most of us survived playing live taking the shame with the gusto. there was so much waiting around and nervous anticipation that it really drove you nuts sometimes, so you'd up the ante on the performance, add more sugar to the lemonade. on good nights there was plenty to drink, there were plenty of people, and always plenty of room to fall flat on your face.
the basement dripped at the walls, one little light bulb lighting all the entangled limbs & 1/4" cable, and i could smell all the musk and the sweat and the beer in the air. the first two numbers were disasterous, but we played the last six hard, to the drunken cries of fifty odd New Brunswick regulars. we had reached the very height of where we could go in our little town, we were peddling aggression to barbarians.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Tore a Hole in Your Favorite Disguise
we must have been in Holly's room for an hour, sitting like that kind of weird grit that collects in corners. it was story time and it was my turn to do the honors.
"my father is a drug counselor, and often has clients who have access to some very funny ol' junk, including like miniature sail boats made of popsicle sticks, paintings on velvet, and other kitsch items...they also cook for him often, especially the Puerto Rican ones, as is custom. like a Rican can't meet another Rican without cooking him something. my father brings the dishes to family dinners for everybody to sample. good dishes with cabbage & cod & rice & beans made with sweat & love. but you always feel weird eating it. after all, it IS made by heroin addicts, like really old scuzzy amputee ones...it's funny because these people have always pursued my father. they would become obsessed with him, as like the embodiment of the cure for their disease. i remember ducking behind corners with him trying to avoid the bastards...a lot of them lived in his nieghborhood, and would come up to him on the street to talk about their addiction, wanting more therapy, more attention. these were beneficiaries of City-run programs that were always tightening the belt, and so people were always wanting more. my father would wear sunglasses everywhere we went as a disguise, but some of the more discerning addicts could see right through them. a security guard who worked at my father's clinic was low on cash one year, and sold a Telecaster guitar and a practice amp to him for $200.00. the guitar is worth $800.00 easily, perhaps more. but the guy was behind in his rent, as his girlfriend had cashed his check and spent the money on clothes. it's the same guitar i used on all of our records & tours. lately i feel like it's been wearing its case as a disguise".
a lull in the music downstairs reminded me of just how quiet the room had become. Rand took two quick drags off a two centimeter joint that had magically & mysteriously appeared, then grabbed up some tangled guitar cables on the floor. "i think we're on now", he said, and made for the door.
"my father is a drug counselor, and often has clients who have access to some very funny ol' junk, including like miniature sail boats made of popsicle sticks, paintings on velvet, and other kitsch items...they also cook for him often, especially the Puerto Rican ones, as is custom. like a Rican can't meet another Rican without cooking him something. my father brings the dishes to family dinners for everybody to sample. good dishes with cabbage & cod & rice & beans made with sweat & love. but you always feel weird eating it. after all, it IS made by heroin addicts, like really old scuzzy amputee ones...it's funny because these people have always pursued my father. they would become obsessed with him, as like the embodiment of the cure for their disease. i remember ducking behind corners with him trying to avoid the bastards...a lot of them lived in his nieghborhood, and would come up to him on the street to talk about their addiction, wanting more therapy, more attention. these were beneficiaries of City-run programs that were always tightening the belt, and so people were always wanting more. my father would wear sunglasses everywhere we went as a disguise, but some of the more discerning addicts could see right through them. a security guard who worked at my father's clinic was low on cash one year, and sold a Telecaster guitar and a practice amp to him for $200.00. the guitar is worth $800.00 easily, perhaps more. but the guy was behind in his rent, as his girlfriend had cashed his check and spent the money on clothes. it's the same guitar i used on all of our records & tours. lately i feel like it's been wearing its case as a disguise".
a lull in the music downstairs reminded me of just how quiet the room had become. Rand took two quick drags off a two centimeter joint that had magically & mysteriously appeared, then grabbed up some tangled guitar cables on the floor. "i think we're on now", he said, and made for the door.
Running With Scissors
With the bus's engine a-purring and tires a-bumping a homecoming rhythm down shady old French Street I examined the contents of my ziplock serious drug collection under the warm yellow glow of a reading light. Though the bag had been severely depleted over the last few days there was still enough to share, half twenty milligram adderal from Run, four or more generic vicodin from uncle's cabinet, two tannish mystery painkillers, probably Percoset, and about a gram of T jammed crudely into a film canister. Rising from my seat and wiping the crust from my eyes, I made my way to the front of the bus amid sleeping passengers, put my hand on a warm portion of seat that recoiled to the touch. A dapper old gentleman with deadpan eyes shot me a withering look, drew his wife all the closer with gloved hand on her delicate shoulder, "Sorry", I whispered. The bus lurched to hydraulic brakes, and I jumped off into another world, past familiar withered ashen strangers out front of the Hub liquor store, down French to Louis, past darkened row homes and roaring McCormick's Bar on Somerset Street, following the beacon sound of pounding drums and screaming to my show.
