Let this be the drink of the damned! Pédro says, grabs the last tequila bottle from behind the counter, dumps its guts into an oversized shot glass. Swallows hard. Passing out eight seconds later, his left cheek hits the table. Probably chipping a tooth. Definitely bloodying a lip. A tough drink this bandito brew.
I, of course, have long since resigned from these vomit-enducing, soul-depriving beverages. Bad for the liver, costly on the pocket book. But, alas, no Man is a Perfect Beast. Flawed, I do give in to these indiscretions every now and then.
“Your friend,” queries the barwoman, “he’ll sleep here tonight, no?” “Sure,” comes my reply. “This bar is like a second home.”
I pat Pédro good night, pay for his drinking, then stagger to the room we've rented down the street. We all could use a good night’s sleep.
Too early, the cursed sun is blinding. I have a quick breakfast (runny eggs and weak coffee). Then I check on Pédro. Snoring loudly, he’s still hunched over the table. But as a seasoned journeyman, I know: Let a drunken traveler sleep it off, lest he become a burden on the voyage.
I’ll give him ’til noon.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Friday, August 04, 2006
Danny Romeo’s Last Night Out
But first the chores of the evening. I do my laundry at the Launderette, 166 Avenue B, two loads, mixing the whites and the coloreds (no discrimination here) before lugging everything back to my cramped but overpriced East Village studio/loft. Then: a quick shower. Clean socks, shirt, and jeans. Gel and after shave, the cheap kind. Check me out in the mirror and out the door we go.
I drop in at the Ale House on MacDougal Street, unannounced, and grab a seat in the back. Seat with a view of the restroom.
“How’s it going, Danny?” says another regular, the Tender of Bar. “Good,” says I. That’s I, as in Danny Romeo. “What’ll it be, man?” Jack and Coke (heavy on the Jack) and Seven and Seven. Then to chase it down, a Corona with lime. Yes. Just the usual, thank you.
We, the less fortunate ones, live and work (work and live) here in Manhattan. By we, I mean the whites, blacks, browns, rednecks, dogs, cats, parrots, pigeons, hot-dog vendors, taxicab drivers, bums, men in business suits, men who can’t even think straight, lesbians, trannies, Jewish people, Catholics, Muslims, the Irish, the Italians, the Koreans, the Chinese. I even hear there is a Finn who answers to the name A-ho. These are just a few.
I swallow my first drink in honor of my literary hero, Edward Abbey. A good writer and an even better drinker. Dead now. Poor, poor Abbey. As a great defender of the even greater American West, he died of Excessive Consumption of Alcohol (ECA) in the Year of Our Lord 1989. I guess it’s true that bad beer kills. As it so happens, I too suffer from this incapacitating disease. We’re kindred spirits, Abbey and I, in life and, hopefully, in death.
“What you been up to, Danny?” Not much. Doing some living. Staying away from reality TV. You? “Well,” she says, takes a deep breath, and goes into a pointless diatribe that involves her ex-boyfriend and her ex-boyfriend’s dog and something about his favorite CD she never returned (Revolver, The Beatles, 1966).
And so the night goes on. Another drink—or drinks. “Hey, Danny! Wuz happenin’?” “Nice haircut, man,” says I. “Where’d you get it—the Eighties?” More people to communicate with, were there any good communicating to be done. The best part about drinking is waiting to see what shit will spew out of one’s mouth.
But mostly, more internal monologue. Like: I hear a rumor that across the river the rent is affordable, the trash gets picked up on Thursdays, the women are the marrying kind, and the buses and trains run on time. Where in the hell are these gentrified, yuppiefied streets that don’t smell? These must be rumors! More lies for fools who believe in such things.
Now, let me tell you something: I don’t claim to be organized, but I do have a plan. It’s a good one, too. One that doesn’t involve marriage(s), mortgages, car payments, tennis lessons, health club fees, (cry-)babies, or baby food—any of that yuck that passes for life nowadays. My plan is simple, not entirely pain free, but with guaranteed results. Um, and what the hell IS your plan, Danny? you ask. Well. If you have to ask, then—forget it.
I finish my last drink of the night. Head out the door. A little after 3 a.m.
A final thought, as I find me a suitable subway station: Death is inevitable. No doubt it will come a-knockin’. And when it does, I’ll be ready. I already have a plot picked out for me, of course. Well, maybe TWO plots. Yes, sir. I say, bury me in the wilderness of Montana. That—or the Australian outback. Fewer people in those places mucking about, putting their ugly noses in my business.
But, please note: Put me in a cheap wooden box. This is good for later, when I have to claw my way out.
I drop in at the Ale House on MacDougal Street, unannounced, and grab a seat in the back. Seat with a view of the restroom.“How’s it going, Danny?” says another regular, the Tender of Bar. “Good,” says I. That’s I, as in Danny Romeo. “What’ll it be, man?” Jack and Coke (heavy on the Jack) and Seven and Seven. Then to chase it down, a Corona with lime. Yes. Just the usual, thank you.
