It's 1 AM in Key West— Henry's dreaming that he’s walking through the Bowery, and everyone's a cripple. A blind man moving through the shadows, and a legless man in rags on a skateboard pulled by a spotted dog with three legs.
As the dream of cripples retreats somewhere, wherever spent dreams go. He feels the urge to pee so he gets out of bed, falling on his face and letting out a gruff, protracted,
shiiiit.
Lucia, his Cuban wife, hustles out of bed, rushing to his aid asking,
what happened darling?
my legs are numb, the circulation is gone, maybe it's Guillain-Barré Syndrome. I was dreaming about cripples and,
She massages his legs for a while, he's still on the floor as he says,
I can feel your hands on my legs, so I don't have Guillain-Barré Syndrome.
Try to stand darling,
with her help he stands, walking to the bathroom, leaving the door open.
She follows him and watches him pee, he lets out a long,
aaaah,
the peeing is pleasurable.
She scolds him, but is concerned,
are you losing your mind, idiota?
I dunno, I miss New York City. Whataya say we pack, get on the Vespa and ride to Key West International Airport.
The couple showers quickly, not drying much, throwing some clothes into Henry’s Boy Scout duffle bag from the fourth grade.
Soon, they’re at EYW where they park in the bicycle and scooter lot. There’s no line at the American Airline counter, Lucia speaks in Spanish to the ticket agent who’s Cuban,
chica, two tickets to New York,
si, señora, may I see your IDs?
Lucia hands the engaging clerk the couple’s passports, she looks through them then saying with shrilled voice,
dios mios, your Lucia Vargas, the Cuban movie star, I loved you in Havana Vampires, and La Ultima Cena.
The agent scrolls down the column of her Radix Galaxy and says,
We have a direct flight to LaGuardia living at 10 AM. Because you're Cubano royalty I’m issuing two first-class tickets at coach price.
maravilloso cariño, eres tan amable!
Lucia pays with her Visa card and they check the Boy Scout duffle bag, laughing as Henry says,
such a glamorous travel bag for the venerable Lucia Vargas, the queen of Havana.
They walk the hallway to the Cabana Room for a light breakfast. Sitting at the bar a toe-headed bartender approaches. With terribly flat vibes he says,
what'll it be?
Coconut waffles and two grasshopper cocktails.
Lucia whispers to Henry,
Dios mios, bebe, Señor blanco never went to charm school.
As they nibble waffle bits and sip their drinks they look through the picture window behind the bar where the ground crew’s busy as Electric Ants, loading suitcases, refueling, draining bio-waste ladened Blue Ice, stocking meals, and mini bottles of booze.
Henry drops a twenty on the bar and the couple walks to Gate 16 where they sit in a row of chairs that are scientifically designed to discourage laying on.
It's boarding time and they're flying first class— lucky, compared to the schmucks who’ll be packed in coach like hungry roaches ganging up on a Mars Bar.
They luxuriate in the reclining sofa seats as the jet engines thrust, lifting the craft into the troposphere. A Jamaican stewardess with blond dreadlocks shows saying,
ello, gud day, I’m Kareela, for lunch, we’re serving fillet, Jerk Chicken, or sea bass.
My husband and I will have the fillet and sea bass.
And to drink? Henry smiles saying,
Something that'll make us forget we're airborne in this flimsy rig held together by tiny rivets and bits of aluminum tape.
The stew brings them mini bottles of tequila.
Two hours later, after a slew of mini bottles, the plane’s making its descent into LaGuardia Airport, named after the mayor of the same name whose nickname was the Little Flower.
Soon at baggage claim, they're watching hypnotically as the hard rubber pads of the baggage carousel twist like a snake swirling through a creek.
Henry grabs the couples soul piece of luggage, his Boy Scout duffle bag, and Lucia says,
you carry the stupid bag, I don’t want people to see me with it.
Darling, I promise we’ll buy new luggage at Macy's, a Gucci Globetrotter if you like. You need a bag befitting your movie start status.
Sí, cariño, I don’t want to look like a bag lady, not in Nueva York.
Standing outside in the pickup area they hail a Checker cab, getting into the back seat. The cabby, an Armenian with an Afro says as he pulls out of the airport onto Highway 495.
The Shriners are in town this week and most of the good hotels are booked. There’re plenty of rooms in the Bowery if winos don't bother you.
Nah, not at all, my wife and I are winos, we’re well sodded from the plane ride.