Inside a too loud blur of nervous energy with cheap garage pumping from tweed speakers, anonymous voice all gravel over the clank of trebly guitars, attacking rhythm section, klinking bottles. Meanwhile bodies sway drunkenly pressed together in an entanglement of bare limbs, palm grope pinkish exposed abdomen, and tight wrapped busom bouncing dreadfully there in the hands of another in the shadows. Red red lips and blush on cheek, furry cheetah collars, short skirts, faded low waist jeans all the rage because they say you can't get away with stonewash anymore, but tapered jeans cut right show off Converse of every color, look sufficiently scuffed by the light of a naked bulb on the back porch, one spikey haired little beauty remarks to elder grizzled companion, on seeing similarly dressed girl coming upstairs, "Oh Gawd!...seen her before...Matt's ex...slut..!" The real scene down in the basement, down rickety old winding rot wood stairs, third step gives way, swings right when you put your weight on it, guy clomps down behind you in swank heeled Italian shoes with his fingers in your back, here all steamy and uncomfortable and moist, where an assemblage of vintage looking hipsters do the Twist and the Bop and the Shake through a haze of cigarette smoke, yet too many cracks in the walls and windows to keep the cold drafts out, "You made it!!...how was work?...Reni, I love your hair...best I could do...spilt it...split it...hey, you missed your own band, how do you like that...where can we go...are they out of beer? ...who's this...yea, they played without you!!...how do you like that...excuse me, I'm sorry...where's Len?..." Rand was there on the dancefloor with drink in hand, bopping his usual hippity hop to the beat. Then, sensing my presence, he made a casual exit and took me in tow upstairs through the comic swell, past all the eager beavers and wallflowers and local alkies passing out on their feet, "Diiiig these crazy cats, Piero, as always. Come on, we don't go on for a while, like after this next band? We got beers upstairs and T to smoke." In Holly's room a few of us had barricaded ourselves in and had set about smoking and irrigating ourselves in earnest. I went to fill up again, dug out my dirty glass work and grabbed a pinch from the film canister. It would be Rand's first taste of the dry brownish inferior stuff that I'd bought from DeJesus earlier in the week. He held one of the more substantial buds up to the light, remarking, "Daaamnnnn, been a while since I've seen T with seeds and stems..." "Shut up, it's my bread and butter!", I shot back, "Damn you. It's cheap. And it burns all the same." And he had himself an odd litttle laugh at this, mostly because he was high, and took his glasses off his face to rub at the tired indentations on the bridge of his nose. He let the cigarette smoke escape from his lips, "Am I French inhaling?"A knock at the door produced Antoni Leviscana whose arrival was met with great approval from all present. Being a model of effeminate dignity and poise, he sort of quickly and noiselessly dissolved into the room, then gently closed the door behind him as to shut the rest of the party out. He shed his pea coat, exposing his ever diminutive physique, then fixed himself next to me and extended a kindly furry hand in friendship. The works were passed to all who had interest, meanwhile I prepared three neat lines of adderall on Holly's desk for Rand, Antoni and I. "You wouldn't happen to have more of those Vikes, would you Piero?", Antoni asked, "I'm really like not into Adderall lately. Makes me too nervous, actually, I prefer to be down." I reached into the ziplock and laid two Vicodin in his palm. I was actually glad to get rid of them, the stuff gave me stomach aches. "I wouldn't take them tonite, at least not anytime soon, you seem drunk enough already". "Yea", he said, running a shaky hand through his jet black dyed hair, "Me, Jean, and Reni were at my house fixing gin and tonics. I can't believe I'm so drunk now. I didn't even think we mixed enough liquor in, I couldn't taste it over the lime". He licked his lips. "That's my drink", Holly said. "Caramel twist, neat", I remarked. "What's that?", she said, " Ugh. I'm really not into pills. I can't even watch you do them, it makes my stomach sick". She turned to Reni while I snorted the first line. "You wouldn't happen to have more adderall to trade, would you, Antoni?", I said, remembering that we'd had a similar conversation weeks earlier, that the blue Adderalls I had left were actually from Antoni (via Run) to begin with. Most of the local Adderall could actually be traced back to Run, who seemed to have a neverending supply of the vital stuff, and was well known to dispense them by the handful to his friends when in a good mood. Run was impossible to find these days though, he had retreated to his girlfriend's house in recent months and had scarcely been seen again. "Not now, I can get them, though, I think, from my brother's prescription at home. But I've taken so many already, maybe ten of the thirty that were in the bottle, you'd think someone would notice, I'm afraid that one day they will."
