Did you sit and look at the place in the wall where the paint job was peeling and you got up, picked at it and found another layer, a different color of off yellow, off green or off white, even red than what you had since the day you moved in because that was what landlords did, they painted over and threw out the old broken down chairs when someone else moved in and painted layer upon layer of paint on the wall, on the pipes, on the door jambs, on the exposed brick, on the bathtub in the kitchen with animal claws.
Did you ever get out a butter knife and gently peel off the layers of paint all the way down to the original color? If the sun hit just right through your window as it set in the west, you realized it must have set the same way over 100 years ago when the original European son gypsy family lived there, and for just a fleeting moment, as the magic hour of sunlight lit up all the bricks and the ivy on the rusty fire escape outside your window, you believed you were the youngest bawling son of that gypsy family and for a minute you stopped crying and all your aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters looked at you?
Did you ever think that?
Not really, I told John Dakota.
Well then you really don’t have much of an imagination, do ya?
I guess not, I shook my head.
We are here because John Dakota’s girlfriend threw him out, and he talked me into helping him put up a tent there, more of a lean-to really, a blue tarp that we tied to the branch of a tree that hung over a fence from someone’s backyard plot on Bowery. We’re between Bowery and Chrystie.
Did you happen to check a weather report? I asked him.
Why? He was looking over his shoulder at Gypsy.
You don’t feel that wind blowing in?
What wind? I don’t feel nothing.
It’s just I heard it might snow is all.
Don’t be a square, man. Lou Reed made this town.
Lou Reed made this town.
I didn’t know what he was talking about. He shook his head.
It’s February, bro.
Everyone knows it never snows after January at this latitude.
John man, what are you talking about?
He knew better and he had a tent to put up.
Why were we here?
Because John Dakota was proud. He was too good to sleep with the skeavy crowd in Tompkins Square in the city of the homeless and lost there. The Tent City came after the riots, and got worse and worse until the cops came in to kick everyone out. They closed the park for months.
We were just feeling the first snowflakes as the sun was going down in the west. Strangely there was still a yellow streak of sunlight atop purple clouds in the northern sky. The night before John had emceed a talent show that I had been lucky enough to attend, at a particularly memorable and bizarre place called Save the Robots on Avenue B, I think between maybe 3rd and 4th Streets. The first act was an old friend of ours who came in with a live pig, wearing a black leather zipper mask, our friend that is not the pig. He led the pig onto the stage and the pig sat down. At the end of the performance he took the pig away.
The second act involved a chain saw and a man in a full body cast. You could smell the fear in the air as the chainsaw was switched on. What you smelled was the sweat that we all broke out in as the chainsaw cut through the plaster cast toward the man’s skin.
I went to the bathroom to get high; it was too much for me.
I came back and John Dakota was holding up the cast and the room was filled with applause. No one was bleeding. A man in a tutu held out his arms and threw kisses. But they did not win first prize. This was a young woman with an amazingly detached air about her, who took off her clothes bent over her lap and sewed her sex shut with a needle and a thread. Fifty dollars first prize.
After the show I talked to John Dakota, a big long-haired Indian in a black t-shirt and beaded headband. I told him about the problems I was having with my life.
I’m going away, I told him.
You need a place to stay for a couple days?
No problem, just meet me here at the bar, tomorrow noon. I get paid then.
I had no where to go and a train to catch. But I wasn’t ready to go to the station yet. I had left Alice on Thursday, gone to the Village Idiot, then walked the streets for the rest of the weekend. Alice came and found me on Broadway sometime on Saturday afternoon, selling books from a table. She handed me twenty five dollars. You can still come home, y'know. She was still trying. But it was like she was a passing train and I was a closed station, like Cortlandt St. after the towers went down, something sad to look at as you passed, but that you could not touch, a ghost. She walked into the night with the books under her arm. She was the kind of woman who looked really nice walking away. On Thursday night we had dinner together. She had met me at the Benny’s in the dining room across the street from the takeout. She wore a shirt with a plunging neckline and a look on her face and in her eyes that belied her pert jokery. I told her everything she wanted to hear, spent the night in her arms and left. I thought she was asleep, but when I got up to leave, she yelled at me and threw my shoes out the window.
I walked out in my stocking feet, and put the shoes on one at a time while still standing, balancing on one leg. I looked up and saw she had come to the window. Her posture said she was crying. The next night she met me in a restaurant all dressed up. We ate dinner and talked and I went back home with her. I was all fucked up I think on both coke and dope. The next morning I got up at dawn to go back into the city.
