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.