Inside a too loud blur of nervous energy with cheap garage pumping from tweed speakers, anonymous voice all gravel over the clank of trebly guitars, attacking rhythm section, klinking bottles. Meanwhile bodies sway drunkenly pressed together in an entanglement of bare limbs, palm grope pinkish exposed abdomen, and tight wrapped busom bouncing dreadfully there in the hands of another in the shadows. Red red lips and blush on cheek, furry cheetah collars, short skirts, faded low waist jeans all the rage because they say you can't get away with stonewash anymore, but tapered jeans cut right show off Converse of every color, look sufficiently scuffed by the light of a naked bulb on the back porch, one spikey haired little beauty remarks to elder grizzled companion, on seeing similarly dressed girl coming upstairs, "Oh Gawd!...seen her before...Matt's ex...slut..!" The real scene down in the basement, down rickety old winding rot wood stairs, third step gives way, swings right when you put your weight on it, guy clomps down behind you in swank heeled Italian shoes with his fingers in your back, here all steamy and uncomfortable and moist, where an assemblage of vintage looking hipsters do the Twist and the Bop and the Shake through a haze of cigarette smoke, yet too many cracks in the walls and windows to keep the cold drafts out, "You made it!!...how was work?...Reni, I love your hair...best I could do...spilt it...split it...hey, you missed your own band, how do you like that...where can we go...are they out of beer? ...who's this...yea, they played without you!!...how do you like that...excuse me, I'm sorry...where's Len?..." Rand was there on the dancefloor with drink in hand, bopping his usual hippity hop to the beat. Then, sensing my presence, he made a casual exit and took me in tow upstairs through the comic swell, past all the eager beavers and wallflowers and local alkies passing out on their feet, "Diiiig these crazy cats, Piero, as always. Come on, we don't go on for a while, like after this next band? We got beers upstairs and T to smoke." In Holly's room a few of us had barricaded ourselves in and had set about smoking and irrigating ourselves in earnest. I went to fill up again, dug out my dirty glass work and grabbed a pinch from the film canister. It would be Rand's first taste of the dry brownish inferior stuff that I'd bought from DeJesus earlier in the week. He held one of the more substantial buds up to the light, remarking, "Daaamnnnn, been a while since I've seen T with seeds and stems..." "Shut up, it's my bread and butter!", I shot back, "Damn you. It's cheap. And it burns all the same." And he had himself an odd litttle laugh at this, mostly because he was high, and took his glasses off his face to rub at the tired indentations on the bridge of his nose. He let the cigarette smoke escape from his lips, "Am I French inhaling?"A knock at the door produced Antoni Leviscana whose arrival was met with great approval from all present. Being a model of effeminate dignity and poise, he sort of quickly and noiselessly dissolved into the room, then gently closed the door behind him as to shut the rest of the party out. He shed his pea coat, exposing his ever diminutive physique, then fixed himself next to me and extended a kindly furry hand in friendship. The works were passed to all who had interest, meanwhile I prepared three neat lines of adderall on Holly's desk for Rand, Antoni and I. "You wouldn't happen to have more of those Vikes, would you Piero?", Antoni asked, "I'm really like not into Adderall lately. Makes me too nervous, actually, I prefer to be down." I reached into the ziplock and laid two Vicodin in his palm. I was actually glad to get rid of them, the stuff gave me stomach aches. "I wouldn't take them tonite, at least not anytime soon, you seem drunk enough already". "Yea", he said, running a shaky hand through his jet black dyed hair, "Me, Jean, and Reni were at my house fixing gin and tonics. I can't believe I'm so drunk now. I didn't even think we mixed enough liquor in, I couldn't taste it over the lime". He licked his lips. "That's my drink", Holly said. "Caramel twist, neat", I remarked. "What's that?", she said, " Ugh. I'm really not into pills. I can't even watch you do them, it makes my stomach sick". She turned to Reni while I snorted the first line. "You wouldn't happen to have more adderall to trade, would you, Antoni?", I said, remembering that we'd had a similar conversation weeks earlier, that the blue Adderalls I had left were actually from Antoni (via Run) to begin with. Most of the local Adderall could actually be traced back to Run, who seemed to have a neverending supply of the vital stuff, and was well known to dispense them by the handful to his friends when in a good mood. Run was impossible to find these days though, he had retreated to his girlfriend's house in recent months and had scarcely been seen again. "Not now, I can get them, though, I think, from my brother's prescription at home. But I've taken so many already, maybe ten of the thirty that were in the bottle, you'd think someone would notice, I'm afraid that one day they will."
Vertigo
I must have had a little panic attack that night, sitting in the dark with my headphones on, the laboring hum of the bus's engine vibrating my seat, my heart racing in anticipation of nothing. The sensation is familiar, some rip in time emerges without warning, a backstory to the script wherein the hero, leaving no stone unturned, discovers that nothing in his imagination exists without character. The vertigo he experiences is a side effect of being reintroduced to the general population, having been conditioned all of his life to live every day in fear of the next. I sat suspended there for some time fascinated by the view of the station below, as on many nights seen through foggy plate glass windows, a charming vignette about bitter cold February New York. Steam rose from the cracks in the walls of the heated interior and came spewing forth every time someone opened the door. Heat escaped with curses from those comfortably huddled inside, came swirling around the soot covered parking deck, danced around conduits, rigging, piping, finaly relented and mingled with the dry exhaust air. As the 9:30 bus was poised to depart Port Authority there was some furor among the passengers in the front compartment over luggage and empty seats. A few desperate latecomers were turned away even as they came vaulting after us, the stern old Jamaican driver reversed, then waved them off through his side mirror. I was to be delivered to the show on Somerset Street within the hour. I clutched at my bag, put my head back, dug round in the front pocket for the adderall.
