RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,295
(majority fools)
The Delirious Coffee Shop was
on 1st street, next to the radio
station that had its engineering
board showing in the window.
Just a small group of crazy
Jewish guys, interviewing
leftists and revolutionaries in
full public view. The window
showed everything, and people
would sit by and watch. I
always wanted them to call
it the Deleterious Coffee Shop,
but they never bit. Olan Montez
was the guy's name - a sort
of station manager/king with
gusto. The radio station, I mean,
not the Deleterious Coffee Shop.
There were strange people always
hanging about : First and 1st, actually,
was the address. Kind of weird.
-
I used to clean an apartment house
there, once a week. For a few bucks,
but the guy never much paid me. He
was, ostensibly, the super, but he
farmed out the work to me. We were
both at the Studio School together.
The guy was a bit of a jerk and to
make my 'pay' I'd just steal from him.
His apartment was on the topmost
floor, always unoccupied, and he
had tons of stuff - like guys with
money do. It ran the gamut from
records and books to magazines
and curios.. He never noticed a
thing, plus as I was cleaning, he
had a nice bathroom that I always
took advantage of. Lots of things
walked.
-
The five floors of the tenement were
filled with crazy Spanish people; a
hundred young kids, always babbling
and rousting about. I'd have to mop
and sweep the stairwells and landings,
with that waxy stuff that used to get
thrown about to clean floors. The
dreaded kids were always screwing
things up, and outside too when I
had to clean the stoop and entryway.
I didn't really mind, and some of the
girls were pretty cool; usually about
14 going on 20. A real pinata of love,
the place could have been.
-
It was a tenement street, for sure,
even worse that 11th street, where
I was. There were cars around, but
no one I ever saw owned one. They
were for other people. The few
Spanish guys who did own one
always doted on it, polishing and
waxing like it was a God, with some
loud radio crap blasting, taking over
their part of the street. Nothing else
ever much seemed happening, except
maybe spinner-wheels and fuzzy dice.
-
The interior hallways usually reeked
of cooking smells - all the stews
and chowders or whatever it was
the Spanish ladies cooked or baked
or broiled. It was always something.
I've never been a big fan of cooking
smells ever since that time, in a
Proustian way, in reverse, it all
does nothing but bring up bad
memories. No one ever seemed
to mind, or to notice. My cleaning,
whatever it was, was cursory at
best, and I admit it, but no one
ever complained and I was
fortunate too in that there never
were derelicts or addicts or
drunks, or puke and such, to
be cleaned up after. Unlike 11th
Street, where there was always
someone either dead or dying in
an alcove or doorway, stepped
over like maggots on bad meat.
-
It was funny too, how - in those
days - I'd end up saying yes to
any proposition, like this 'cleaning'
thing that would bring in some
coin, or was supposed to. Eyes
and ears always open. There were
a lot of ways, if you dug, to find
sustenance: I worked horses and
horse-carts for a while. In the late
1960's the chestnut vendors and
pretzel guys, they were still around
with horse-carts instead of trailer
wagons. The little fires had to be
kept going, to heat the chestnuts,
the horses needed tending, cleaning,
the oats and the street too. There
were little cart and stable shops,
all through the west teens and
twenties, and more, that would
always throw a few bucks out for
help or clean-up. Blacksmith shops
too - old, grizzled cranks bent
over anvils and fires - help was
always sought cleaning stables,
tending horses, loading carts, and
unloading new freight too. If you
got to know the guys, it was cool
and easy. The corner diners all
had the same waitress crews, and
in each if you got to know then it
was easy to cadge some simple
food. I did it lots.
-
There was a 'scooter' club that
hung out, on most any day but
definitely on Sunday mornings,
over at the Deleterious Coffee
Shop - they were a goofy bunch,
kinf of Euro, and fey too. Weirdly
colored light blues and strange
pink motorscooters, a little frilly,
not like the old Vespas (Wasps)
and others; these were newer,
with lots of plastic and much
more tacky looking. The place
had a reputation for some sort
of food that they all seemed to
die for. I forget what it was,
but the portions were big and
the prices were cheap. And the
Sunday-morning place was
always jammed. I mostly kept
away from the place; not my
crowd at all. They survived too,
surprisingly long - into the
Punk and CBGB's era, and
even the Mars Bar days. Noisy
noise, bad music, and worse
references. All gone up and
sealed away now.
-
Olan Montez? No idea whatever
happened or became of him.
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