Another Way to Play
Page 34
lived with them. My brother-in-law Joe the
cop and me were working on the rectory
roof one day when Teddy rode by on his
Harley. Joe couldn’t stop talking about The
flying jig on a motorcycle. Teddy treated Joe
as he did everyone, with kind acceptance.
22
White people in our parish were upset when
Teddy and Lynn got married in our church,
the first mixed-race wedding there. Except
for parties at their East Orange pad they didn’t
socialize much. Just going to the store, people
stared or pointed or made nasty remarks. There
were no movies or books with happy stories
of mixed-race romance, let alone marriage.
Kerouac’s short novel about his affair with a
black lady, THE SUBTERRANEANS, didn’t
end happily. In the movie version she’s played
by Leslie Caron. The closest Hollywood
would come to a mixed-race romance was to
turn the black chick into a white French one.
23
THE NEW YORK TIMES ran an article on
teens who copied the Beat or hip style but
came from Jersey or Long Island to The
Village on weekends. DOWNSTAIRS AT
THE DUPLEX had a piano I played when
no one else did. Like the day someone said
There’s a reporter at MARIES CRISIS CAFÉ
looking for teenagers who aren’t Village
natives. We knew it was us in the story,
the only mixed teenage couple then. The
original Marie was a Gypsy, but now was
a big black lady who played piano and sang.
Her most popular song’s refrain was No-
body cans cans like the garbage man can.
24
Ted Joans was known as a Beat poet who ex-
ploited the tourist trade, a reputedly hip spade
usually wearing a black beret when I saw him.
In a photo in THE BEAT SCENE he sat on the
grass in Washington Square Park with a white
woman and four mixed kids and talked about
Loving every swinging soul. But he gave Bambi
a hard time cause I was white. She was so darkly
beautiful older black men wanted to protect her
or make her their own. Everyone noticed her
lovely face and lithe figure as she danced bare
foot on the grass in the park in flowery summer
dresses, a darker apparition and prediction of
what hippies would be like several years later.
25
Big Brown was a giant of a man, six-
feet-a-lot, with a fierce expression on
his dark face and a way of intimidating
everyone. One day in OBIES he told
Bambi she was wasting her foxy female
self on a skinny little nothing of a sheet,
a gray, a Mister Charlie, just as Cliff
walked in. Before I jumped salty, Cliff
said in his laconic way that if Brown dug
being black so much how come his hair
was gassed? A withering comment about
Brown’s conk, a wavy almost Marcel
curl. Brown seemed to cringe, then huffed
and puffed some before disappearing.
27
The first time we slept with other street kids
in the empty fountain in Washington Square
we woke at dawn and went to the small
water fountain for a drink. I splashed some
on Bambi in fun, but she got all tight-jawed.
When she calmed down, she explained if
her hair, already misshapen from sleeping
on concrete, got wet, it would tighten up
and look even worse. I made sure I never
did that to any black woman again. I wrote
a story about it, adding it to some of the
ones I sent to magazines every week to
always keep some in the mail no matter how
many came back. Like that one kept doing.
28
When the bulls drove through the Washington
Square arch, like buses did to turn around till
they made Fifth Avenue one way, they’d roust
street kids sleeping in the fountain when dry.
I’d act all innocent and square when they asked
for my I.D. and saw I was from Jersey. Like
I was just a teenage tourist looking for Green-
wich Village kicks and got caught up with
the runaways, the teenage vipers and juvenile
delinquents, as I was called across the Hudson
and by some Villagers who knew me. Others
would say I was a little Jersey jitterbug or teen-
age version of what Norman Mailer wrote his
famous essay about: THE WHITE NEGRO.
29
Cal was Mel’s twin but opposite. A high school
drop out with a wife and four kids in Penn-
sylvania, he talked fast with a distinct private
accent difficult to understand. Mel enunciated
every word like a 19th-century orator. Cal was
thinner and darker, with a nose so long and
sharply hooked he could pass in profile for an
ancient Egyptian. He’d been a paratrooper at
fifteen, lying about his age, in post-war Japan
then Korea. Mel wore impeccable suits. Cal
funky sweatshirts and jeans. Once, walking
up the Bowery, on that island where it turns
into Third Ave, Cal shouted out to the rainy
night: New York, you don’t owe me a thing!
