February 2002

Washington Square  

The men of Fire and Rescue Squad One were out training all day so I didn’t get a chance to visit cousin Eric. That’s OK. I wanted a day to myself in the Village. I know I’m in love with the past ... when it was beat, then neat, cool, hip, far-out, and now mostly gentrified. But there’s enough of the old architecture and store fronts a guy like me needs to get his sniffer back on track of that elusive renegade post-WWII cradle of creative desire. That’s how I was as I walked down Fourth Street and stepped on the same concrete outside the doors of the Blue Note where Dizzy, Coltrane, Mingus, et al. spat. Then Washington Square. It was a bright sunny day.

I heard people say it was the first day of spring. “Look at people’s faces, will ya. Look how they’re walking ... I’m telling ya, there’s bounce there, right there in the way they’re walkin.” I had to agree. It’s what I needed to hear — good cheer. I decided to be among people today, no matter what, just among people and glad to be alive, no matter what else, just alive. Took the #1 downtown, got off on 14th Street and was flooded with memories of my thirty-five intermittent years of trolling the Village and of all the people I have known there. Friends come and gone, chaotic love, ambitions born, and all the gnashing of teeth that went on as I inevitably realized again and again I’m not a New Yorker. I don’t like city soot, its noise, the chasm between rich and poor, dwarfed by concrete, steel, and glass, the schizophrenic good-vibrations and mean-street savvy needed to maneuver the frantic money-driven landscape. Where’s the grand vistas and colorific expanses of open-ended universes I’m so fond of except in the iridescent oil film puddled in the gutters. That’s another thing I don’t like, gutters — too close to home. I’d rather be around waterfalls and pick rainbows from the atmosphere like wild berries and peaches. But Washington Square is a haven and I’ve got a story to prove it.

I was dressed in Levis, shined red-cordovan shoes, and a four-hundred and fifty dollar Armani dark-blue long coat I got on sale at Macy’s for fifty-percent off. I had to get it. No matter how many layers I had on the damp cold windy air had chilled me to the bone. I had a thick mucous head cold I was determined to beat down. I looked good with my matching blue toque and maroon neck scarf. I went to the public mens room. On the way out I checked my zipper and caught the eye of an overweight, mostly toothless, white middle aged woman who peered in the open door of the john. As I passed by she asked for spare change, then stopped and said, “Hey man, you are really, and I mean really good looking. You remind me of my dad back in the fifties, the same manly look. He was a gentleman and you look just like him.” I turned around and kept my eyes on her. She was sincere. I recalled what you wrote me, that even though I’m broken hearted I’ve still got my looks and health. I bowed my head to the toothless lady and thanked her. We smiled with appreciation that we touched each other at all.

I followed my ears to the music. It was a couple guitars across the park with small amps and vocals. Pretty good. I needed that music to heal my soul, lift my heart. I offered to take a picture of the couple who stood before me, she with camera in upturned palms. “How did you know? She asked. “You read my mind.”

“Easy” I said, “I remember what love is.”

I sat again on the stonework near the musicians. Next to me was an old man with a big camera, or rather, a camera with a very long lens. He smiled and with a nod extended his hand. “There’s a terrible strain of tuberculosis in this city that’s resistant to everything thrown at it. I usually don’t shake hands. You’re an exception,” he said, “I like you. You’ve got a good face.” I thanked him, cautiously shook hands and asked if he was a professional, photographer that is. He said no, a psychiatrist. It’s his hobby, a way to meet people. He had a stroke and could only use one hand but the camera had a special gyro built in that eliminated the shakiness of a one-handed man. “It’s the same gyro used in the gun-sights of the A-10. You know. The Warthogs.”