As the bus hurtled along owning the road on its course caustic fires leapt into the breach from open furnaces on the horizon, manic headlights disappeared en masse behind shadowy metallic structures, like a thing alive, the intersecting architecture softened at a distance to look like the veiny transparent leather of reclining bat wings. Red beacon lights still flashed on forgotten towers sunk out in the wetlands, illuminating the otherwise imperceptible depth from the Turnpike overpass to the reedy surface below. I dreamed pleasantly, transported myself to a familiar old crowded subway car where people gripped handholds and slept standing up, while those awake sat squinting under too bright florescent lights. I awoke periodically to the sound of voices in the seat behind me. Two well dressed black cats were arguing in subdued half whispers, "Problem is, his definition of tough love is different from ours, what we're used to, you know what I'm saying, is different from his world..." As I drifted back to sleep the men’s voices permeated my dream, I could hear them from somewhere opposite me, as if they had come walking in from one car to the next, "He used to get thrown around by his parents, shit thrown at him, he'd get in fights with his sister, rip out her weave, his sister would scratch his ass all up, his neck 'n shit, we're not used to that, you know what I'm sayin', we didn't come up like that...". "I'm not even tryin' to hear about my man's hard knocks...", his friend interrupted, though before he could move to consolidate his argument the first guy needed to finish what he was saying, "I'm not even tryin to say I never raised my hand when I was a kid, man, me an' my brother came to blows enough times", he said, pointing at a small scar on the top of his head, "Coz dat's how kids communicate, you know what I'm sayin', like general frustration. I remember one night, when we were in our room an' he wouldn't shut up, I kept tellin' his ass, then 'Bap!', I thought I kicked him in his back but it was his stomach, an' he was cryin and sista came in the room like, 'What happened? What did you do?', with hair like all nappy in pink curlers...but after that, everything was lovely, man and I never touched my brother again."
As the bus hurtled along owning the road on its course caustic fires leapt into the breach from open furnaces on the horizon, manic headlights disappeared en masse behind shadowy metallic structures, like a thing alive, the intersecting architecture softened at a distance to look like the veiny transparent leather of reclining bat wings. Red beacon lights still flashed on forgotten towers sunk out in the wetlands, illuminating the otherwise imperceptible depth from the Turnpike overpass to the reedy surface below. I dreamed pleasantly, transported myself to a familiar old crowded subway car where people gripped handholds and slept standing up, while those awake sat squinting under too bright florescent lights. I awoke periodically to the sound of voices in the seat behind me. Two well dressed black cats were arguing in subdued half whispers, "Problem is, his definition of tough love is different from ours, what we're used to, you know what I'm saying, is different from his world..." As I drifted back to sleep the men’s voices permeated my dream, I could hear them from somewhere opposite me, as if they had come walking in from one car to the next, "He used to get thrown around by his parents, shit thrown at him, he'd get in fights with his sister, rip out her weave, his sister would scratch his ass all up, his neck 'n shit, we're not used to that, you know what I'm sayin', we didn't come up like that...". "I'm not even tryin' to hear about my man's hard knocks...", his friend interrupted, though before he could move to consolidate his argument the first guy needed to finish what he was saying, "I'm not even tryin to say I never raised my hand when I was a kid, man, me an' my brother came to blows enough times", he said, pointing at a small scar on the top of his head, "Coz dat's how kids communicate, you know what I'm sayin', like general frustration. I remember one night, when we were in our room an' he wouldn't shut up, I kept tellin' his ass, then 'Bap!', I thought I kicked him in his back but it was his stomach, an' he was cryin and sista came in the room like, 'What happened? What did you do?', with hair like all nappy in pink curlers...but after that, everything was lovely, man and I never touched my brother again."
Dim the Marquee Lights
As I told him the story of old Beetle Body Joe Lopez slouched low in his swivel chair, black clad figure disappearing behind the big oak security podium with arms folded, lazily surveying traffic on 42nd Street, knowing all too well that the key to keeping his job was sleeping with one eye open. "Scott quit last night, did I tell you that?", he said, smirking a little, fingers turning the pages of the security log to the last entry. "Look what he's written here, when he signed out last night, 'S. Yustas off duty. All keys and radios returned...PEACE'. " He laughed at this, turned the book around so that I could get a good look at the ambiguously scrawled note, Yustas' handwriting all sharp, crude angry marks, "He told me he might do it", said Joe, closing the book with a snap and returning it to its drawer in the podium, "Said he'd had enough, was starting cooking school and looking for something else", he dug a cigarette out of his pack and grabbed at it with his mouth, "Roldan had him here twelve hours without a break yesterday and the day before, then called him last minute wanting him to stay twelve more. You believe that? Motherfucker wanted him to work a twenty four hour shift! Looks like he didn't bother showing up today, I had to open this morning. I was late. People were pissed." With Yustas gone the two of us would be working like mad in the coming weeks to cover his shifts. I tried to imagine how Roldan would manage to squeeze more than my usual seven days a week out of me, saw myself stretched out overnight in a Mezzanine aisle with my keys on my chest and an alarm clock next to my head. "He'd only be happy then, Piero", Joe said, lighting his cigarette using my body as wind cover, thick chin quivering as ever in laughter, then removing his trademark skull cap to expose his mashed tawny curly hair to the blissful Saturday afternoon light. Our saving grace was that the theatre was between shows at the moment, closed to the public, our duties mainly delegated to babysitting set equipment as it came off rental trucks and lay in an unmovable heap at the back entrance on 43rd Street. We'd be standing around as we were then, smoking cigarettes, drinking Union purchased coffee, digging passing ladies just trying to pass the time.
