RUDIMENTS 456.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 456

(the lately lamented everything)

'They have redness of eye,

who tarry long with the

wine.' Boy did that ring

true. It used to be that the

city drunks were all called

'winos.' I saw hundreds

of them over time; never

knowing what they drank

nor what it was called.

Thunderbird. Night Train

Express. Red Scorchy.

All those little bottles,

left about everywhere,

and the prone bodies of

the dead or passed out

from those bottles before

being emptied. Sometimes

they  could talk, these guys,

or still try to, with or without

teeth. Gumming their words

like a suction-cup thought,

their deep-seated feelings

did sometimes turn to tears

 - there's nothing worse than

having to witness a man

crying over his past, yet

in his useless present. It

was a speechless section

of time, to see that, and

one without a script.

-

Igor Stravinsky said, 'One

lives by memory, not by

truth.' I always agreed

with that, from the first

I came across it as a quote.

As life lengthens, it's like

more goes behind and less

stays in front, so I guess in

its own way it's only natural.

-

I had never been attracted

to alcohol; never even

thought about it, but when

I hit the streets of NYC,

from the Bowery on up

through that student corridor,

alcohol was prevalent : NYC

was a 'bar town' to be sure.

I'd known of the old artist

quarters, the taverns and the

bars of the old writers and

painters  -  all that Cedar Tavern

stuff, the famous photos, the

tales of brawling and loving,

all along the Village streets.

But I'd never seen it in person,

nor 'up close and personal' as

they say. My friend Jim Tomberg

could spin a bottle of whiskey

like a juggler with three balls,

and I often saw him plastered

and down and out. I even had

to help his predicament a few

times  -  I've written of that

hole in the floor episode, and

his occasional women, in past

chapters here. Booze was

just booze. If you tried, back

then, walking through the

Park (Washington Square),

alcohol immediately took a

back seat to the surreptitious

and whispered trade of joints,

marijuana, and any other name

for hand-held drugs of that

nature. Unlike now, when

most all of it's legal and

probably even pasteurized

for you, in the years I'm

speaking of, it was all a

secretive, and dangerous,

trade, mostly proffered by

seedy looking black guys

who always talked low

about what you may

have been seeking. Or

not. Quick cash changing

hands, or a quick sit-down

at the bench, for the

transaction. There were

always cops lurking, it was

still a real crime, and the

busts and fines and lock-up

times were serious matters.

All of this was delineated

by sections and corridors,

and just out of this area

was the Bowery. That was

an entirely other raft of

Medusas : Men lost, and

I mean lost. Soiled, fouled

and dirty, wearing their

own excrement sometimes,

as a cloth. There used to be

a word often heard, though

it's no more in use  - 'uncouth.'

Yes, and what a premise is

that. Like the old uncle you

bring to the table, who then

burps and barfs all over it,

these guys danced alone at

their own small parties of

woe and dread. Sad cases.

The street was littered with

them, for sure right up into

the late '80's. Drunked, or

passed out, zombified, or

dead. You'd see them in

doorways and frontages,

or bent over curbs and

hydrants; barely alive. I

can recall  -  this is a bit

different, but it catches the

quality  -  being there with a

friend from Sewaren and his

girlfriend from Minnesota.

The guy had to pee. And so

he did. Right there, on the

side of a building, broad

daylight. It was a category

of event I'd never thought of

before, and I was astounded.

No one cared, looked up, or

squinted. It was just as natural

as a dog pees. Since 1967, I'd

never once given a thought to

doing something like that. These

Bowery guys, and this Sewaren

guy too, they just rolled right

into it as human-aspect moisture

behavior. Floored me near to

death. I must have missed

something all those years.

-

Everything has certainly been

flipped. Now, 25 years later, if

you get caught peeing in public

they'll drag you away with a

hand-cuff necklace; but you

can stroll through Washington

Square Park with a joint in your

mouth, and a spare single one

in your pocket, and get the 

high-five, hail-ye-fellow routine

as you walk along. I don't

know where all those black guys

went and what they do for a

living now, but that world

is a different place.