In the early 80s, I flew from Miami to New York City, during the flight drinking itty-bitty bottle after itty-bitty bottle of Jack Daniels, downing the bottles, neat, you could say, without cup or ice.
As long as I kept my mouth shut, nobody gave a shit how much I drank.
There's a Black woman sitting next to me who wasn't impressed with my drinking though, telling me,
honey, you ain’t never gonna make it to Heaven drinkin that a way, I laugh saying,
Heaven, what Heaven?
Her eyes bulge and her face balloons as she says,
hoo, wee, child, you gonna go straight to the devil when you pass.
Landing at La Guardia the 707 pulls into the tarmac, deplaning I roll through the jetway, paralytic, and stone-cold drunk.
I grab my suitcase off the carousal and hustle to departure, opening the rear door of a taxi, jumping in, and telling the driver,
take me to a cheap hotel in the Bowery.
Reeking of booze, the cabby warns me,
if you puke in my taxi you're gonna pay buddy.
The driver drops me off at the Bowery Grand, a dump on the elevated train route.
In the lobby, the desk clerk is sequestered in a chicken wire cage, wearing chunky glasses, he's nearly blind. I ask the poor sod,
how much is a single for a week?
Shuffling through paperwork he can't read, trying to look noteworthy, he says,
sir, I'd be 100 dollars.
I pay, giving the stooge 100 dollar bills, money from playing Liars Poker with pals in Key West.
It takes forever for him to count the money because 4-eyes can't identify the denomination of the bills.
Opening the ribbed gate of the birdcage elevator, I get in and think the worst, pushing button 5,
what if the friction brakes malfunction? Okay, I’ll bend my knees to cushion the impact at the bottom of the shaft.
In truth, there’s no way to save yourself from a runaway elevator, you’re gonna get fucked up for sure.
As the elevator climbs you can see each floor. On the 3rd floor, there's a middle-aged woman pacing the hallway in her underwear.
I unlock and open the door to room 503, it's bleak, the paint’s peeling, and it smells like a rotting animal carcass — there’s a single bed, a chair, and a desk with a plastic ice bucket and a lamp on it. Trailing the stank of urine to the bathroom, I see that the wee white tiles are covered with goo.
I hear an ear-piercing sound, open the curtains, and eyeball an elevated train speeding by. As the room wobbles, I feel like Wavy Gravy on acid, like the room is rolling and tumbling, maybe it's the booze.
After showering I roll my hair into a bun, put on shorts, a ripped T-shirt, and low-cut Converse All-Stars. I want to go to Burger King, eat, and get a paper crown to wear around town.
Wondering about the half-naked woman, I take the birdcage to the 3rd floor. Getting off, I walk towards an open door and go inside. There's a middle-aged gal laying in bed. In a spent voice, she says,
doll, I'll smoke that big pole of yours for 20 bucks.
The room smells stale, there’s a bottle of cheap gin, an ashtray, and a pack of Lucky Strikes on the bedside table. I pity her so I tell her,
sure auntie, you can suck my cock latter this evening. What’s your name? I’m Henry,
Pearl, I’m a regular here, I give the best head in the Bowery. I'm a beefy gal, and let me tell ya, I love washing sperm down with gin.
I notice Pearl has a blue protruding varicose vein on her left leg, and spider veins on her thighs. I ask her,
you want somethin from Burger King?
Sure honey, you payin?
Yeah,
a fish sandwich and fries, it's Friday, I'm Catholic,
Pearl, do you want a paper crown? Se says,
yeah, come closer babe.
She embraces me, reeking of booze and tobacco. I realize Pearl's soul is mortally wounded.
Breaking her grasp, I walk out and take the cage elevator to street level.
It’s July in New York City— Cumulus clouds float by and the sun's ablaze.
Walking a few blocks I duck into Confucius Pharmacy, and grab a pair of fake Ray-Bans from a rotating rack, then handing a Chinaman 7 bucks. As I'm walking out he says,
xiè xie gweilo,
thanks, white devil in Chinese.
I do an about-face and flip the slant-eyed bastard the bird, and he says in English,
shit for brains cutta you hair.
After the pleasant exchange at Confucius Pharmacy, I walk the steps of the Bowery Station, on the platform waiting for the Q train to Times Square. There's a couple of high school kids making out nearby and I think,
love is grand.
Two trains squeal by and then the Q train stops. The doors open. Inside, the car's empty except for a bum who's sleeping, sitting up in his seat, His clothes are caked with sun-dried mud and blood. The sight sparks a thought,
that'll be me in a few years,
I get off at 42 Street, Times Square. I have a plan, eat at Burger King, then hit Body & Pole, where I'll drink like a pig and booty watch.
I order 2 double cheeseburgers, fries, and a shake at the King. Minutes later, a gal with a case of acne like Bukowski, places my order on the tabletop, I pity her and ask for a golden crown, she reaches under the counter, handing me the prize.
I sit in a rigid plastic booth, eat, then put on my golden crown, It fits perfectly.
Walking Times Square, I feel like a king wearing his crown.
At Body & Pole, I sit in a booth, the girls move snake-like wrapping themselves around the poles. I bang down a couple shots of tequila and split. The joint's a money swamp.
I take the elevated train back to the Bowery where the dives serve cheap drinks.
Cruising the Bowery I notice a green neon sign edged by the night, it reads Suicide Hall, I walk inside. The joint's a hangout for soldiers, sailors, and hookers. Shockingly, Carbolic Acid suices are available and as rumor has it, on average 4 stiffs a week are hauled away by undertakers— I prefer years of self-destruction, downing shots of hard liquor to on-the-spot Carbolic suicide.
The sailors drink beer like there's no tomorrow with dank chippies and gay boys on their laps.
The backdrop of Suicide Hall's a buoyant freak show, as the night progresses, lunacy rules as the crowd yaks unintelligible nonsense.
Standing at the bar, eyeballing the freak show, I drink boilermaker after boilermaker, and by midnight I'm
somewhere between a stupor and a coma.
Passing out, I fall to the floor, the barman jumps over
the counter, grabbing my collar and dragging me outside.
Gone, I'm lying on the sidewalk.
The following morning I wake in a dank cell tattooed with graffiti— hearts, names, genitals, vaginas,. and gang symbols
After a delicious breakfast of cold black coffee and dry white bread, I’m cuffed by a trustee and led through a maze of metal doors to the psych ward— a large room where a couple of nut jobs are watching static noise on an old TV, and the rest of the psychos are doing what psychos do— bouncing back and forth, waking in circles, and talking to themselves.
Two Black orderlies forcefully escort me to the social worker's office, there's a Jewess with an afro wearing bifocals sitting at her desk.
She eyeballs me saying,
I’m Miss Lipshitz, Mr. Lucowski you look god awful, what's your problem?
I’m a drunk ma'am, but I’m no psycho.
Very well Mr. Lucowski, we’re going to hold you here until you understand the value of sobriety, you'll be required to attend AA meetings as well.
Can I call my lawyer Miss Libshitz? She laughs and says,
I'm the judge and the jury around here,
looking at the orderlies she says,
get him outta here.
I couldn’t believe it, the Jewess is hauling me over the coals, is the bitch going to send me for electroshock next?