Joe read the card out loud like in disbelief, "Memorial for Barbara Hudson to be held tonight between five and eight p.m. in the Yardley Lounge, fourth floor. Please advise security." I thought about it. I was pouring myself a coke from the tap behind the bar thinking about another long shift at the theatre. "Gonna chase the stragglers out as soon as my shift ends. Lock up, set the alarm, weave my way through Port Authority", I said. Joe was already pulling out the heavy brass columns and ropes that would form a neat line in the lobby, "What are you doing tonight?", he said. "Gotta get back to Jersey and play a basement show on Somerset Street. Tonight come close to the wire, if at all. Out all night bouncing from Jersey to the City to see about some good kicks". Joe was unsympathetic. "Well, I opened. So I ain't staying here till close. No way." I swear he rubbed that in my face all day.We spent a long day staring out the lobby doors at 42nd Street, all afternoon into the evening. Life outside passed by us, so many happy people strolling through the hours, the good times. We took turns guarding the front doors and wandering the halls of the theatre, lest our blood go putrid and our limbs atrophy, our minds grind down to mush. A steady procession of the deceased's family, caterers, and department heads filed past us near dusk to prepare for the memorial. Joe and I put on fresh shirts, combed our unruly hair, stood a little straighter. Outside, the Broadway Theatre Musician's Union was picketing 42nd Street. They had been on strike for four days, it had developed into something of a scandal. One could read all about it in a two page spread in The Times that declared Broadway to be shut down. Joe and I watched the protestors march by outside in a mock funeral procession, two musicians acting as pallbearers to a coffin that housed the spirit of Broadway. A band of dramatic mourners moaned lamentations, banged on drums, and played brass following the coffin. A woman wearing a black veil was heard shrieking up and down the street as mother over dead child. Cops wandered aimlessly among the protestors with utility belts slung low, some with old fashion chipped wooden handle revolvers. A captain in dress uniform arrived late to the scene, driven there by a pot bellied seargent. Puffing on a eternally burning Newport, the seargent emerged from his car with a smile to instil faith.
Barbara Hudson's memorial was well attended. Four of us were stationed in the 42nd Street lobby receiving guests and escorting them to the elevators. Gillian Friars was there pulling overtime working the coatcheck. She had forgone her signature black and white usher's uniform that night in favor of a thin black dress that revealed her shapely legs at the slit. Beside her was Julia Dellaporte, another sweet theatre fixture who went about checking names off the guest list, and similarly dressed, her proud curly hair gathered tight as ever in a bun at the back of her head. Joe finished out his shift leaning against the wall casually observing the three of us, rubbing his head through his cap. Word had spread among the Saturday evening skeleton crew about an open bar at the memorial, now Joe dreamed aloud of stealing away upstairs to drink his fill, "This company don't play around! They get the best liquor, the best food, you've seen it coming in, then they hoard it all together, dole it out at just such an occasion. We ought to be up there enjoying it too, these things are for all of us, really". Laughing and smiling as they entered, a trio of beautiful painted lady mourners swept perfumily through the lobby and into the elevator, then zoomed with an electric shudder upwards. DeJesus the maintenance guy watched them go with great interest and came upon Joe and I with a knowing smirk on his face, abruptly dropping his oversize broom out of sight. When DeJesus really wanted to talk his hands wanted nothing to do with his job. "I was just up dere, setting up tables, taking out garbage. The daughter of da dead lady's up dere, she's a bitch, but Piero, you would not believe the bootiful women dey got up dere, an' da food, an' da guy working the open bar's making deze crazy ass white Russians up dere...wit' real ice cream..." Joe just about died, " You see! You see what prodigiousness lies upstairs! I wonder. I shall have to sample it straight away." With that he grabbed Gil by the hand and set off for the elevators, promising to be back in time so that Julia and I could go as well. He returned a half hour later with a smile on his face and hat a little askew on his head, drunk from five vodka cranberries he'd downed in rapid succession. I didn't know how to behave upstairs. I felt underdressed, looked the part of the underpaid security guard who hadn't really slept or bathed in days. I thought of Beetle Body and his invisibility, loaded up on enough finger sandwiches and lemony pasta for both of us, gulped at two very strong drinks. The deceased woman's daughter, a stage manager at the classic show "Das Uber Nicht", had set up a table full of her mother's memorabilla. I flipped through volumes of photographs and newsclippings that told the woman's life story, an off Broadway actor of some acclaim in the sixties and seventies, also producer, wardrobe designer, make up artist, taught theatre for many years, a real woman of the arts. On another table was a printed placard telling some interesting anecdote from her last days in the hospital, when she was bed ridden and dying of cancer, about refusing powerful pain medication because it would have rendered her unconcious in her dying hours. She had said something quotably