by Nik Cohn
Nobody living had to tell her that twice. Right then, she’d pushed her plate away, would not eat another bite. ‘No need to be nice,’ she said. ‘Just tell me.’
So he told her. He had thought the whole thing over, looked at it all around, from his angle and hers, and the angle of his folks in New Iberia, his mom and all of her relations. And he’d decided it just wasn’t right. ‘Why not?’ Lush Life demanded.
‘My mom,’ said Tommy Blalock. ‘She’s kind of set in her ways. Old-fashioned, you might say. Prejudiced.’
‘So what?’
‘She never met no Puerto Ricans.’
It was the worst thing he could have told her. The worst thing you could say to any Dominican. Without a word or sign, Lush Life had stood up from the table. He tried to give her fifty dollars, but she threw it in his face. She didn’t need his dirty money, she still had the two twenties she’d taken from his pants pocket in the night, and she walked them right over to Ninth Avenue. ‘Three dime bags. Three bags full,’ she said. ‘Plus ten for the powder room.’ Steadily, without impatience, she scratched her thighs, her arms, her groin. ‘A gay divorcee,’ she said. ‘If only I’d had my knife, I’d be a merry widow.’
When I raised up my window and looked up, the small square patch of sky was a muddy brown, a paper towel soaked in spilled tea. The wind trapped in the airshaft swooshed and roared like shook foil.
‘Take me,’ said Lush Life. Fumbling, she raised up off the bed. Her long nails scrabbled at the wallpaper, the nosegays of blue and pink roses. ‘Take me home,’ she said.
Her own room had not been disturbed. Though she’d left it, she had not checked out. ‘Saves time and trouble,’ she said, ‘And misunderstandings about the rent.’
The cyclostyled note pinned inside her door, INTIMATE ACCOMMODATIONS FOR THE DISCERNING FEW, still overlooked a bunker. If anything, Lush Life’s pallet on the floor, carved out of curtains, scarves, and wadded sacking, had grown more deeply entrenched with the months. Old Glory had been replaced by the Stars and Bars; and there was a Louisiana State Tourist Board poster of Bayou Lafourche at dusk tacked up where Madame Butterfly had been.
On the shellacked drop-curtain that masked the window, a blown-up photograph of a beaming Huey Long, captioned KINGFISH, hung askew. ‘Some old football player. Used to be Tommy’s coach,’ Lush Life said. ‘Or his daddy, I forget.’ She tore it down without rancor, folded it into a paper dart, and launched it into the dawn. Instantly, the wind picked it up and swirled it off down the street, flailing into Times Square. ‘End around, flea flicker. Flushed out of the pocket,’ said Lush Life. ‘Sacked.’ She lost her balance, tumbled down on her Japanesque pillows. ‘Oh, those play-action fakes,’ she said.
A garbage truck came around. The exterminating thump of its compactors made Lush Life roll and twist, tuck her knees high and tight into her flat chest. ‘The other deck. It’s in my shoe,’ she said, scratching, scratching. ‘We could share.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Stiffs can’t.’ She looked down her coiled body, wrapped tightly in walls of stuff. ‘Only embryos.’ But anger was too much like work. So was self-pity, grief, all things but smack. ‘Know something? I’m glad,’ she said again. Her Debbie Reynolds wig had slipped, and blonde flick-ups kept crawling inside her mouth. ‘I am just so thankful,’ she said.
For a minute or two, the drug enlivened her. She climbed back on her feet, came back towards the window, and she pulled aside the drop-curtain; she let the light touch her face. The air was grayish now, thick with grit, but she seemed not to feel its sting.
Her voice was a sandpaper rasp; then it was a dying motor. ‘Fresh air,’ she said. The skin across her cheekbones was drawn so tight, I could seem to read her ebb and flow, every flinch of her nerve ends. ‘Can you feel?’ she asked. ‘Can you?’ But she had started to scratch again; she was gone before I could speak.
A hundred yards along the street, Times Square was starting over. By leaning out and craning, I could just catch its throb, its gathering bloodbeat. ‘I’m falling,’ Lush Life said. The block was full of loose ends and flying dust. ‘I fell,’ she said.
Something blackish and acrid hurled into our faces. Lush Life squeaked and turned her head, buried herself in my neck. When I eased her back, away from the light, her eyes fogged over, drooped shut. The lids were a deep, bruised purple; a weak and ragged pulse twitched her throat. ‘Pity the poor sailors,’ said Lush Life, ‘out on a night like this.’
