RUDIMENTS 1003.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,003

(it was all adventure)

Eventually I got tired of everything:

Tired of listening seeing, talking.

It's at the point when the body

begins telling you there's trouble

brewing. Your urge is to stand

in front of something, go to the

train yards ('cept nothing there

goes fast enough). Maybe the

motorcycle and alcohol stuff

was a death wish. However

you wish to slice it. I had to

move on new urges and get

straight. My straight, of

course, never being what

others saw as straight. One

single life is never enough;

a person lives like 5 at one

time. I began imagining, and

the imagined situations, though

fraught too with peril, were

better than my life because they

at least were worked around a

philosophical basis of acceptance.

I had a friend, named Tre, over

at the Village Den restuarant,

I think that was the proper name,

though I just always said 'The

Villager,' for my uses. (see

'Miasma Arms Hotel' for more

on that), and I'd end up there a

lot. A buck and a quarter, endless

food and coffee if things were

right and she was there. It's

gone now; about 5 years ago

there was one of those signs in

the window about 'Owner

Retiring. We'd like to thank our

loyal friends and customers for over

40 years of loyalty.' Whatever that

means, and whoever the owner was

at the end. 1967 to 2015 is, what,

closer to 50 years, and I don't

know when they began. For all

I know the original joint was from

the 1940's. Theresa's long gone,

I guess. She's the one who called

herself Tre, or was called that. She

claimed she was the third kid, and

her father could never get names

straight so he numbered them. She

was number Tre. She had a brother,

some kind of hoodlum guy with

the Sullivan Street crew; I never

knew much on that, but I knew they

were tough, probably on the docks,

probably killers too. The whole

waterfront west was rackets and

mayhem.

-

Sometimes I'd just sit in there,

that first Winter anyway. There

were all sorts of locals, oldsters

then, who'd come by, slowly enter

and then take their seat, with her

already knowing what they'd

want. 'Tuesday, Robert gets the

veal platter....' That sort of stuff.

A few of these guys were local

Royal Gay Villager old men,

probably from along Christopher

Street; they carried themselves

regally, and had real presence.

The Ninth Circle was a bar with

food too, on Christopher Street,

but it was a totally different

ambiance. I guess a number of

these guys switched off. Old

women like that came in too.

Full of ancient presence, with

odd little pocketbooks, kerchiefs,

and all that stuff. Sometimes

heavy on the make-up too;

always out to impress, but there

really weren't that many 100

year old men around. I only

went to the Ninth Circle if

certain friends came, and brought

me there. It was pricier; and if

you didn't keep buying they'd

get antsy. They had big bowls

of peanuts, and popcorn, all

along the bar. I'd never seen

that before, but the idea was

to keep you salted up so you'd

keep buying beer or drinks.

They didn't bother me like that

at the villager, and I wasn't a bar

anyway, so it was less lecherous

and better lit, to begin with.

-

There was another place, on

4th Street; a tiny little hole in

the wall, literally, called The

Bagel. It was pretty striking,

in those years, to see a tiny

place simply called by that

name. Commercial bagel

sales weren't yet a big deal,

it was all still new. I remember

one time being somewhere in

the village and a truck-driving

cow-poke kind of guy comes

into where I was, looks up at the

menu board, and says, 'Hmm,

let me try one of them there

'Bahgels,' which is how he

pronounced it. Probably his first

time ever. I couldn't wait until

he discovered pizza. Yep, you

got all kinds in NYC, coming

or going. It was all adventure.

-

Theresa was cool. Her brother

was trouble, and had her worried.

The place itself was like an odd

oasis of old-timey eatery New

York; not like 'Automat' old time,

but just another era. They sold

some junky paintings, by locals,

which paintings hung on their

walls; the same people who'd

put out their paintings and stuff

for that Greenwich Village

Outdoor Art Show stuff. It was

all part of what was supposed to

make the Village so quaint and

daring and all. It was never that,

really, at all. Maybe in the 1920's

with Eugene O'Neil and all those

crazy John Reed guys and ladies

hanging around the the Golden

Swan and such. Gone now too.

But the rest of the village was

a lot of conservative, cranky,

harsh, old-line Italian people,

still angry at getting pushed

out, pushed eastward and south.

In the 1950's, there were times

when bands of Sullivan Street

Italian guys would come through

the area, some with sticks and

bats, just to savage and beat up

on the queers, creeps, beatniks,

and weirdos they'd run across.

It was a tough scene. Only once

really did I see the worst of it;

some mob muscleman came in

to the restaurant and trashed it

when the cook and owner refused

to give him money. He was really

mad and started throwing things

around and overturning stuff, and

the the white-aproned cook, a

big guy too, came out from

behind the counter, with a

baseball bat too. They were

hollering and yelling at each

other for a minute. The mob

guy started leaving but was

throwing stuff all about too

all along the way out. Everyone

was rattled. I was confused, and

Theresa was near to crying, sobbing

something about her brother too.

I just stayed in place. I couldn't

figure how anyone would want

to have to live that way on a daily

basis, always fearing for what was

to come through the door. I knew

it was a bad scene and people

really could get hurt from stuff like

that. Damned racketeers, it always

seemed, wanting always to just

get what they demanded.