“I know Warthogs. I live near a Marine base in Twentynine Palms. They fly over all the time.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a collection of his own prints. I looked them over, was courteous, nothing special, just head shots plucked from a crowd at long range. Then I reached into my backpack and pulled out my sketch book. I turned through the pages. A lady named Susan sat down between us. She used to be a fashion designer but gave it up to sing Doo-Wop. She looked on. Several more musicians showed up. Susan said there’s no where on earth like this and began pointing out musicians and songwriters who were gathering in force, now seven or eight, mostly performers, she says, who gather every weekend just to jam and have a good time. Bernie Lasman, the psychiatrist, loved my work, asked to see several again. He made comments. Susan just looked, said she used to draw too.

She was a lovely woman in her forties though drawn thin by life, pained. She talked to Bernie about her recent love who just left her because he’s afraid of intimacy. She cried, “What can I do? The man’s been through hell, through Vietnam, faced down all kinds of shit but is afraid of me, little me.” Bernie said he isn’t giving away any more free sessions then leaned forward and advised me to look out because she’s on the hunt for a man. That offended her. She turned to me and said she had a few things to say about Bernie too. Later on, after he left, she said he’s always doing that to her, sabotaging her and putting her down. But Bernie covered his tracks when he told me he had already told her there’s no confidentiality on a park bench for what she tells him. I figured him jealous of any attention she gives others. Poor man probably wishes she’d use his Freudian face as her park bench — his little, well-trimmed gray goatee as a cushion. It never quits.

I was there the whole afternoon. I listened to the music. Drank it in. Sang along ... especially the old Dylan tune, “ ... turn down the lights … bring that bottle over here ... I’ll be your baby tonight.” But the one that really got me was, “Good-bye love, good-bye sweet caress, hello emptiness ... I think I’m going to die.” Susan would get up, sing a number, sit down, engage in our conversation, dart up and sing some more.

She told me about her experience with fear, fear in men, fear in women, and how she’s always had bad luck with men who run away. I told her about fearful women, not Louise by name, but all about me and Louise. Susan knew I was leaving in two days for California so there was an urgency to revel in what we shared and let our hearts bleed till the sadness died. Between sets we dug deep and at the end of the day she said, “You’ve got to read these books: Men Who Can’t Love, and, He’s Scared, She’s Scared. Read them, memorize them. They’ll be your bibles.”

Bernie caught me in a silent moment as I was thinking what a waste I was. He scooted close and whispered, “Special talents need special loves. It takes a mature person to understand what you’re doing, a very mature person to understand it. But don’t worry. It’ll come. It’ll come. I tell my patients all the time, ‘Even if you’re a three hundred pound wart, there’s someone out there that will absolutely love a three hundred pound wart and won’t be happy with anything else.’ So don’t worry,” he cooed, “it’ll come.” Again warts. And the music played until the sun went down behind the church tower. It got too cold to play. People pealed away for home or elsewhere. Even Bernie. He stood up to get a cab. I asked him to please go to my website where he’ll find words to make him happy, engage his mind. I said they’re special words that invoke a discourse he’ll find refreshing. He said he would. “For sure.” Then added, “Turn over my business card, the one I gave you. There’s some words there too I’m sure you’ll enjoy.” He hobbled away with his useless arm tucked close to his side, left foot dragging, and the sound of clanking aluminum that might have been bits of an old pogo stick beat now into his walking cane ... tap, tap, tap away.

The card reads:

"The problem of darkness does not exist for a man gazing at the stars. No doubt the darkness is there, fundamental, pervasive and unconquerable except at the pin-points where the stars twinkle; but the problem is not why there is such darkness, but what is the light that breaks through it so remarkably; and granting this light, why we have eyes to see it and hearts to be gladdened by it". George Santayana, Orbiter Scripta

Susan clutched herself and shivered. She told one of her Doo-Wop partners she’ll catch up, just needed to say good-bye to me. “Everybody is important. This has been important, us meeting.” I told her yes, I thought so too. I’ll read the books and give her a call to let her know. The spring turned cold, gray. A wet wind gusted. I wrapped up and ambled back to the subway, back where I came ... a better person, touched by special people, as a person who heard music and was rewarded with a free pass to a heart gladdened by the light.