Coda
The morning I checked out of the Hotel Moose, it was warm and sticky and raining, a light drizzle like Scotch mist. Crossing Times Square, I felt myself drifting in a steam bath. It was noon; nobody was out but tourists and cops, a few kids. At the foot of Father Duffy’s statue, I sat down and rested. One of the kids came up and asked me for the time, while his partner tried to snatch my typewriter. ‘Early,’ I said.
‘Seems late,’ said the kid.
In Jimmy’s Corner, I sat waiting for Sasha. To pass the time, I reread Irving Wallace’s account of Chang and Eng, Barnum’s twins. To me, it was the tale of tales, the whole of Broadway. ‘Chang and Eng were born in Meklong, Siam, a small village near Bangkok. Their father was an impoverished Chinese fisherman. From birth, they were united by a thick, fleshy ligament covered with skin, like a four-inch arm, connecting their lower chests. At first, this band held them face to face, but as they grew, it stretched to five and a half inches, allowing them to stand and move sideways. The joint was sensitive but strong. If it was touched at the middle, both boys felt the sensation. Yet so sturdy was it that if one of the Twins happened to trip and lose his balance, the ligament held him dangling but firm.
‘With some difficulty, Chang and Eng learned to walk in step and then to swim with considerable agility in the near-by river. When they were nineteen years old, and a familiar sight to their neighbors, they were seen swimming one day by an American sailing-master, Captain Coffin, of the ship Sachem. Amazed at the sight, the Captain consulted Robert Hunter, a Scotch merchant, and together they determined to purchase the boys and exhibit them. They made inquiries. The father of the Twins had recently died, and their mother was prepared to bargain. In due time a contract was signed, money changed hands, and Coffin and Hunter took the Siamese Twins to England.
‘After being shown on the Continent for many years, Chang and Eng were taken to Boston and then to New York. Advertised as “The Siamese Double Boys,” they at once became a center of great interest and controversy. There was a rumor that they were not genuinely joined. The controversy attracted Barnum. He met them, was satisfied that they were true freaks, and bought up their contract. After that, they were shown at the American Museum regularly.
‘The Siamese Twins were the most temperamental of Barnum’s freak family. Nature had played more than one cruel joke on them. For though Chang and Eng were sentenced to each other, they were opposite in every way and disliked one another. Chang, the slightly shorter one on the Twins’ own left, enjoyed wine and women; Eng, the more studious and intellectual, liked an evening of chess. Their differences were reported by the Philadelphia Medical Times in 1874: ‘What Chang liked to eat, Eng detested. Eng was very good-natured, Chang cross and irritable. The sickness of one had no effect upon the other so that while one would be suffering from fever, the pulse of the other would beat at its natural rate. Chang drank pretty heavily – at times getting drunk; but Eng never felt any influence from the debauch of the brother. They often quarrelled; and, of course, under the circumstances their quarrels were bitter. They sometimes came to blows, and on one occasion came under the jurisdiction of the courts.’
‘Left alone, they would brood in silence. Sometimes, they would agree to do first what one wanted, then what the other wanted. Their only interests in common were fishing, hunting, and wood-cutting. Although their abnormality had made them wealthy, they lived only to be free of one another. Countless doctors were visited, but not one promised them that they could live a single d
ay cut apart.
‘Once, after a particularily bitter quarrel, they decided to defy medical advice. According to the Medical Times: ‘Chang and Eng applied to Dr Hollingsworth to separate them; Eng affirmed that Chang was so bad that he could live no longer with him; and Chang stated that he was satisfied to be separated, only asking that he be given an equal chance with his brother, and that the band be cut exactly in the middle. Cooler counsels prevailed.’
‘Enjoying American freedom and American dollars, the Twins agreed to apply for citizenship. At the naturalization office they learned that they must have a Christian or family name. They had no names other than Chang and Eng. An applicant standing in line behind them, overhearing the nature of the problem, offered his last name. It was Bunker. And so the Siamese Twins became Chang Bunker and Eng Bunker, American citizens.
