There’s a strong verse,
Drink, Drive and Die—Alliteratively terse
Mug and Goetz what’s coming
A pale little pun.
I’ll stick to free verse
Couplets are done!
But then I remembered that I specifically said it would be an East Village poem, so I started thinking about each street, from First to Fourteenth. I drew up a small map and noted every established hangout and local institution; the poem had to be short, cute, and simple. I sensed that this was all the silver-spooned editor could digest.
There were no revelations in that refuge for defecators and lovers. Sitting upon that unwashable and ancient toilet, I toiled, tinkered, and versified. When seated in that position too long, something is bound to fall out and soon the bowels moved; a cheap little stanza complete with all the squalid neighborhood emblems. For no clear reason, I entitled it “Cowboy Streets, Indian Avenues”:
Third Street bikers
At Seventh Street bars
Met Twelth Street whores
Screwed quick in cars
Are busted by cops from Fifth Street way
Who drive them all off toward Avenue A
It was forced and trashy and I hoped that one day I would be a writer talented enough to repudiate it. Outside the stall, I could hear someone pacing, and then more feet. The film must have ended. After quickly writing a final draft, I flushed the toilet for effect and abdicated the chair.
Entering the theater in the middle of deafening applause and brightening lights, I saw no sign of Owensfield. But then I heard a bunch of giggly punk boys and girls and spotted the patron in their midst. Silently I watched them giggle and react to his every movement. Wealth, like fame, provided incredible leverage to one’s character; an adequate mind seemed brilliant if it belonged to a star. Not-repulsive looks made a blue blood stunningly handsome; mild sensitivity catapulted one into heights of sexiness; basic decency made them rivals of Mister Christ. Owensfield and his lucky entourage were about to skip out the fire exit when I intercepted him.
“Here.” I shoved the poem in his face. With nothing more than a rise of his eyebrows, his group was signaled to linger outside. As he mumbled the poem aloud, Miguel appeared from the other side of the theater and started approaching.
“Well,” he uttered as he crinkled the page into his pocket, “to buy this much space as an advertisement would cost you about a hundred and fifty dollars and frankly we’ve published a lot worse.”
“Is that an acceptance?”
“No, it’s a deal.”
“What’s a deal?” Miguel entered in the middle of the conversation.
“Your friend drives a hard bargain.” Owensfield seemed to yield. “He got what he was after.”
“Wow!” Miguel marvelled as he looked at me.
“I’ve got people waiting,” the well-to-doer replied. “We’ll discuss all the bindings later. Au revoir.” And he was gone.
“How the Tao did you do that?”
“I knew what appealed to him. It turned out I had read his latest piece, a study on Bobby Musil. We talked about that awhile, until the next thing I know we’re both reliving Hapsburg, Vienna, Wittgenstein, Karl Kraus, and Saint Stephen’s. My God, first we were in tears and then in stitches.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Kindred spirits!” I exclaimed. “Elective affinities. For the moment we were the same person. Hell, when I finally popped the request it was like I was asking myself for something.”
“And you’re telling me he just gave in.”
“It was more like I gave it to me.”
“Amazing. And I always thought the richer they were the poorer they were. I was ready to take his offer.” Miguel looked perplexed. Only the speech pattern and mannerisms remained of the Miguel who was once the sincere earth child. The money and the vulgarity had made its breach; Miguel knew he couldn’t walk nude along the streets or hand out dandelions, and he knew that rhetoric was just rhetoric, but in his heart of hearts I think he really wanted to believe that the right words could precipitate the correct actions. He nodded, still perplexed, and went into his office.
People poured into the street, coagulated into lumps, which broke away and dissipated. I waited outside for Miguel to lock up. When he was finally done, a bunch of people had collected, waiting for him, or waiting for the few people who were waiting for him. I was about to bid him goodnight, when he asked me if I was hungry.
“Yeah, but I’m broke.”
“I’ll advance you,” Miguel offered. “You made us a tidy bundle tonight.”
So a group of us walked over to Second Avenue and south toward the Kiev where the cuisine was a mix of Eastern European and American greasy spoon, prepared by Indian short-order cooks. The waitress pulled together a bunch of small tables and after we took our seats, she quickly took our orders. I got a mixed pierogis with sour cream and a side of fries. Fragmented conversations started. I ate and listened to one group in front of me yapping about the film. When one guy called it “a low budget 2001,” I turned to my left and started eavesdropping on snatches of conversation in that direction, “Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X’s mentor, was the one who had him assassinated…and when Mayor Laguardia died they found that all he had was eight thousand dollars in war bonds…I’ve heard that both Roddy MacDowell and Uncle Miltie have the largest penises in Hollywood…” Although the details were interesting, they were difficult to follow.
One guy that Miguel had casually introduced to me earlier that evening, an older, responsibly dressed fellow named Marty, was whispering excitedly to Miguel at my right. Keeping my eyes fixed on the bore who was talking about the film, I leaned into Marty’s direction and listened:
“Well, he’s only in the damned place like once every two months or so. Particularly now, since he’s working in Paris.”
“Do you think burglars were watching the place?”
“I’m sure of it. Anyway, it was all insured but now the premium is going through the roof.”
“Well, I only wish I needed a place.” Carefully I propped my right elbow up on the table so that my hand was against my right ear limiting the peripheral noise.
“It is too bad,” Marty replied, “because you’re just the right type. I only wish I was gay.”
“Now what’s this compulsion he has with gays? Is he?”
“No, it’s just the opposite—he’s an insecure heterosexual. Also I think he thinks they’re clean or something.”
“Well, I’m a pig myself.” Miguel giggled. “What kind of rent is he charging?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s not a money question.”
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Nada,” Miguel replied tiredly. “What’s new with you?”
“Nothing, I’ve been spending all my free time apartment hunting, and it’s really frustrating.”
“Rents are ridiculous.” Miguel replied.
“It’s not that. Frankly I think that they’ve been deliberately restricting me because I’m gay.”
Miguel glanced over to Marty.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Marty asked casually before taking a sip of his fruit compote.
“Oh, I’m not very selective. Heck, I don’t even mind room-mating with someone so long as they’re clean.”
“It sounds preordained, Marty,” Miguel said outright.