Day 20

It’s been a while since I’ve been to the tunnel. I got myself a job bussing tables at a restaurant in Manhattan,; yes, money, the necessary evil we all have to adhere to, along with very cold weather, has forced me out into the streets of Manhattan begging for a “real” job. Luckily, I was able to find something. After a few days of work I had Sunday off so I decided to go to the park. It felt good to be there, setting the stool up, the guitar in my hands and the folks milling about.

Once again, it was good times with the New York characters roaming around. Out of the four hours I was there, I probably played about two; the other time spent distracted.

The day started off with a guy from Wales. Shaved head, stocky, he looked like those Hooligans that go to the soccer matches, but maybe that’s just an off-based stereotype. He told me he thought the music sounded great. He put a couple of dollars in the bag and then asked if he could video me playing a song and then saying hi to the kids back in England. I obliged, looked into the camera, fingerpicked a tune, and sent my greetings.

“Can I tell you a story? Got to tell soomone. So I jus’ got to New York yesterday. I was supposed to go to London with me best mate. The misses needs a new car and me and my best mate were going together to get this car. Just so happens one of the best motorcyle riders in the world is going to be there, eh. So we’re gonna’ stop at the airport, take some photos of him y’know. But see I’ve got this other business that week, trying to set it up before the trip. But soomtin’ seems sketchy, dun’ know wut’, but soomtin’ not right, eh, a feelin’. I don’t tell the misses because I want to surprise her with the new car. But the night before I’m gonna’ leave she cooms up to me wit’ this strange look on her face, soomtin’ not right, you know that look.

“So I say, ‘Woot’s the matta’ hun?’ She looks at me with that strange face y’know and says, ‘I have to tell ya’ soomtin’.’

“All right hun, woot’s on your mind, eh?”

‘I don’t know how to say this love, but I’ve been very naughty.’

“So now, I’m thinkin’, woot’s going on here. This is serious you know.”

“Woot ya’ me mean naughty I say?”

‘I haven’t been truthful with ya’ love. I’ve been a bit of a naughty girl.’

“Jesus Christ loov, woot ya mean by all this?”

‘Well, dun’ know how to say this loov, but me and your best mate have doon soomtin’ naughty behind your back.’

“At this point my hearts pumpin’, sweating ya know, I mean, me and the misses have our fun with others, you know, a little fun here and there ay, but not with me best mate. So I say to her, “Well, spit it out loov. Woot’ve you done with me mate?”

‘Well, loov, I bought you a ticket to New York. You leave from London tomorrow morning.’

“What? New York? Ay, I thought you were going to tell me you were fuckin’ me best mate.”

“I almost had a heartattack right there, I felt it pumpin’ good. So here I am, that’s my story. But tell me soomptin’, where can I find the real New York?”

I’m caught a little off guard buy this question. I can’t think of one particular part of the city you could label as the “real” New York.

“I’m talking where real New Yorkers are. Not all the fancy lights and the big buildings and the expensive restaurants and the foreigners.”

I tell him I’m relatively new to the city, but from what I’ve seen New York is an amalgamation of many different neighborhoods and nationalities. I mean hasn’t this guy ever heard of Ellis Island? The city was built by immigrants. I tell him of Chinatown and Harlem, the East Village and the West, Chelsea, Hells Kitchen, the many different neighborhoods in Brooklyn, the Italians and Polish, the Muslims and the Jewish and Carribeans. He tells me he’s bothered by all the immigrants in the city. Says in the town where he lives back home only two percent of the kids that go to the schools are English. It’s a shame. Everything’s changed. I showed him a few areas on the map he gave to me, but whether or not he found the New York he was looking for, I don’t know.

An hour later a crazy Italian, kind of a bastardized, slobbering version of Robert Deniro showed up in the tunnel. It was then that I wished the English guy was around. This was probably the New York he desired to see on his vacation. His name was Charlie. I was playing a Fahey tune when he walked by. The song I was playing is called Sunflower Splendor, a variation of Vestapol, an old instrumental a lot of old-time musicians did. Charlie was very animated.

“Hey, you know The Hobo’s Lullaby?”

I told him I did.

I started to play the old Guthrie tune and Chalrie stuck his hands on his waist, chest pointed out, facing outside of the tunnel, and sang out in a deep baritone voice, “Go to sleep you weary hobo, let the town drift slowly by…”

Then all of the sudden, with the people passing by, Charlie goes into a full operatic rendition of Woody. Then he throws in some of his own lines, “Yeah, yeah, tell me about it.” He was definitely the showman. I couldn’t help but laugh. After the song Charlie told me he was in the process of writing his childhood memoirs. Other people that had read parts of it told him his writing reminded him of Raymond Carver and David Sedaris, but he couldn’t stand those guys.

“Fuck Sedaris, that clown was selling flowers, gets on the radio, and boom, he’s famous. Shit, I’ll be like Hemmingway, go to Paris with my ailing gay lover (Fitzgerald). I tell you what. You know the secret to writing? I’m gonna’ tell you right now. Think back to your youngest memories, kindergarten, grade school, a teacher, the beach. Now write five words, anything, any words, and then leave a blank space, then five more words and another blank space. Sit at the kitchen table and have another person fill in the blanks. I’m tellin’ ya’, it works.”

“Hey, I wrote a song. You mind?”

I hand him the guitar. He stands proudly, although without a strap it’s hard for him to hold the guitar. “From the shores of Carolina to the Blue Ridge mountains…” His guitar skills aren’t great, but it’s a great traveling country song, all about coming back to his true love in New York. Charlie even gets a couple of dollars from the passing tourists. “Come on, tell me about it, one more time now!” he shouts out and then sings the chorus again.

We sang Freight Train together in wavering harmony. He seemed like one of those old types from the neighborhood, maybe a little too goofy to run with the tough guys, but all said the loveable Italian jokester from the “corner.” As he walked away he said, “You got it kid, you got it.” He then raised his arm in front of him, like something out of a Greek play, and did his best impersonation of Pavarotti.

The day goes along, hours pass by, songs go unheard, change is thrown, some dollars here and there…when up walks Barry.

“Oh Lord, all the crazies are out today,” I say jokingly.

Barry points at me, then brings his fingers between his eyes, says something so deep and prolific that I can’t remember. I say, “That sounds like some Confuscious shit.”

Barry says I ought to do Springsteen songs. I’ll double my tips. I tell him folks don’t want to hear dark songs about murderers roaming the Midwestern landscape with young girls when they’re strolling out in the park. He says maybe I have a point. He asks me if I’ve learned any Fred Neil songs and I tell him I haven’t gotten around to it. He tells me about a painting over at the Met by a Dutch painter, Vermier I think. It’s of an old woman pouring a pitcher of milk into a glass, but the painting is so true and real, he says it brought tears to his eyes. He stares off and I wonder if maybe he might shed a tear right there in the tunnel. But he doesn’t. The conversation’s short today, a large crowd of families approaches, and Barry walks away not wanting to distract me, “Hurry, play something,” he says and then he’s gone.