‘At last, wearying of the grueling Museum routine, they gave Barnum notice and retired to a plantation near Mount Airy, North Carolina. They relaxed and let their slaves do the work. Then, almost simultaneously, when they were forty-two, they fell in love with the young daughters of a poor Irish farmer in the neighborhood. It was a double wedding. Eng married Sally Yates, and Chang married Addie Yates. Now diplomacy and compromise were required. The Twins built a second mansion, a mile away from the first. Two separate households were established. Chang and Eng and Sally spent three days in Eng’s house, and then, Chang and Eng and Addie spent three days in Chang’s house. Apparently the arrangement was not inhibiting. The Twins produced twenty-one children.
‘The Civil War took their slaves and their wealth from them. They were forced back into show business. They asked Barnum to manage them, and he agreed. When their comeback proved unsuccessful in New York, Barnum decided to send them abroad. “I sent them to Great Britain where, in all the principal places, and for about a year, their levees were continually crowded,” the showman wrote. “In all probability the great success attending this enterprise was much enhanced, if not actually caused, by extensive announcements in advance that the main purpose of Chang-Eng’s visit to Europe was to consult the most eminent medical and surgical talent with regard to the safety of separating the twins.”
‘Again they were wealthy. And again they took leave of Barnum and retired with their wives to the plantation near Mount Airy. They were sixty-three years old, and though Chang had been unwell, the future was bright. The end came suddenly, and the Annual Register reported it in 1874 to the Twins’ vast English following:
‘“They were at Chang’s residence, and the evening of that day was the appointed time for a removal to Eng’s dwelling. The day was cold and Chang had been complaining for a couple of months past of being very ill. On Friday evening they retired to a small room by themselves and went to bed, but Chang was very restless. Sometime between midnight and daybreak they got up and sat by the fire. Again Eng protested and said he wished to lie down, as he was sleepy. Chang stoutly refused and replied that it hurt his breast to recline. After a while they retired to their bed, and Eng fell into a deep sleep. After four o’clock one of the sons came into the room, and going to the bedside, discovered that his uncle was dead. Eng was awakened by the noise and in the greatest alarm turned and looked upon the lifeless form beside him, and was seized with violent nervous paroxysms.
‘“No physicians were at hand, and it being three miles to the town of Mount Airy, some time elapsed before one could be summoned. A messenger was dispatched to the village for Dr Hollingsworth, and he sent his brother, also a physician, at once to the plantation but before he arrived the vital spark had fled, and the Siamese twins were dead.”’
Done reading, I told the tale to the barmaid. She was busy washing glasses, she did not look up. ‘Don’t talk to me about families,’ she said. ‘You never met my cousin Bruno.’ But before she could elaborate, Sasha came.
He walked in bleeding but happy. Hannah Sophia, his Hanoverian masseuse, had caught him with a right cross and dropped him for the count, then deposited him in sections on the sidewalk. It was the sign that he’d been awaiting. ‘My up-wake call,’ he said. The O’Fays were leaving on a sixty-day tour of Texas and Oklahoma. Till this morning, he hadn’t been sure if he should join them. Now he was, and the Greyhound was leaving at 4 p.m.
I would miss him. But he had already told me that he was done walking Broadway. North of Columbus Circle, it became a different game. Though there were ten miles left in Manhattan, four more in the Bronx, it was no longer a street of dreams. Citizens lived in those regions, civilians with jobs and families, responsibilities. Its history was not primarily of adventure but of consolidation; of neighborhoods and races, the Irish, the Jews, the African-Americans and Hispanics, and now the Koreans, the Cambodians, the Vietnamese; first and last, of survival: ‘Real people. Real life,’ Sasha said. ‘Was nice knowing you.’
In warm, wet stickiness, we walked back together to Times Square. Sasha’s drums were downtown, doing lunch with the other O’Fays; my suitcase was already on 125th Street. Through the haze we watched the ticker tape, one last time, THE REVEREND ORAL ROBERTS, it said, ANNOUNCES A RAIN OF TOADS.
I headed north.