cliche to her doctor about needing that time to be with the people she loved, something worded so dramatically that it had the whole hospital resounding with her profundity, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was. The people around me, her friends and family, were treating this as a celebration. I was struck with the pure romance of it, couldn't help but think of my own mortality, that when the time came I would want my memorial to go along similar lines.As it approached eight the memorial officially drew to an end. Guests came teetering out of elevators and pouring into the lobby, giggling drunk. "This time I'm not comin' back, Piero. This shift's all yours", Joe said, returning upstairs with Gil for one last drink. Later he told me that he'd made out with her in the elevator ride up, even had the straps of her dress down 'round her elbows and his hands on her naked busom in the coatroom while I was upstairs. I only half believed him at the time, had worse things on my mind. About a hundred people were still milling about the theatre, which made my schedule all the more difficult. Among those leftover was a beautiful teenage girl whom Joe had raved about earlier. She wore the most revealing dress of the lot, had this strange appeal as one who seems older than she is until she opens her mouth. She was there in the lobby barefoot on the cool marble floor, satin dress blowing past her knees as she twirled around in space, lipstick smeared at the corners of her mouth and spilling gin and tonic by the droplet everywhere. With some exertion and with Gil looking on abstratedly Joe took her phone number, then positively salivated over it. Hudson's daughter had arranged to have the marquee lights dimmed as a grand finale to the memorial. Everyone went outside to see it, including Joe and his barefoot beauty, whom he now discreetly led around on his arm. Stage manager Rich Davies stood at the ready, squawking radio on his belt, Budweiser bottle in one hand, breaker switch in the other, "A'right, just say when..." The signal was given. People cheered as the lights of the marquee dimmed up and down, then hugged, sobbed, kissed and cried. The family brought out plastic ziplock bags full of Hudson's ashes. "Give me to Broadway" she had told her daughter, though in a drunken misshap one asshole spilled his bag prematurely, spreading ash to the winds down Eighth Avenue and 41st and over some of the party. Some of the ash came to rest in a heavy whitish heap which passerby immediately began walking through, carrying the woman with them in the treads of their shoes wherever they went, in powdery footprints leading in every direction. I think Joe and I were the only ones who noticed, the only ones stifling laughter over the absurdity of it all. I dipped the end of my shoe in the ash. I wanted a piece of her to walk with as well.By nine the theatre had been cleared of all but a few people and I knew I'd be on my way to the show soon enough. A door slammed at the exit on 43rd Street as the last employee left, the sound reverberated through the house as on hundreds of nights before. Having worked his magic, Joe disappeared down Seventh Avenue. I imagined him grinning bright as ever, tail wagging at unbelievable speed.
Joe read the card out loud like in disbelief, "Memorial for Barbara Hudson to be held tonight between five and eight p.m. in the Yardley Lounge, fourth floor. Please advise security." I thought about it. I was pouring myself a coke from the tap behind the bar thinking about another long shift at the theatre. "Gonna chase the stragglers out as soon as my shift ends. Lock up, set the alarm, weave my way through Port Authority", I said. Joe was already pulling out the heavy brass columns and ropes that would form a neat line in the lobby, "What are you doing tonight?", he said. "Gotta get back to Jersey and play a basement show on Somerset Street. Tonight come close to the wire, if at all. Out all night bouncing from Jersey to the City to see about some good kicks". Joe was unsympathetic. "Well, I opened. So I ain't staying here till close. No way." I swear he rubbed that in my face all day.We spent a long day staring out the lobby doors at 42nd Street, all afternoon into the evening. Life outside passed by us, so many happy people strolling through the hours, the good times. We took turns guarding the front doors and wandering the halls of the theatre, lest our blood go putrid and our limbs atrophy, our minds grind down to mush. A steady procession of the deceased's family, caterers, and department heads filed past us near dusk to prepare for the memorial. Joe and I put on fresh shirts, combed our unruly hair, stood a little straighter. Outside, the Broadway Theatre Musician's Union was picketing 42nd Street. They had been on strike for four days, it had developed into something of a scandal. One could read all about it in a two page spread in The Times that declared Broadway to be shut down. Joe and I watched the protestors march by outside in a mock funeral procession, two musicians acting as pallbearers to a coffin that housed the spirit of Broadway. A band of dramatic mourners moaned lamentations, banged on drums, and played brass following the coffin. A woman wearing a black veil was heard shrieking up and down the street as mother over dead child. Cops wandered aimlessly among the protestors with utility belts slung low, some with old fashion chipped wooden handle revolvers. A captain in dress uniform arrived late to the scene, driven there by a pot bellied seargent. Puffing on a eternally burning Newport, the seargent emerged from his car with a smile to instil faith.
