 4X4 equaling 16, I

guessed  -  in any case, for
me it was a one-speed), taken

from what may or may not

have been a garbage heap

out front of a dwelling. I

got it set up, since nothing

was working and I had no

repair money, to go as a

one-speed, and that's how

I went around, or a while.

When the e11th street place

finally got raided by the cops,

everything was taken away,

including that bicycle, and

replaced by really nice police

tape. Of course, having been

gone from there, I did not

know this until I arrived on

a scene of desolation, a few

days, I was told, after the 

fact. Billy Joe, and Holly, 

my upstairs neighbors (I've 

written about them here 

too, long ago back in some 

way early chapter), filled 

me in, and also advised

that, perhaps, it would be

a good idea if I stayed 

away now, for a while, 

a long while, since the

place had been in my 

name, and what little 

they knew was the less 

than better to add to. The 

problem was, we'd been 

harboring fugitives, that

being my word, for AWOL

runaways from Vietnam 

military assignments. It

was all a sort of 1960's

Underground Railroad stay

over safe-house for those, 

male and female, on their 

ways to Canada. Much of

this madness  -  16 bodies,

all over the floor, sleeping,

fornicating, you name it;

besides the pot and other

drugs being freely dispensed

and sold by Andy, my 

pharmacy-maven 'roomie.'

[That's a modern word. It

did really exist then].

The things that went on 

were legion  -  vans and 

cars, clothes and shoes, 

things abandoned and

left behind. (Right behind

too, for that matter, since the

place was running as a half

nudist hippie colony anyway). 

People came, people went; I

went back there one day, and

the person at the doorway, not

knowing me, wouldn't let me in.

'Excuse me, Sergeant Pepper,

it's my place you're in...' Yes,

I was granted entry. This holy

of holies was no Valhalla, 

but it came close.

-

The thing about all this was there

was never any script. I was winging

it and it was all coming at me as

it developed. I didn't really know

anything about what was going on,

nor into what I'd somehow stepped.

These apartment people they'd say

'You're nice, you talk good, you 

should make sure people hear

you, explain things to them for us.'

That was a reference to all this

anti-war crap that we'd all

gotten mixed up with; the silly

apartment had become a semi

headquarters of sorts of some

serious street-action people. It

was all easy for them to say; in 
three days or so they'd be out 
of there and  on their way to 
Hotel Brontosaurus  (that was 
our code name for Toronto, 
somehow. Another one was 
'Torontosaurus Next)I never had

heard of anyone NOT making it, 
it all seemed so easily successful, 
though I never knew how it all 
had gotten started, nor even 
where this  Andy' character fit in.