30
Sblibby named himself after the black street
term for what Southern racists called niggery,
pushing it in everyone’s face. Ebony toned,
my height and weight, but more sinewy and
tight and a few years older, like me he wore
shades indoors and out every waking hour.
I never knew his real name. We met one
rainy afternoon when we were the only ones
at the bar in OBIES. Me at one end, him at
the other with drum sticks and a rubber
practice pad. Yaya let him play along with
the box since we were the only ones there.
When Eric Dolphy blew a phrase that made
us both laugh, we recognized each other.
31
Sblibby came into OBIES one afternoon with
a short dark man wearing thick eyeglasses
on his intense angry face. It was Cecil Taylor,
the piano-playing composer innovator changing
jazz. When I extended my hand to slip him
some skin he curled his lip in distaste. Sblib
didn’t notice as he raved about me, suggesting
Taylor come to THE WHITE WHALE where
I could display my chops. Surprisingly he did.
There I started in on my version of Ahmad
Jamal’s take on SURREY WITH THE FRINGE
ON TOP, only even more up-tempo so even
more difficult. But after only a few bars Taylor
got up and walked out without saying a word.
32
In the West Fourth Street station I ran into
Angela and told her about Bambi. She got
upset and wrote me later You were meant
to marry me, if you marry a colored girl
neither race will accept your kids. Bambi
quit her job under the influence of Villagers
who promoted free love and life, strangers
to me. Like Chico, light-brown skinned with
thick black hair, usually
taken for a Puerto
Rican. He was skinny like Bambi and me,
but quieter than I could be. She wanted us
to hang together. But he had neither a job
nor home so was free to roam the Village
streets with her while I was busy working.
33
When Bambi said Chico was so broke he ate dog
food out of a can cause it was cheaper than Spam,
I ordered her not to see him anymore. She laughed
and went on doing what she wanted. I wanted a
darker version of Dostoevsky’s Anna, not a free
spirit. I got so jealous, uptight and tired of her new
friends and life, when Chico came into OBIES
looking for her, I shoved him against a wall and
spit: I’ll rip your lungs out through your throat if
you hurt her. Then drunkenly decided to join the
Army to show them both. My crippled grandma
who lived with us since Grandpa Dempsey died
always accused me of cutting off my nose to spite
my face. I never understood what she meant by it.
34
In my usual jazzman’s outfit, shades and all,
I went to enlist at the Orange Post Office near
Orange Memorial Hospital where I was born.
An Air Force recruiter leaning against a wall
said What’s happenin’ man? A hip greeting for
any white man then, let alone one in uniform.
He stuck out his hand, and when I reflexively
did too, slapped mine, an even rarer thing for
a gray dude to do. He said the Army’s no place
for a hip cat like you, but the Air Force is full
of hip mixed couples. He swore once they saw
me in uniform, Bambi would come running,
our fathers would give in, and I’d be playing
piano in an officer’s club in The Big Apple.
35
I signed up for the four-year enlistment. Told
to report to New York the next day I made my
Jersey goodbyes, then met Mel at DOWN-
STAIRS AT THE DUPLEX. Arriving first I
went to the unoccupied piano. After I played
a few tunes the owner said his piano player
split and offered me the job at a hundred a
month. Cliff paid thirty for his two bedroom
pad. I could support the city life I’d always
fantasized. But too late. When Mel arrived I
told him. He laughed, seeing the humor in it.
I didn’t. At OBIES, Cal, Cliff and DeWitt sent
me off with many toasts, Cliff calling me Me-
shell, as he always did, adding Bon voyage.
36
For unexplained reasons we were given three
more days of freedom. I spent it getting drunk
and high with street friends like Andre, a tall
dark junkie who knew where to crash. But the
last night I ended up alone in a bar unable to
stand. When they 86’d me, this square looking
Irish chick helped me walk to her crib on East
11th where to my surprise she lived with Pauline
a light-skinned mixed teen from Long Island
City who ran away at fifteen to arrive in the
Village pregnant. Before she began showing,
she had a body men fought over. But she was
too tough for me. Maybe she had to be. She
hooked to get by. Turned out Irish did too.
37
Stumbling in, we woke Pauline up. She threw
a clock at us but gave me one twin bed to sleep
in and they took the other. I woke at dawn to
stare at these two women an arm’s length away,
Pauline on the outside, Irish against the wall.