We, the less fortunate ones, live and work (work and live) here in Manhattan. By we, I mean the whites, blacks, browns, rednecks, dogs, cats, parrots, pigeons, hot-dog vendors, taxicab drivers, bums, men in business suits, men who can’t even think straight, lesbians, trannies, Jewish people, Catholics, Muslims, the Irish, the Italians, the Koreans, the Chinese. I even hear there is a Finn who answers to the name A-ho. These are just a few.
I swallow my first drink in honor of my literary hero, Edward Abbey. A good writer and an even better drinker. Dead now. Poor, poor Abbey. As a great defender of the even greater American West, he died of Excessive Consumption of Alcohol (ECA) in the Year of Our Lord 1989. I guess it’s true that bad beer kills. As it so happens, I too suffer from this incapacitating disease. We’re kindred spirits, Abbey and I, in life and, hopefully, in death.
“What you been up to, Danny?” Not much. Doing some living. Staying away from reality TV. You? “Well,” she says, takes a deep breath, and goes into a pointless diatribe that involves her ex-boyfriend and her ex-boyfriend’s dog and something about his favorite CD she never returned (Revolver, The Beatles, 1966).
And so the night goes on. Another drink—or drinks. “Hey, Danny! Wuz happenin’?” “Nice haircut, man,” says I. “Where’d you get it—the Eighties?” More people to communicate with, were there any good communicating to be done. The best part about drinking is waiting to see what shit will spew out of one’s mouth.
But mostly, more internal monologue. Like: I hear a rumor that across the river the rent is affordable, the trash gets picked up on Thursdays, the women are the marrying kind, and the buses and trains run on time. Where in the hell are these gentrified, yuppiefied streets that don’t smell? These must be rumors! More lies for fools who believe in such things.
Now, let me tell you something: I don’t claim to be organized, but I do have a plan. It’s a good one, too. One that doesn’t involve marriage(s), mortgages, car payments, tennis lessons, health club fees, (cry-)babies, or baby food—any of that yuck that passes for life nowadays. My plan is simple, not entirely pain free, but with guaranteed results. Um, and what the hell IS your plan, Danny? you ask. Well. If you have to ask, then—forget it.
I finish my last drink of the night. Head out the door. A little after 3 a.m.
A final thought, as I find me a suitable subway station: Death is inevitable. No doubt it will come a-knockin’. And when it does, I’ll be ready. I already have a plot picked out for me, of course. Well, maybe TWO plots. Yes, sir. I say, bury me in the wilderness of Montana. That—or the Australian outback. Fewer people in those places mucking about, putting their ugly noses in my business.
But, please note: Put me in a cheap wooden box. This is good for later, when I have to claw my way out.
Skyscrapers, Like Fjords
It’s midday in the jungle. On the corner I get stared down by New York City’s finest scum, an intimidating sonofabitch, probably looking for a down payment on his first house. This in a town where real estate averages a thousand bucks per square feet.
“Now listen, man, I know you got some change,” he says, gritting his teeth, clenching his fists. I keep walking, stepping up the pace, eyes glued to the pavement. “Don’t ignore me, asshole!” He is hollering behind me now, hung up on his lot in life. “I’m part of this shit, too!”
Yessirree, folks. The operative word here is: SHIT.
The Big Apple, of course, has excelled in shit, shitt-o! and scheiße ever since its inception nearly four-hundred years ago. Case in point: In 1609, one Mr. Peter Minuit, then director of the Dutch West India Trading Co., traded about 24 dollars worth of worthless beads to local Injuns for this here entire island of Manhattan. A very shitty thing to do. This, consequently, put Manhattan on its current path of crapdom.
Being harassed on the streets in the middle of the day—on a Tuesday!—is an extension of the same old shit that has continued for almost half a millennium. Have the Injuns, who were screwed over so long ago, now reincarnated themselves as bums on the city streets to fuck with decent law-abiding citizens, who are just trying to make decent law-abiding lives for themselves? I don’t blame the Indians, of course. Or the bums. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a pickle for a pickle—that sorta thing.
I DO blame Mr. Minuit for buying this damned island in the first place, on which I now find myself working five, six, seven days a week, 50 weeks a year, in a dead-end job with dead-end pay, the ever-inevitable Death as my only happy release. Why couldn’t the fucker have bought one of the islands in the Caribbean? At least there I’d have the beach.
Mention beach and I bring you the topic of sun. Whopper of a fireball in the sky right now. 98 degrees of pure Fahrenheit. To be continued at 104 degrees by mid-afternoon. There aren’t enough fire hydrants to go around for the kids trapped on this island, boiled alive in this melting pot.
Too many days like this and the ice caps are bound to thaw out. To which I say, let the floodwaters rise and Manhattan be swallowed by a monster of a wave in one big gulp of antifreeze-green saltwater.
Thus, as our famous last scene, the perfect ending to the day: Me in a dingy, revving up the motor, coasting down Sixth Avenue in a sea of genuine Gotham City sewage—and the tall skyscrapers, like fjords of concrete and steel.
