RUDIMENTS 329.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 329

Making Cars

When you get out of Nancy

Whiskey Pub and roll yourself

down to Puffy's, that's a whole

other story. Or was then; it's been

a while now since I've been there.

Puffy's used to have, displayed in

its front window, an old photograph,

maybe 16x20 inches, framed, and

that photo showed old Hudson

Street, maybe about 1935, when

it was a working-class street, lined

with small shops, lofts, and factories.

All for the kind of guys who used

to work there, and drink at Puffy's.

Across the street was the Western

Union Building made famous by

the writings of Henry Miller, and,

nearby, a Bell Tel place and, across

from Puffy's at the corner exactly,

the grand, old, 1880's building that

was once the headquarters of the

New York Mercantile Exchange.

(In the 1920's and before, someone

in my wife's family line was the

President of that Exchange, go

to find out). That building was

pretty awesome, in that it had

retained all of its original look

and architectural meaning. In the

1980's and 90's it housed one

of those fancy, elitist restaurants

where a baked potato can cost

you thirty dollars. I don't know

what's there now nor the present

state of the building. (Easy enough

to go check, and I will someday,

probably walking right into Puffy's

too, looking for a phone booth).

In the 1990's, somewhere, and

during the period of time I was

still going there, the place had

been used (Puffy's) for the filming

of some movie called 'Cocktail,'

[Tom Cruise]. It had been all

done up, even moreso, for the

film, to present the look and

visual feel of what they wanted;

the wood polished up, the bar

freshened and cleaned, maybe

even re-coated, glass and mirrors

behind it made perfect, all those

bottles  of booze and the taps

and spray heads too. It already

had a wonderful checkered-tile

floor, wide windows, a beautiful

rearward area of seating coves

and knotty pine, etc. Perfect stuff

all around, and any advance-team

for scouting movie locations would

have seen that right off.

-

I wish to make a slight detour

here, to cover something perfectly

germane -   two things I always

had wished to be. One was an

advance man location-scout, as

just mentioned, for movie sets.

So like when some auteur director,

of any level, Spike Lee to Woody

Allen to Godard or Bunuel, had

an idea, I'd be sent out to scout

locations and places, rooms and

sites, for the movie filming. It

always seemed it would be fun

to scuttle into some old gas station

or tavern or drawing room, and

talk with the owner about the use

of same, with payment, for the

film. Nice job. The other one, as

a job, I always figured could have

been cool, was as an agent for

truckers. A truck driver, say, goes

to Indiana or Mississippi with a

load of bananas, or shoes. The

freight gets delivered. The idea

in the trucking industry is to never

'deadhead' (return home with an

empty load)  -  so the agent has

contacts everywhere. You as

'driver' would work through (me,

as) the agent who would have

already arranged for your return

trip to carry 70,000 two-penny

nails, crated in barrels, for the

return trip to New Hampshire.

So you make the pick-up and

are able to then come home full.

Cool, right. And really, the only

overhead for the 'agent' would be

a home office desk (at home),

and a telephone (well, nowadays

computer I guess). As agent,

I'd get 2 percent, or something, 

for your deal and sign-up.

-

Anyway, movie location scout or

not, I always enjoyed Puffy's for

its, what's now often called, 'ambience.'

Which just means some fake hipster

smartass would enjoy wooing his

babe there (or the other way around,

ladies, yes). It's often used now as

a positive touchstone. Yet, really,

Puffy's had little to do with that.

The people there, staff, owner

and management,  (they worked

and did their little accounting and

ordering, etc., from a strange,

cubby-hole sized office/room in

the basement  - cramped and

wandering, a hallway leading to

Hell. No real 'stairway,' just

rather a hole at the floor end, all

from probably 1885, through

which you had to drop and watch

your head, walking the warren).

Oddities abounded too. There was

a regular, older (40's) barmaid

there named Nancy (nothing to

do with Nancy Whiskey Pub

up the street). She was tough as

nails, and shrewd. Direct, and

with a definite take-no-shit

attitude. Her main two problems,

aside from, she said, being alone,

were that she drank (to an excess)

and when she drank she got

morose and sulked. Cried. Wished

for death. I'm also sure her

effectiveness-factor as barmaid

went way down too. No one ever

seemed to mind, or pay her that

much mind. But it became, to me

anyway, annoying after a bit. The

other girls were a far happier lot,

all attractive, young, and actually

naive and/or innocent. Which was

strange for New York, I always

thought. The place filled up, at

its own 'filled-up' level, but the

crowd here was totally different

than the one at Nancy Whiskey

Pub. Lots of serious lovers and

relationship people, well-developed

drinkers, and a more proper crowd

by far. Here and there an overdone

dowager too. Lady schoolteachers

out for the night, amazed and

gaggly-eyed at what they'd see.

(Neither of these places were

biker bars either; though I did

give, at Puffy's, the Nancy lady,

after she pleaded, a thirty-minute

ride around town once; on a night

she was there as a drinker, not

working. It was boring as hell).

-

There was a certain period of time, 

in the early 1990's, it seemed, when

things were, so to speak, turning

over. I think a lot of it had to do

with the end of the Republican

and Reagan/Bush era, and a more

sensitive blighting into sensitivity

and gentleness. Or, in another way,

a disgusting political correctness

just being introduced societally.

All that was well-represented by

whatever incoming mortar-fire the

Clintons represented. The he and

the she; although I often thought

of it more just as the two she's,

at least until the sex started happening

underneath the desk in the oval

orifice. OOPS! I mean Oval Office.

Let's see : 'One man's butt is another

man's cigar?' No, that doesn't work.

Anyway, Puffy's in the mid-90's

fairly well represented that new

mind-set, and I was able to feel

it just walking in there. Everyone

started having a symbolic diamond,

some signifier they wore to show

they were just at the right spot for

the times. The drinking guys in

Puffy's just always started looking

weak and sensitive, as types. You

wanted to say, 'Look, that's OK Bud

(beer joke?), but take it somewhere

else, OK? So we'd sometimes come

in and just end up sitting by the big

windows, drinking and looking up 

at the old buildings. I'd try to begin

filling some guys in on the significance

of old Hudson Street, the buildings, 

the way things used to be. But it all

fell flat. It got pretty useless. It was

no longer a good place to be drunk.