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Authors: David Evanier
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her. Her behavior reminded me of my father, of what he would do with me on the street: brusquely stop, and scream or shout, because of something shocking or inexcusable that, in his view, I was doing. Perhaps tying my shoelace or not listening closely enough to his telling me for the thousandth time of the penny his father would give him every Tuesday.
I have spent too many years writing about my parents, but two other memories of my father pop out of the sack. On my 17th birthday, my father greeted me at the door of his apartment in a smoking jacket, beret, his underpants, and a cigarette holder with an unlit cigarette in it.
âHow are you, Dad?â
âCrazy,â he replied.
Later that year, I was dating one of my near-psychotics, a nursing student named Lois. My father was trailing after us, wanting to be taken in by me as always. We were walking down MacDougal Street in the Village. We hopped down the street. My father, wanting to join in, hopped after us. Bob Dylan was singing at the Gaslight. My father did an amazing âBlowing in the Windâ to woo us. We passed the Fat Black Pussycat Cafe and went in. We sat down at a table by the window and my father stood outside, blowing kisses and meowing at us through the open window.
There was a cider bar on Times Square where I hung out when I was 14 with Cheryl, a dropout and a thief from Scarsdale. A pimp named Wayne with a big white hat enjoyed giving me tips about coping with life, and I heard the hookers talking about their Johns.
There were boarding houses and hotels then where I stayed with my father, the life of desolation and male loneliness he introduced me to, listening to him talk with the other lonely men about shirts, shoes, stocks, linen; and there were the faded women in the hotel I had crushes onâwomen alone in single rooms smoking and listening to Sinatra and drinking scotch.
Times Square was still there with Hubertâs Flea Museum and the Laffmovie and Toffernettiâs with the giant strawberry cake in the window. There were dressing rooms, theater alleys, old record and sheet music stores on Sixth Avenue, the Commodore Record Shop, the Colony Record Shop, and soon Alan Freed pounding a phone book to the beat.
My father moved into the Paris Hotel on West 96th Street when he split with my mother in 1953 and the men seated in the lobby with their cigars had records by Don Cornell and Buddy Clarkâbachelor singers doing bachelor songs, and I heard tales of Caruso and Buddy Bolden and 52nd Street jazz. They showed me their One Record or One Book that held all their dreams and philosophies: Mezz Mezzrowâs Really the Blues , Dale Carnegie, The Prophet . Nat Holman of CCNY was The Coach for basketball for the Jews; Roosevelt the Politician, Jolson the Singer, Benny Goodman the Band Leader.
And still glowing on the stinking Bowery was Sammyâs Bowery Follies, with women singers, belters, in giant hats, waving big handkerchiefs on the podium over the bar.
And reaching back far beyond those years, I remember that as a young boy, I would spit every time I passed a church.
Listening to the tapes now, I understand what a nut I was, and what brought me together with Karen. The spontaneity of women, the looseness of movement and speech, the way they moved, their tart tongues, their freedom to react to me objectively and render autonomous opinionsâthat was not for me. I wouldnât have a chance with them. For I was aroused and terrified. They promised delicious sex, nights of wanton abandon on windy balconies in my beautiful Manhattanâbut I could not get near them. Every free licentious move they made threatened me. If they wiggled their asses or breasts, stroked their hair, made knowing gestures that told me they knew how hot they were and how my prick was responding to them, I went out of my mind.
âKaren puts a lid on your dangerously flying,â said the great and wise Butinsky before he went bonkers.
I have spent too many years writing about my parents, but two other memories of my father pop out of the sack. On my 17th birthday, my father greeted me at the door of his apartment in a smoking jacket, beret, his underpants, and a cigarette holder with an unlit cigarette in it.
âHow are you, Dad?â
âCrazy,â he replied.
Later that year, I was dating one of my near-psychotics, a nursing student named Lois. My father was trailing after us, wanting to be taken in by me as always. We were walking down MacDougal Street in the Village. We hopped down the street. My father, wanting to join in, hopped after us. Bob Dylan was singing at the Gaslight. My father did an amazing âBlowing in the Windâ to woo us. We passed the Fat Black Pussycat Cafe and went in. We sat down at a table by the window and my father stood outside, blowing kisses and meowing at us through the open window.
There was a cider bar on Times Square where I hung out when I was 14 with Cheryl, a dropout and a thief from Scarsdale. A pimp named Wayne with a big white hat enjoyed giving me tips about coping with life, and I heard the hookers talking about their Johns.
There were boarding houses and hotels then where I stayed with my father, the life of desolation and male loneliness he introduced me to, listening to him talk with the other lonely men about shirts, shoes, stocks, linen; and there were the faded women in the hotel I had crushes onâwomen alone in single rooms smoking and listening to Sinatra and drinking scotch.
Times Square was still there with Hubertâs Flea Museum and the Laffmovie and Toffernettiâs with the giant strawberry cake in the window. There were dressing rooms, theater alleys, old record and sheet music stores on Sixth Avenue, the Commodore Record Shop, the Colony Record Shop, and soon Alan Freed pounding a phone book to the beat.
My father moved into the Paris Hotel on West 96th Street when he split with my mother in 1953 and the men seated in the lobby with their cigars had records by Don Cornell and Buddy Clarkâbachelor singers doing bachelor songs, and I heard tales of Caruso and Buddy Bolden and 52nd Street jazz. They showed me their One Record or One Book that held all their dreams and philosophies: Mezz Mezzrowâs Really the Blues , Dale Carnegie, The Prophet . Nat Holman of CCNY was The Coach for basketball for the Jews; Roosevelt the Politician, Jolson the Singer, Benny Goodman the Band Leader.
And still glowing on the stinking Bowery was Sammyâs Bowery Follies, with women singers, belters, in giant hats, waving big handkerchiefs on the podium over the bar.
And reaching back far beyond those years, I remember that as a young boy, I would spit every time I passed a church.
Listening to the tapes now, I understand what a nut I was, and what brought me together with Karen. The spontaneity of women, the looseness of movement and speech, the way they moved, their tart tongues, their freedom to react to me objectively and render autonomous opinionsâthat was not for me. I wouldnât have a chance with them. For I was aroused and terrified. They promised delicious sex, nights of wanton abandon on windy balconies in my beautiful Manhattanâbut I could not get near them. Every free licentious move they made threatened me. If they wiggled their asses or breasts, stroked their hair, made knowing gestures that told me they knew how hot they were and how my prick was responding to them, I went out of my mind.
âKaren puts a lid on your dangerously flying,â said the great and wise Butinsky before he went bonkers.
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