“Now listen, man, I know you got some change,” he says, gritting his teeth, clenching his fists. I keep walking, stepping up the pace, eyes glued to the pavement. “Don’t ignore me, asshole!” He is hollering behind me now, hung up on his lot in life. “I’m part of this shit, too!”
Yessirree, folks. The operative word here is: SHIT.
The Big Apple, of course, has excelled in shit, shitt-o! and scheiße ever since its inception nearly four-hundred years ago. Case in point: In 1609, one Mr. Peter Minuit, then director of the Dutch West India Trading Co., traded about 24 dollars worth of worthless beads to local Injuns for this here entire island of Manhattan. A very shitty thing to do. This, consequently, put Manhattan on its current path of crapdom.
Being harassed on the streets in the middle of the day—on a Tuesday!—is an extension of the same old shit that has continued for almost half a millennium. Have the Injuns, who were screwed over so long ago, now reincarnated themselves as bums on the city streets to fuck with decent law-abiding citizens, who are just trying to make decent law-abiding lives for themselves? I don’t blame the Indians, of course. Or the bums. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a pickle for a pickle—that sorta thing.
I DO blame Mr. Minuit for buying this damned island in the first place, on which I now find myself working five, six, seven days a week, 50 weeks a year, in a dead-end job with dead-end pay, the ever-inevitable Death as my only happy release. Why couldn’t the fucker have bought one of the islands in the Caribbean? At least there I’d have the beach.
Mention beach and I bring you the topic of sun. Whopper of a fireball in the sky right now. 98 degrees of pure Fahrenheit. To be continued at 104 degrees by mid-afternoon. There aren’t enough fire hydrants to go around for the kids trapped on this island, boiled alive in this melting pot.
Too many days like this and the ice caps are bound to thaw out. To which I say, let the floodwaters rise and Manhattan be swallowed by a monster of a wave in one big gulp of antifreeze-green saltwater.
Thus, as our famous last scene, the perfect ending to the day: Me in a dingy, revving up the motor, coasting down Sixth Avenue in a sea of genuine Gotham City sewage—and the tall skyscrapers, like fjords of concrete and steel.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Umbrella
Raining now. It’s very likely that I left my umbrella in newbie immigrant Fathey Abdullah’s taxi cab, where he dropped me off at Sixth and 59th. (Abdullah, formerly of Iran, is now a tax-paying resident of Brooklyn, U.S.A.) Oh well. I don’t dwell on it. I’ve missed the rain these last few days. We need some respite in this brick oven that is New York City.
I cross the street and buy a copy of the New York Post. I'm a newspaper junkie. The corner newsstand stays in business because of me. I then duck inside a coffee shop, order an espresso, and flip through the paper. I have some time to kill.
The rain stops on cue twenty minutes later. I discard the empty coffee cup, straw, crinkled napkin and newspaper in the trash bin. A short walk from here to E. 63rd, where I arrive five minutes early. Already, the Man stands in the doorway, squarely, with a brandy in his right hand and a cheap cigar in his left. He greets me with open arms, like we’re old Army buddies.
Once inside, I meet the Wife, who is on her first glass of Bordeaux. She is very beautiful, but also visibly nervous. The Man beckons me to the living room where we sit down on expensive leather sofas. Then we drink, steadily, for almost a half an hour, talking about nothing very important. I try, but I can’t put my finger on the Man. A nebulous character.
Soon he excuses himself politely, kisses the Wife, shakes my hand, and exits out the front door. The Wife and I are left alone. “Shall we?” I ask. Yes. Yes, of course, she says, and then escorts me to the upstairs bedroom, locking the door behind us.
The evening passes quickly. More rain. I walk out into the night and hail another taxi cab. As luck would have it, it’s Abdullah’s. I get my umbrella back.
I cross the street and buy a copy of the New York Post. I'm a newspaper junkie. The corner newsstand stays in business because of me. I then duck inside a coffee shop, order an espresso, and flip through the paper. I have some time to kill.
The rain stops on cue twenty minutes later. I discard the empty coffee cup, straw, crinkled napkin and newspaper in the trash bin. A short walk from here to E. 63rd, where I arrive five minutes early. Already, the Man stands in the doorway, squarely, with a brandy in his right hand and a cheap cigar in his left. He greets me with open arms, like we’re old Army buddies.
Once inside, I meet the Wife, who is on her first glass of Bordeaux. She is very beautiful, but also visibly nervous. The Man beckons me to the living room where we sit down on expensive leather sofas. Then we drink, steadily, for almost a half an hour, talking about nothing very important. I try, but I can’t put my finger on the Man. A nebulous character.
Soon he excuses himself politely, kisses the Wife, shakes my hand, and exits out the front door. The Wife and I are left alone. “Shall we?” I ask. Yes. Yes, of course, she says, and then escorts me to the upstairs bedroom, locking the door behind us.
The evening passes quickly. More rain. I walk out into the night and hail another taxi cab. As luck would have it, it’s Abdullah’s. I get my umbrella back.
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