When she found out, she confronted me at the peace march in front of the United Nations in front of this crowd of thousands of people. The protestors were lined up on two sides of the street with the cops in between. She saw me and started to run. I ran into the street, dodging policemen and caught up to her on the sidewalk west of First Avenue, in the shadow of the tall rectangular United Nations building. She hit me in the chest, yelled at me and then ran off.
I chased after her for like twenty blocks cross-town. It was snowing when I caught up with her at home. She told me I could stay or leave but not both. She thought it was about getting high. I didn’t know how to express it. There was that thing in my chest, hollering. It was hard to talk past it. She said if I went out that I shouldn't even bother to come back. She stood in the doorway when I tried to leave. I just physically pushed past her and ran down the stairs. I had no money at all so I jumped the subway turnstile and went to Delancey Street on the F train. I walked through the pouring rain to Eldridge Street and went to this doorway where I copped. I asked for five bags and when the guy handed them to me I took off and ran away through the pouring rain. Dakota’s lady had kicked him out and that was what found us in the empty lot on Houston. It was a giant space, where an entire block of tenements had been torn down. In the tall grass lay parts from a carnival that had been held years before and then for God knows what reason abandoned there. You would be walking around and suddenly there would be a rusting gondola from a Ferris wheel at your feet. John Dakota told me to meet him in a few hours. When it’s getting dark, he said. Meet you, in the lot? It’ll be fine, man. I got to get the tent. So things are over with your wife?Girlfriend. You’re not going to believe this, but she’s pregnant and she wants to have the kid. Congratulations, man. We had come out of the dark bar into the daylight and we were both standing on the sidewalk of Avenue B blinking at each other. He held up his finger to his mouth like to say keep it quiet man. I already gave her the money to have an abortion. You don’t want to be a father?
I’m a guitar player, man. He looked around like someone passing by might be listening and lowered his voice. We’ve been through this before a few times and…. How many times, John? He held up some fingers. Not more than four. You can’t blame her. Sure okay, he said gesticulating wildly with his hands. But she took the money and had an ultrasound. Sounds reasonable. How is that right? He shook his head. He pulled off his headband and smoothed his long black hair. He had a thing about his hair. His claim to fame was that when he was a mere teenager he had played drums in a jam session with Johnny Thunders. I asked him once why he had not played guitar and he assured me. No one played guitar in the same band with Thunders, man. What about the Dolls? You just don't understand. Understand what, Dakota? How He showed up at the lot at dusk astride a horse. I could not believe it when they came through the tall grass. It was like a movie. It was a miracle. He jumped down and yelled. Grab the reins and help me tie it to the tree. I must have jumped back at least five feet and he stood there holding the horse’s reigns laughing at me. Where the fuck did you get that? It’s a male, man. Gypsy. By then I had seen the blanket under the saddle and recognized the NYPD emblem. Don’t tell me where you got that, John. I don’t want to know. The stable is down by the Holland Tunnel. The door was open. I walked right in there and took him. How did you get it here? Rode it, man, he said proudly. I’ve been riding horses since I was a kid. He tied the horse to the tree. It looked around and its eyes looked wide and shiny. That horse did not look too happy about being kidnapped by the likes of John Dakota. We set to work on the lean-to. John Dakota turned on a portable tape player. The first song was an unreleased version of European Son by the Velvets. He turned it as loud as it would go. The snow was falling hard and we were shivering. For just a minute though, it was beautiful: the way the snowflakes hit the strands of tall grass and stuck on the tiny gray pods, the way the horse looked in the gloaming there in the empty lot east of Bowery. You could see it breathing, the heat that came off its flanks in the wisps of condensation. John Dakota bent over a post he was hammering into the bare earth. Then it was over. Thank God for Downtown. We didn’t hear him, the guitar solo was too loud and screechy. He pulled my sleeve and there he was, looking as he always did as an Okie version of Bogart’s long lost illegitimate son. Let’s get out of here man. What about John? I looked over and tapped his shoulder. He turned down the music. What are you going to do with that horse, man? He looked at me and Downtown then at the horse. He shrugged. The look on his face was the most forlorn thing your ever saw. Downtown took me by the sleeve and dragged me toward the hole in the fence on the Houston St. side. We left John Dakota with the horse in the empty field & headed East toward the River.