Chelsea Girls

Henry siting in a lawn chair on the balcony of his Queens apartment. 

The summer night cobalt blue, the air cool. Needing fuel he leaves the building and walks a few blocks to Chaim’s Deli. 

Sitting in his booth, Ruby his regular waitress greets him saying “Henry how the fuck are you doll?” Henry forks two fingers, opens his mouth and puts his tongue between the fingers, wagging the tongue,  giving the appearance of fellatio. Ruby does an about face and walks away, unreceptive.

After a meal of corn beef and cabbage, fries and a milkshake mixed with Kailua, Henry checks out of the deli and hits the pavement.  

Once again by-passing  the Bowery, walking fast, careful not to trip over bums passed out on the sidewalk, avoiding odorous puddles, wanting to get through quickly. 

Henry making his way to Times Square, to the New Amsterdam Theater, the Andy Warhol film “Chelsea Girls” was playing.   

Under the marquee a junky cowboy closes in on Henry and says “ Man the film is boring, it’s pathetic baby, how about a  8 ball of coke to get you through the thing dad?” Henry bought the cocaine from the cowboy taking a lick, then going across the street to Lenny’s Liquorland for a pint. 

He sat in the back row, so no-one could see him snorting coke and drinking. 

“Chelsea Girls” begins screening, Henry notices there are no credits, and that it was two reels shown side by side simultaneously, he recognized the Chelsea Hotel.  

The screen filled with Warhol’s factory denizens, Ondine, International Velvet, Gerald Malanga, Ingrid Superstar— it was a  gay film with allot of syringes full of speed being poked randomly in the players asses. Nobody was acting in the film, the “actors” were themselves. One girl on acid was walking in and out of scenes crying real tears, half aware she was being filmed,  then a priest slaps her—a real slap, to shut her up.  

The cocaine got Henry through twenty minutes of the art yarn, feeling lucky he could make a quick exit.

Henry comforted, walking, breathing yogic gulps of night air, looking up at the sky full of happy stars.

Henry bought a Village Voice from a blind man near Chaim’s Deli, close to home. He asked the blind man how he was doing and the blind man says, “ Life couldn’t be better baby!”

Henry  thinking—

Man this is it, the real stuff, far removed from the desperate life of the “Chelsea Girls”