The covers had slid down and one of Pauline’s
legs dangled off the side, her slip up past her
thighs so everything was showing. I had my
horrible hangover, able to focus on nothing but
Pauline’s everything, feeling oppressed by it,
as though it was all I was running from. The
power that blossom of female flesh had over me.
The Irish Catholic pain and shame and guilt
it represented. I split without saying goodbye.
NEW POEMS
(2004–2017)
from NEW YORK NOTES (2004)
[ . . . ]
The backs of women’s
Knees still intrigue
Me, especially in
Winter when they seem
To wink at you from
Between the tops of
Boots and hems of
Skirts or dresses, I
Want to bless them
With gratitude and kisses—
[ . . . ]
The dusty slants of early
Morning light coming
Through the East window
Of what I still think of
As “the newly renovated”
Grand Central Station
Even though it’s been
Years, as I cut through
From the Southwest corner
At 42nd to the Northeast
At Lexington and 43rd—
[ . . . ]
In Penn Station, the
Older deaf businessman
Speaking too loudly on
His earpiece cell phone—
Sounding like my deaf
Cousins I grew up with
[ . . . ]
The white woman with
Dark hair climbing the
Stairs in her heels, one
Shoulder of her coat falling
Off, wobbling from
The effort of keeping
Her balance as she
Climbs, hands full
Of purse and shopping
Bags, me watching
From below as I pass—
The amber skinned
Latina woman, thirty-
Something, auburn hair—
She reminds me of Easter candy
Not chocolate, not anything
Specific, just the sweet
Satisfaction of the feast—
The warmth of the day’s
Pagan spring rite roots!—
[ . . . ]
The stunningly beautiful
Young woman, Latina
Her eyes surprise me
With their depth, their
Absolute acknowledgment
Of mine, oh hearts sublime
The two guys with their
Baseball caps turned backward
Walk by me in the rain,
With no umbrella, wiping
Rain drops from their faces as
If unaware that’s what
The bills of their caps are
For and protection from the
Sun, baggy pants too—
[ . . . ]
The Asian woman in the
Subway car—as old as me,
Maybe—eyes me warily,
As if my gray haired phys-
Iognomy portends some
Memories of other times,
As if I may be one of those
Veterans of Viet Nam still
Searching for the solace
Once found in brown skin
They used to call yellow—
[ . . . ]
The many mixed couples
On streets and subway trains
These days—young ones,
Old ones, Arab looking with
Irish looking, African
Descent with Scandinavian—
Puerto Rican and Asian—
The mix of life’s re-
Surgence, completion—
[ . . . ]
You can’t cut through
Penn Station anymore
Central—some doors and
Entrances are barricaded
And a new announcement
Over the New Jersey Transit
Loudspeakers warns
Passengers to look
Out for suspicious
Packages or people—
[ . . . ]
The bookstore on Tenth
Avenue I never noticed
Before—the quirky
Choice of poetry titles—
Of biographies and art
Books—the comforting
Smallness of the space—
[ . . . ]
The “soap” actress
In the restaurant who
Isn’t even pretty in
Person—the old couple
In their seventies,
At least, more likely
Eighties, on the
Subway, the woman
Stunningly and
Naturally beautiful—
[ . . . ]
The black woman in
Her thirties, maybe
Forties, round dark
Face with bright red
Lipstick and brighter
Smile for me, maybe
Everyone, maybe not—
Then the tall young
Asian woman, no
Smile but sustained
Eye contact as we
Pass—the young WASPy
Woman, also, catching
My eye, not me hers—
Lingering, is that some
Kind of longing I see?
Sixty-two next month,
And a day like today,
Inexplicable to me as
Females of all types and
Ages seem genuinely
Interested in drawing
My attention and sus-
Taining it—smiles—
Nods—romances of
The eyes—the brief city
Street affairs poet James
Schuyler said are
Enough—and they are—
[ . . . ]
It’s supposed to be Spring
But cutting across Bryant
Park on the Monday
Of Easter week there’s
Only two people there,
One on a bench on the
South side, one on a chair
On the North—I sit for
A moment on another bench
With some sunlight on
It but the bitter, icy
Wind makes me get up