12,416. RUDIMENTS, pt. 913

RUDIMENTS, pt. 913

('don't tell your mother, ok?') pt.1

'You know how to feel, it

is, how you say, too cold

to comfort?' The girl was

from Hungary or somewhere;

she'd told me but I instantly

let it go by me, getting

lost in the way she talked

and spoke spun the language.

I was fascinated at the jumble.

We were sitting at a Twin Donuts.

I forget the name of the street,(I

looked it up -south side of W11th

and Greenwich and Seventh Aves).

right by St. Vincent's Hospital.

Mostly, the street's gone now

and so is St. Vincent's. It's all

sold and turned over into condos

and fancier places. This is 1978

I'm talking of here, so there's

really nothing now left; not

even a remnant. Forty some

years, in a place like NYC,

is about 15 lifetimes. The

bookstore was an old and

rickety one, again nothing

like today. It was a bookstore,

not an amusement park. it

was old and dusty, woody,

dark, cloistered and haphazardly

set up, like the old 12th Street

Bookshop used to be. Little

cubbies and turn-ins where

you never knew what you'd

find. People slouched or leaned,

and poured over the books. In

Winters, they were always pretty

warm, in Summer, often hot.

It wasn't a big business, like

today, and seldom did anyone

bring in food or liquids. Rare.

St. Vincent's had a waiting

room one could get at along

12th, and for bathroom use,

it was always right, no questions.

(Remember too, a different world

back then, entirely. No entry gates,

no security, no pass-cards and codes;

the whole gum-cracky world was

simple and dark and plain. And I

took to it much better).

-

Twin Donuts used to be around

in a lot of places  -  a real trip, they

were. Sort of double-faced counters,

where the people across from you

were close enough for contact but

not annoying, as the waiter service

or attendant I guess  -  there were

certainly no waiters  - each manned

a flank or a bay; whatever it was

called. Donuts and coffee, mainly,

and then all that other junk of old

crusty pies and whatever else was

sold with coffee. I forget, because

I never had any money anyway.

Many times, my friend Paul and

I haunted these places  -  he was

always going on about something,

some fine point of literary

minutia, and he'd eventually also

end up angry about something  -

the black guy's leer at him, from

across the counter; the way the

counter-person cleans with the rag,

right by where your eating; the

lighting; the noise level; whatever.

It was much like a game anyway;

my whole life at that point was

like a game  -  of chance? Of pool?

With all the pockets sewn shut?

-

My life right then, in fact, carried

its own menu of problems, but as

I compare it to today, it was a heck

of a lot simpler, and more pleasant.

All this computer hack stuff, waiting

for lame downloads, commands, and

uploads and all that; the loss of files,

the hidden files all of a sudden

super-hidden; none of that crap

existed. My biggest woe was, maybe,

a dry typewriter ribbon, or not

having sex for 16 days (I'm

generalizing), or having 37 cents

left in my pocket and no idea what

to do. Paul used to take care of

some old guy, for money, up in

the west 80's  -  he hated that

chore too, a few times a week,

cleaning house, dishes, and stuff,

but only a little, since the hire

was more for a companion

and someone to listen to the

old, housebound man; and

the guy always wanted to have

classical music playing on

his record player. Mendelssohn.

Paul hated Mendelssohn. But,

it paid. I always liked the name

-  'Felix' Mendelssohn -  it was

pretty cool, even though I never

got how to spell Mendelssohn.

Now I just use Spell-Check. It's

funny, but there's a store chain

around here called Quick-Chek,

and they always have that Chek

mis-spelling, even though they

spell 'Quick' the right way. I

often wonder if that drives

Spell-Check crazy, or how they

accommodate stuff like that.

Or is it Spell-Chek?

-

Mendelssohn was composing

big time music when he was

like 12 or 13. That used to

drive Paul crazy too; he

somehow begrudged the

kid, for whatever, plus he

never liked the music.

Mendelssohn was born

Jewish, but maybe converted

out later on. I forget, but all

that bugged Paul too. It never

bothered me any, and one of

 his creations I really liked. I

think it's called 'Calm Sea,

Prosperous Voyage.' I thought

that was pretty cool. I liked the

title, and it was a real nice piece

of music too. Mendelssohn had

a sister too, who composed music

and got famous too. That used

to really get him going. Paul  -

you may remember from earlier

chapters, is the guy who had

told me, at my reaching 30  -

that, if he wasn't famous by age

30, he was going to kill himself.

Well, anyway, he's dead now,

yes, but not from that. In fact  -

another weird matter entirely  -

some of Fanny's (the sister)

music was published under 

her brother's name. I used to

argue with Paul, or discuss

anyway, (I'd 'posit,' was the

word) how in the world a

person could get 'famous' in

the 1830's, with no media and

only through published, and never

recorded, music. We'd go on for

an hour or so, usually in some

doggy-palace like a Twin Donuts.

Another funny story that I always

remember was one night, summer,

nice weather, I was dropping some

printing proofs off to someone

uptown I'd been dealing with and,

from Avenel, I drove in with my

father and mother and my wife,

Kathy. My mother and Kathy went

looking at shops and things, walking

Fifth, etc., and we'd arranged a

meeting time like 9:30 or something,

at a Twin Donuts location I knew,

maybe Lexington and 60th,

something like that. We got done,

my father and I and ended up early

by about 20 minutes at the Twin

Donuts place; sitting there, coffee,

etc., watching the sights. It was

funny; my father was getting all

nutso over the 'attractive' girls

coming and going, loitering and

doing their faces and all. To him

their attractiveness was in the

scantiness and outlandishness of

their clothes. I eventually had to

just say, 'Dad, dad, easy, They're

hookers, all. This is where they

hang between times, taking a

break. Get it?' He clammed up,

and said, "Oh! Don't tell your

mother, OK?'
--
(pt. 2, next; back to the Hungarian girl)