Barbara Hudson's memorial was well attended. Four of us were stationed in the 42nd Street lobby receiving guests and escorting them to the elevators. Gillian Friars was there pulling overtime working the coatcheck. She had forgone her signature black and white usher's uniform that night in favor of a thin black dress that revealed her shapely legs at the slit. Beside her was Julia Dellaporte, another sweet theatre fixture who went about checking names off the guest list, and similarly dressed, her proud curly hair gathered tight as ever in a bun at the back of her head. Joe finished out his shift leaning against the wall casually observing the three of us, rubbing his head through his cap. Word had spread among the Saturday evening skeleton crew about an open bar at the memorial, now Joe dreamed aloud of stealing away upstairs to drink his fill, "This company don't play around! They get the best liquor, the best food, you've seen it coming in, then they hoard it all together, dole it out at just such an occasion. We ought to be up there enjoying it too, these things are for all of us, really". Laughing and smiling as they entered, a trio of beautiful painted lady mourners swept perfumily through the lobby and into the elevator, then zoomed with an electric shudder upwards. DeJesus the maintenance guy watched them go with great interest and came upon Joe and I with a knowing smirk on his face, abruptly dropping his oversize broom out of sight. When DeJesus really wanted to talk his hands wanted nothing to do with his job. "I was just up dere, setting up tables, taking out garbage. The daughter of da dead lady's up dere, she's a bitch, but Piero, you would not believe the bootiful women dey got up dere, an' da food, an' da guy working the open bar's making deze crazy ass white Russians up dere...wit' real ice cream..." Joe just about died, " You see! You see what prodigiousness lies upstairs! I wonder. I shall have to sample it straight away." With that he grabbed Gil by the hand and set off for the elevators, promising to be back in time so that Julia and I could go as well. He returned a half hour later with a smile on his face and hat a little askew on his head, drunk from five vodka cranberries he'd downed in rapid succession. I didn't know how to behave upstairs. I felt underdressed, looked the part of the underpaid security guard who hadn't really slept or bathed in days. I thought of Beetle Body and his invisibility, loaded up on enough finger sandwiches and lemony pasta for both of us, gulped at two very strong drinks. The deceased woman's daughter, a stage manager at the classic show "Das Uber Nicht", had set up a table full of her mother's memorabilla. I flipped through volumes of photographs and newsclippings that told the woman's life story, an off Broadway actor of some acclaim in the sixties and seventies, also producer, wardrobe designer, make up artist, taught theatre for many years, a real woman of the arts. On another table was a printed placard telling some interesting anecdote from her last days in the hospital, when she was bed ridden and dying of cancer, about refusing powerful pain medication because it would have rendered her unconcious in her dying hours. She had said something quotably cliche to her doctor about needing that time to be with the people she loved, something worded so dramatically that it had the whole hospital resounding with her profundity, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was. The people around me, her friends and family, were treating this as a celebration. I was struck with the pure romance of it, couldn't help but think of my own mortality, that when the time came I would want my memorial to go along similar lines.As it approached eight the memorial officially drew to an end. Guests came teetering out of elevators and pouring into the lobby, giggling drunk. "This time I'm not comin' back, Piero. This shift's all yours", Joe said, returning upstairs with Gil for one last drink. Later he told me that he'd made out with her in the elevator ride up, even had the straps of her dress down 'round her elbows and his hands on her naked busom in the coatroom while I was upstairs. I only half believed him at the time, had worse things on my mind. About a hundred people were still milling about the theatre, which made my schedule all the more difficult. Among those leftover was a beautiful teenage girl whom Joe had raved about earlier. She wore the most revealing dress of the lot, had this strange appeal as one who seems older than she is until she opens her mouth. She was there in the lobby barefoot on the cool marble floor, satin dress blowing past her knees as she twirled around in space, lipstick smeared at the corners of her mouth and spilling gin and tonic by the droplet everywhere. With some exertion and with Gil looking on abstratedly Joe took her phone number, then positively salivated over it. Hudson's daughter had arranged to have the marquee lights dimmed as a grand finale to the memorial. Everyone went outside to see it, including Joe and his barefoot beauty, whom he now discreetly led around on his arm. Stage manager Rich Davies stood at the ready, squawking radio on his belt, Budweiser bottle in one hand, breaker switch in the other, "A'right, just say when..." The signal was given. People cheered as the lights of the marquee dimmed up and down, then hugged, sobbed, kissed and cried. The family brought out plastic ziplock bags full of Hudson's ashes. "Give me to Broadway" she had told her daughter, though in a drunken misshap one asshole spilled his bag prematurely, spreading ash to the winds down Eighth Avenue and 41st and over some of the party. Some of the ash came to rest in a heavy whitish heap which passerby immediately began walking through, carrying the woman with them in the treads of their shoes wherever they went, in powdery footprints leading in every direction. I think Joe and I were the only ones who noticed, the only ones stifling laughter over the absurdity of it all. I dipped the end of my shoe in the ash. I wanted a piece of her to walk with as well.By nine the theatre had been cleared of all but a few people and I knew I'd be on my way to the show soon enough. A door slammed at the exit on 43rd Street as the last employee left, the sound reverberated through the house as on hundreds of nights before. Having worked his magic, Joe disappeared down Seventh Avenue. I imagined him grinning bright as ever, tail wagging at unbelievable speed.