OK then, we’ll go to the Bowery Grand Hotel,
Twenty minutes later, the Checkered cab pulls in front of the hotel, Henry pays the cabby and the couple gets out, walking into the hotel lobby.
The Grand is hardly grand and it’s owned by a couple of Chinamen. Henry and Lucia stand at the front desk, the lobby smells like soy vinegar. The clerk, who’s wearing a blue Mao Suit, says as he grins,
welcome to the Gland Hotel, lucky to get loom, Shriners in town. Henry says,
yes lucky, how much?
five de five dolla a day,
five de five huh?
He hands over his gold card and passport, the Chinaman makes copies, then handing him a key to room 333 saying,
lucky number for white man, need big luck in city.
For unknown reasons, the elevator is on the fritz, most likely, the Chinamen don’t want to fork out the shekels to fix it. Henry and Lucia walk three stories up to room 333, three de three de three, lucky loom, going inside.
It’s nice for the money with red brick walls and stylish furniture — lacquered wood pieces inlaid with mother-of-pearl and plain hardwood pieces.
Lucia turns on the air conditioner and closes the spurious zebra curtains that cover the framed windows. They undress and flop on the bed, wanting to sleep off their drunkenness and muscle up enough horsepower to party later.
They wake around eight, it’s summer in New York so they dress casually, she wears a wrap-around mumu and flip-flops. He wears Levis and an Oxford shirt. Then, they braid their waist-length raven-colored hair Native Indian style.
Henry grew up in the city and had spent many summer nights walking the Bowery, stepping over winos, and drinking in bars with names like The Vomit Mill, Evil People Lounge, The Intensive Care Unit, Suicide Hall, and so on.
The couple walks past the front desk of Bowery Grand and the Chinaman on duty says,
careful in Bowery, bums on sidewalk sleep in poo and upchuck, make you sick. Smelly devils take money too. Henry says,
That’s what we’re lookin for Li’,
how you know name, Li’ ?
Most Chinaman are named Li’.
Delany Street’s dimly lit— Henry and Lucia walk carefully, not wanting to step on a passed-out wino. She says,
it smells like death, let's get out of here darling.
Where almost at the station, here,
he hands her his hanky to cover her mouth.
They pass Suicide Hall and he says,
Look, Suicide Hall, I usta drink here in the sixties, let’s go in.
No darling, I’m not going in, es terrible.
Soon, they reach Bleecker street Station, walking down the steps into the subway tunnel where chill air and the smell of urine leaps out at them.
Sitting on a hard metal bench they wait for their train, watching a transit cop cruising, looking for bums to harass with the tip of his billy club.
Soon, the B train comes, and they board, sitting together. The ride's uneventful and they exit at the 14 Street Station in mid-Manhattan, walking up the steep stairway to the sidewalk. Henry says,
common, I'm gonna take ya somewhere nobody important goes.
They walk five blocks, going into Jimmy’s Corner, sitting at the bar. Every inch of the cracked, faded, and yellowing wall is covered with photos of boxers and vintage boxing posters. The bartender, a young guy in a white shirt with a flat-top says,
whataya have folks?
Dewars and soda.
The joint’s filled with footloose Shriners from upstate New York, simple souls getting loaded and reliving war years, remembering grand times, unrestrained times.
After a few drinks, Henry and Lucia pay and leave, they're hungry. They walk a few blocks and turn in Jerry’s Grill sitting at the counter. It’s boxcar size with swivel chairs in front of a grill.
The cook's adroitness dazzles the couple as he whips up the fare, adeptly, taking orders as well. Lucia wonders,
how can he do it?
They learn in the joint.
The hash slinger, who's all neck topped off with a soda jerk's cap asks,
you all hungry?
Yes, we'll have pancakes, chunky hash browns, bacon, scrambled eggs, a cheeseburger, and coffee.
They watch the grill cook crack eggs with one hand, pour pre-mixed pancake dough, flip burgers, turn hash browns, seconds later placing it on plates with his spatula, serving Henry and Lucia.
The fare is generic, one color, reeking of the malodorous oil used to cook it. Henry tells Lucia,
you have to leave the grease on the grill, it gives the food taste. She answers,
this place is no better than the nasty taquerias in Havana.
She pushes her plate away and Henry eats a few bites, not finishing. He drops a few bills on the counter and they walk out, catching a taxi back to the hotel— wondering why they came to New York?
You see, the Big Apple gives off a most solicitous luster that's impossible to resist, so everyone takes a bite eventually— the fruit may be savory or rank. Going to New York is a crapshoot.
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