Shelter Island, December 9, 1990
In memory of Geraldo Cruz
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In addition to the persons in these pages, I met and was helped by many others. For their generosity, time, and patience, I would like to thank the following in particular: Neil Byrne, hansom-cab proprietor; Dee Dee Darnell, singer; Eddie Blunt, ex-boxer; Patrick Bedford, actor; Michael Amato, talent agent; Larry Brown, philosopher; Vicki La Motta, model; Jane Dentinger, writer; Charles Cook, dancer; Marina Voikhanskaya, trick cyclist; Seymour Foreman and Irving Edelman, lawyers; Jim Fleetwood, operatic bass; Jerry and Bea Gasman, Academy Clothing; Billy Gallagher, Broadway folklorist; Don George, songwriter; Leroy Goldfarb, Wall Street investor; Velma, mentalist; Rocky Graziano, middleweight champ; Steven Greenberg, investor; Eddie Jaffe, press agent; Jonah Jones, trumpeter; Frank Scully, saloon-keeper; Joe Kaliff, cartoonist; Jennifer Lewis, diva; Big Nick Nicholas, tenor saxman; Fred ‘Taxi’ Mitchell, cab driver and musician; Earl McGrath, boulevardier; Eddie Murphy, gay activist; Madam Julia Drobner and Andy Anselmo, voice coaches; Maria Nelson, entrepreneur; Maurice Hines, dancer; Al Flosso, magic-shop owner; Milo O’Shea, actor; Joel Reed, film producer; Max Rosey, publicist; Marvin Safir, restaurateur; Peggy Doyle, restaurateuse; Whitney Reis, actress; Sandy Saddler, lightweight champ; Larry and Dorothy Speir, Memory Lane Music; Ken Smith, private detective; Seymour Stein, Sire Records; Bob Appel, the Knitting Factory; Bambi, pocket-sized Venus; Henny Youngman, comedian; Sister Rosa, spiritual healer; Sonny Sharrock, guitarist; Gustav Schoeffer, taxidermist; Gene Saks, theatrical director; Toma Holley, dress designer.
Robert Hughes, Michael Thomas, and Ken Auletta were invaluable in supplying background. Sean Doyle was my first guide and mentor. Geraldine Fitzgerald, a marvellous woman, gave me inspiration. Fred and Mary Parvin gave me shelter. Fred Flores gave me heart.
And my wife, Michaela? Don’t ask.
AFTERWORD
The Heart of the World has just turned twenty-five. Not old in book years, yet it seems to speak of a vanished world. Broadway the street survives. Its spirit? RIP.
When I moved to New York in 1975, that spirit seemed indestructible. I had an apartment off Broadway at 79th St, and my bar was the Dublin House, right across the boulevard. Most of its denizens had been around for decades. They’d come from Ireland, Puerto Rico, Brazil, and all points American, hoping for big things. The big things had eluded them, but few were embittered. In lieu of success, they’d had action. Who would ask for more from a life?
Like most great passions in my life, my own love affair with Broadway began as an idea, long before I set foot there. As I have written elsewhere, the dreaming man who cut my hair as a child had been a merchant seaman and once spent New Year’s Eve on Times Square. When I asked him what it was like, he answered, ‘like nothing on earth.’ And this was the ima
ge that stuck with me: a place apart, where every sensation was quickened and all things became possible.
Now that I was finally here, I walked it obsessively. Every day I’d cover another thirty or forty blocks, washing back and forth on the human tide, borne up on its energy. Every doorway and upstairs window seemed to promise its own story. But how to uncover them? I had no idea.
My friend Jon Bradshaw used to drink with me at the Dublin House. It was there that we had the conversation which starts The Heart of the World. Bradshaw knew me far better than I knew myself and saw what I didn’t, that my daily rambles on Broadway were symptoms. I was pregnant with book.
From then on, my walking had an agenda. I started to work my way methodically from the Battery up, a few blocks at a time. I boned up on the literature, haunted press libraries, knocked on doors, conducted interviews; bought an old wood filing cabinet at a yard sale and filled its drawers with research. After two years, I’d collected enough raw material for a door-stopper. The only problem was, I had no idea what to do with it all.
This was a new experience for me. In my early books, I’d always known pretty much where I was heading and how I intended to get there. I had opinions, theories, rants for all occasions, and out they poured, an unstoppable flood. By nature, I was controlling. But Broadway refused control. What exactly was I aiming for? A history? Some form of travelogue? A meditation on urban fantasy vs. reality? I couldn’t make up my mind.
Years passed. My walking became more sporadic, the idea behind it ever more elusive. Instead of writing, I nattered. I’d lost my way, both in work and in my life. Finally, in the early 1980s, I left New York and went to live on an island. Even there, I couldn’t let Broadway go. I went on nattering and not writing, until one night my wife, in her loving way, said, ‘Have you ever tried shutting up?’