Beetle Body Baby
Saturday morning I was tossing and turning in Hela's bed trying to avoid her cat. I'm horribly allergic. I had laid there all night trying to get comfortable on a bed of fur and dander, till the early morning light streamed in through the huge bay windows and Brooklyn rattled and smashed to life outside. I would doze off and either be awakened by my own sneezing or by the cat walking on my head. I would move her and she would cry. Loudly. Then something in the room would occupy her attention and she'd go running after it. I would hear her pounce on something as I drifted off to sleep. Then she'd get lonely and cry again, jump on the bed, scratch at the covers, dig into my flesh.By 11:00 Hela had gotten up to feed the cat and clean the apartment. I was passed out. My phone rang at about 11:10. The display read in bold block letters and bigger than usual, ROLDAN. It was my boss calling but I couldn't really be bothered to pick it up, too tired. He was supposed to call me Friday evening to tell me what site to guard on Saturday. He had never called so I just assumed that I didn't need to be up early. "Piero, it's Harry Roldan, Saturday morning. Listen, I just called over dere an' dey said you never showed up for work dis morning...", his tired old phlegmy voice was lying to me again. Now I was three hours late to work. I left Hela's apartment running the four blocks to the F train, back to Manhattan. I looked forward to seeing the soaring view of Brooklyn in daylight, having missed the real scene coming in the night before as it was too dark out to really see much, (black metal stabbing open sky framed by beacon light in mist and shadowy block figures here and there) now I was fortunate enough to be on the F and high above everything. My problems lay somewhere on the ground, smaller than the naked eye could see. Soaring ancient Brooklyn was all smoking industry, aged tenements, empty lots. Took an end seat near the window and kept my eyes trained on the world outside, at Jay Street walked 'cross the platform in time to transfer to the A, rode underground in a crowded car. Dozens of people, families, mom, pop, kids selling M&M's, batteries, hipsters, hard working thugs, elderly women, homeless, packed in musky rickety subway cars dangling arms over metal handles, shoes on sticky floors, experience here the underbelly of all creation. I stood near two interracial families, one black/white, the other black/puertorican. I made a game of trying to recognize both racial traits in the children. They looked like exactly what they were, hair curly not kinky, skin tan to brownish complexion, eyes dark, lips full, high cheekbones. I was in a mood to observe people and take notes. I wasn't alone, this really cute hipster girl was on the same trip, smiling to herself, when this overworked single mom began yelling at her army of children, really screaming obscenities at them, "Come here. Come here! What did I tell you? Yeah-heah, keep playing, motherfucka...da's what happens...", the kids seemed pretty used to it. The hipster girl's smile faded.At 14th street this old man got on the A, tightrope walking his way onto the car past rigid chatting passengers, tip toeing in unnoticed. The doors shushed shut behind him, the conductor announced the next stop unintelligibly. The train was pretty crowded by this point. He was carrying a lot of shit, old plastic bags full of useless kitsch that only old men need. He was stooped over and beetle bodied, black with soot and grease, had wild graying curly hair, wore Jesus' swaddling clothes, a poor old Raiders down jacket. While trying to reach one of his bags on the floor he began trembling all over, he had gone into an epileptic siezure, immobilized in half sitting, half standing position. The car was barreling down the tunnel at screaching velocity and was bouncing up, down, sideways on the track. People were grabbing at their children to get out of the siezing man's way. A woman screamed instinctually, piercingly. Someone asked in a panicked voice what should be done, what should be done. "Sit 'im down. Sit 'im on a seat!", I rasped, voice still plagued by allergic reactions. Poor guy was shaking so much he couldn't bend his body to sit. I saw the look in his eye, this recognition, this familiarity of disfunction, knowing that everything would be alright given the time to ride it out, just like last time and a thousand times before. The siezure had subsided in a matter of minutes. A crowd of people emptied out onto the thirty third street platform. The old man now sat slumped down in a chair surrounded by his bags of crap. He had his head in his hands, doing his best to seem invisible. He was wiped out, sweat poured down his cheek. Unable or unwilling to talk, he would only smile and nod politely to concerned passerby. The conductor was summoned at the next station stop. This really foxy thirtyish black woman with a duct taped loud feedbacking radio come pushing her way in asking if he needed assistance. Her conductor cap was oversized and pulled over her eyes, her black work shoes worn out at the heel. The man politely refused treatment. Most everybody got off at 42nd Street leaving him pondering the palm of his hand in his seat. Through the window I saw him smiling and nodding to no one in particular. I walked into work some time after noon with his blanked out weathered face still in my head. I told the story to anyone who would listen, no one seemed as disturbed by it in hearing it as I had been in experiencing it. Everyone had that calloused, glazed over look of the singleminded New Yorker, that all knowing poker face that I had yet to perfect...
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