12,655. RUDIMENTS, pt. 999

RUDIMENTS, pt. 999

(getting to the bottom of....)

My first few nights in New York

City, having landed basically with

nothing, except what I wore and

the few things I carried, I spent

in Tompkins Square Park. The

park itself was configured a

little differently back then. In

fact, it was a lot different. If

you look at any of the old

photos of 1960's urban parks,

you'll see, since they were all

about the same. Metal swingsets,

set off in some corner, in bare

grassy areas, with but a little

grass. It was as if, in all these 
municipal settings, that people 
had no clue what to do  -  metal
and concrete, swings, slides, etc. 
Apparently there was no over-riding 
sense of safety, aesthetics, or place. 
It hadn't developed yet. Things were 
just thrown about and left to fester 
where they might. The thing about 
Tompkins at least was always the 
stately elms. Most of them are

still around. (Elm trees once
defined America, in a lost, and
stately way(. But it's a far more 

social place now, groomed, 

benches, attendants always 

around, working out of the 

Parks Dept (old) building.

There used to be a bandshell 

in the other far back corner, at

the rear. It used to be there, but

the last visit I made, it seemed 

gone, but I may have just missed 

it. There used to be a Charlie

Parker Festival there each Summer.

Parker lived in an apartment

building right at the rear of 

the park, in whatever way he

called what he did 'living.' He

was all over the place by the end,

dying in some countess's apartment

or something on Fifth Ave., up

along Central Park, not Tompkins.

He was a junky, pretty much, by

then, and this rich lady was taking

care of him. He died in a chair

there, right in front of the TV, as

he was laughing heartily at some

Dorsey Brothers or somebody

comedy routine on the tube. I

can't remember the incidentals,

and it was all before my time there

anyway, but the Parker legend

lived on. There was a little plaque

on the Tompkins area building; 

still is. No mention of it on the

Fifth Avenue place. I guess it

was a scandal. Anyway, the 

bandshell was important to me,

in Summer '67, because it was

right out in front of it where I

slept. I'm not even sure what

brought to that location; I must

have read about it. All sorts of

new-hippie types, at that time,

were landing into NYC, and

the lower east side and Tompkins

Square was like Ground Zero.

People just slept where they were,

like I did. Some were grogged

out of their minds anyway and

couldn't move if they tried. But,

no one lifted a finger to move you

along, no police or nightsticks,

etc. There was a modicum of

bathroom and sink stuff in the

building I mentioned, and if

one was able to get over the 

leaks and the stench and the 

bad plumbing and no towels,

and all that, it all became doable.

No one knew what to make

of any of this anyway; even the

fatuous newspapers and magazines

were sending people around to

'cover' this vast influx of 'America's

unsettled youth,' as they would

put it, 'amassing in great and 

confused numbers in all our

major cities. What do they want?

Where do the come from?' A

lot of the kids, smarter than

you'd probably give them

credit for, were onto the game

already. They'd say all sorts of

outlandish things, while smirking

or not. The rube reporters, and

the photo guys in tow, they took

it all in earnest, concocting

these great, lurid reports and

turning them in. You'd think a

biblical swarm of human locusts

was about to wreck the country.

I stayed silent and would mostly

move away when I saw this stuff.

It was all new to me and I was

scared too, and certainly not there

as 'part' of anything. Plus, just

by listening you could tell the

'veterans' from the newbies

already. To the older park

dwellers it was all seasoned and

coy talk, almost wise-assed,

like Yippie stuff later. It was

always a new kid that was in

dead earnest, staring and serious, 

and actually working hard on 

answering some dumb-ass question 

or two in a straightforward and 

serious fashion; as if still in 

school and giving a verbal 

report about Magellan's voyage 

or something. Loosen up! The 

world's not that tender.

-

I didn't know any of that, but

I do now. When I was doing all

that biker stuff, through the 90's,

lots of times, at the Biker Runs

or parties we ran, some stupid

reporter would always come 

around  -  like, for instance  -  

the May Awareness run that

we did each year and which 

ended up in Avenel Park for 

some stupid and noisy beerfest 

and bike party. It was all

supposed to be about safety

and such, but more likely it was

rock and roll on a bandstand, 

and beer and more, all day.

Everyone was all tanked up

a few hours later and damned

for certain every time the Home

News would send a local reporter

out to 'cover' the event. Just

like the hippie junk in Tompkins.

They'd usually come to me first,

and I'd try to set a decent tone,

talking seriously and calmly

patterned, to make sense and 

actually present an issue or

two, and then I'd realize, like

Tompkins Square again, that I

was sounding like any one of

those newly-arrived park kids,

way too earnest. I really wanted

to just say, 'Shove off, we're her

for your daughter.' But I knew I

couldn't; and then every year

I'd be a nervous wreck until the

next day's newspaper, where

we'd always get a photo or

two on the lower front page,

and a story continued inside.

I, and the others, would always

be crazy-nervous to see who

said what that would possibly

betray us for being the drunk,

maladroit 'miscreants' we

actually were. Once or twice 

it got really bad, with someone

making a gross comment, but

mostly it was bearable. (I used

the word 'miscreants,' because

that was what Senator Frank

Lautenberg, asshole Senator

from New Jersey, called us once).
He was ahead of the curve on
Hillary's 'Deplorables' crack.

-

Anyway, back to Tompkins Square

and the bandshell  -  that was facing

the grassy section everyone slept in,

Not just slept; they did lots of other

stuff too, but, such were the times.

When I first got there, a group of

local Hispanic guys were playing

music, at the bandstand, but not

up in it. Believe it or not, I had

my bongo drums with me, in the

sack I was dragging, and I just 

joined in. it was cool, and it

became a thing; time after time,

they were there a lot. Eventually

I got myself settled, over at 509

e11th, just two blocks over anyway,

and I no longer did the park stuff

so much. I've written all about

this a few other times, much

earlier in these chapters, so I

won't belabor it anew, but I

fond my way, within two months

anyway, to live, eat, and even

have one or two really dipshit,

survival jobs, until things sort

of turned around for me and 

I was no longer such a scared

rube myself. Hence, my stories.

-

The whole Hispanic or, I guess

then, Puerto Rican experience 

was new too, and an eye-opener.

I'd never been exposed like that

before to a loud, nay raucous,

outdoor, Caribbean-type culture

before. It took some getting

used to, but I watch in awe

sometimes at these great clutches

of happy people who could turn

angry on  a dime. My own father

had always had hints of that, but

it had nothing to do with Hispanic

influencing. The Spanish guys

were fast and slick. Peacock

like too; proud of themselves and

onto their routine, always; and the

girls  -  without saying more I say

Ole! I'd never seen that kind

of stuff before. Florid, yellows

and reds, blouses, tight pants,

or slacks, or whatever girls call 

them; preening and onto the whole 

display game, and aware of it.

It was a wonder someone wasn't

killed, daily; for gawking or

touching. These girls were the

complete other spectrum from 

the incoming hippie girls, who,

though they too 'showed' things,

were by comparison, coy, shy,

and reticent about all of it. two

worlds apart; and I don't even

know if they watched each other.

For the Spanish girls it was always

all these, and they didn't ever have

to think about it. The hippie girls,

on the other hand, always seemed

super-cautious, weak, and

hesitant.

-

Anyway, that's what it all looked 

like to a dumb 17-year old (me) 

fresh out from  nowhere, and 

certainly not Compton, or fresh
out of Compton or whatever. (I hear
things but I never understand them;
even though silly people go around
saying I'm the one who's difficult
to understand).