TOO TOUGH TO DIE
Mott St. in the 80s was no joke New York. I’m happy my then-girlfriend Joan invited me to live with her and another room-mate or two, or three, in a real railroad tenement right across from St Patrick’s Basilica. It had an interior window between the kitchen and “living room,” à la Scorsese’s Raging Bull. There were roaches, mice, an air shaft and a fire escape, the way any legit NY apartment should be. Yes, of course, there was a wooden overhead box-tank pull-chain WC and a clawfoot bathtub in the kitchen. The building still retained gaslight plumbing, but the fixtures were gone.
There was no door buzzer. Visitors yelled up from the street, then we threw down keys in a sock. Richard Butler from the Psychedelic Furs lived in our building. The concept of “keeping it real” didn’t exist then. I suppose he was living downtown because that’s what artists could afford. Or maybe because cool necessarily comes with patina. The entire neighborhood was in original condition. Lots of crust and calcification. On the people, too. Those were exciting days when I loved NY most, especially downtown.
We were lucky because the apartment was made from two adjacent railroad units combined at their living rooms. One tub was removed. One day while taking a bath, no shower there, the ceiling fell on top of naked-me. Now, that’s a surprise, if you like surprises. I sat in a slurry of plaster, asbestos, tin and moldy wood splinters. I do believe my puffy hair, white from powdery, talc-like ancient carcinogenic building materials, reduced my concussion’s severity. Probably. The violent drunk upstairs passed out while over-filling his own tub one too many times. Sloshed.
“ On Mott or Mulberry, further down from where we lived, I saw a guy run out of a building, a beat-cop pursued on foot, who drew his six shooter revolver and fired. Just like that. Nobody really cared. We didn’t eat meat in those days. Getting to Vegetarian’s Paradise on Bowery below Canal for our mock meat wheat gluten delights could be perilous.”
During more relaxing soaks, our room-mate, really a sweet guy and one of the Aztec Two Steps, had the habit of walking up to me while I was bathing for lengthy chats. No curtain, I’m in a kitchen. IIRC that’s when I got into bubble bath.
On Mott or Mulberry, further down from where we lived, I saw a guy run out of a building, a beat-cop pursued on foot, who drew his six shooter revolver and fired. Just like that. Nobody really cared. We didn’t eat meat in those days. Getting to Vegetarian’s Paradise on Bowery below Canal for our mock meat wheat gluten delights could be perilous. But totally a welcomed break from our archetypal tenement kitchen. Cash only.
Joan and I will have to turn this next part into a comedy film script some day, here’s the economy version:
A friend of Joan’s from Chicago showed up, so we threw down the keys. Let’s call him Roger. Roger had a badly blackened eye behind pretty cool aviator sunglasses. When he walked into our place he pulled off the shades dramatically. Slow and smooth. Cleanly, no snags. He rotated his head, tilting obliquely, mindful of the lighting, as if to enhance his shadows and saturate the purple shiner with all our naked hanging bulb’s deep orange glow could deliver. I’ve never seen a better Hollywood hair light. That’s when I knew we could be pals. Apparently his transvestite girlfriend back in Chi-town beat him down so bad he had to flee. I think he had only the Schott MC jacket on his back. He might have carried a bag. Let’s call it a Navy duffel bag. The mid 80s were a long time ago.
It turned out he was a drummer, too, and we both loved the Ramones. By an act of God, Roger was close with one of Johnny Ramone’s Chicago girlfriends. I use the term “girlfriend” loosely in this case because I don’t recall the nature of that relationship. Apparently, telephone calls were placed, and words were communicated in old 80s style – one at a time over a line for a dime. What happens? Just like that, Johnny’s gonna swing by to drop off something for Roger to carry back to Chicago, when the heat’s off, and deliver it to this girlfriend.
On the Day of Johnny, Roger and I were insane. We may have swept-up the place. The windows were wide open so we could hear calls from down on the sidewalk. Screw the cold weather. We were sweating, banging drumsticks on steaming radiators and folded up futons, rolling-out to the Ramones.
We heard him yell!
A third floor walkup means what, four, six flights? How many steps? Anticipation. What to say? How to greet? We didn’t even consider refreshments. We were flat broke.
And there he was, carrying a case. Roger took it. We chatted in the kitchen. His muddy sneakers left prints all around. You might not think Little Italy has mud, or did in those days, but somehow it’s true. He asked us if we like to hang out anywhere in particular. We couldn’t think of anyplace cool enough to mention. Embarrassing. I’m pretty sure we were way too worked-up to think straight, with all the drumming on furniture, such as it was, anticipation and now the real deal, an icon of New York muddying up our NY tenement kitchen.
I can’t recall how long we chatted. But it was amazing. After he left, Roger and I danced around like drumstick wielding turkeys. Real downtown NYC bliss. We could croak now, happily.
Johnny told us the case held a manual typewriter, a gift to his Chicago gal, who was interested in writing. We ran masking tape on the floor, attempting to preserve the royal mudprints, a forthright cordon. Several years later I’d meet Johnny again and that’s a different story. He was a cool guy.
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