Sometime in New Haven - Part III

This is not Berlin. It is New Haven!

Sometime in New Haven - The Story of the New Haven Berlin Survivors - Part III

OK - it was the right window of the round room on the top floor where the TV went flying. Amazing that no one was underneath at the time. And those walking by acted like nothing out of the ordinary was happening!

This is part three of a story that will continue for a few months. Sorry - there are a lot of gutter balls and strikes and what-have-you to discuss in this story. There is a historically significant event coming up in the next part... but let's not get ahead of ourselves...

Sometime in New Haven - Part III

SOMETIME IN NEW HAVEN
The Story of the New Haven
Berlin Survivors

Part III

"Where’s Ronnie? I thought he was coming with you?” I asked.
“He’s at my place,” Aragon said. “You boys good for a shot?”
Aragon called to Leo the bartender and ordered three shots of Jack Daniels and a soda to wash his down.
“Jack, did you meet Rory at Fitzwilly’s?” Aragon asked.
“Yeah, and we got to see Mike give the business to some asshole there,” Jack said.
“No, I don’t care about that,” Aragon said. “Michael is the master when it comes to fucking with people. What I need to know is if Rory stuck to his same routine.”
“Of course,” Jack said.
“Hey, fuck you,” I said to Aragon.
“I mean, he didn’t actually talk to Sara or anything, did he?” Aragon asked Jack. “He just sat and waved, right?”
“Leo,” I called. “Can you give my friends here a couple more shots?”
“That won’t save you tonight,” Aragon said.
“Yeah, but I figured it was worth a shot,” I said.
“So, why isn’t Ronnie here?” Jack asked.
“I gave him a key to my place this afternoon and told him to meet me there,” Aragon said. “Besides, he has to get in there tomorrow and grab his drum set and your amps and leave the key for the landlord.”
Aragon, who hated all alcohol except Jack Daniels, signaled for Leo to give him another soda.
“When he got to my place today, though, he was greeted by a note telling him to grab a beer from the cooler, put on the stereo headphones and hit the play button on my cassette deck,” Aragon said with a grin. “It’s time to see if Ronnie is a Berlin Survivor.”
“You are ruthless,” Jack said. “But I’m not sure it is necessary. You’re almost gone.”
Jack was a Berlin Survivor, of course, but he often complained of being “haunted” by the cries of “The Kids.” He wouldn’t talk about it much. But every once in a while, when he was really fucked up, he would ask me if I thought “The Kids” survived. I never knew how to answer that question.
But it was during one of those conversations that we came up with the “Berlin Survival Test.”
Sometimes, if I didn’t want to get into a heavy conversation, I would try to tell him that “The Kids” is only a song. Jack would just laugh and shake his head and say “The Kids” are out there, believe me. I just need to know how the kids survived.”
Jack’s mother died when he was small and I think he related to the kids having to go through life without a mother. He never talked about his mother and “Berlin” in the same breath. I just assumed it had an effect on him.
“Well, Ronnie’s been playing with us for quite some time,” Aragon said. “It’s time he took the test.”
“I can’t believe we never got around to giving him the test before this,” I said. “He almost escaped unscratched.”
I thought the idea of Ronnie, who regularly listens to stuff like the Grateful Dead and Little Feat, sitting down to Lou Reed’s “Berlin” was almost funny. I played plenty of Lou Reed for Ronnie every time he was at the house, and he seemed to really like the “Growing Up in Public” album, and he agreed - as anyone who entered our house really had to - that the Velvet Underground was pure genius - but we never went through “Berlin” from start to finish.
“Oh shit,” I said, leaning towards Aragon, who was standing between the two bar stools. “Is Ronnie doing acid? He had some acid earlier and said he wanted to drop some. Do you know if he did?”
“I don’t know,” Aragon said.
“Well, I don’t know if 'Berlin' on acid is such a good idea,” I said.
“I’m not sure either,” Jack said. “Maybe we should call him. I’m not sure 'Berlin' is such a good idea with Ronnie anyway.”
“Phone’s disconnected,” Aragon said. “But the electricity will hopefully be on until morning.”
“Maybe we should head over there,” Jack said.
“You guys really know how to kill a party,” Aragon said.
We hopped into Aragon’s Volkswagen Beetle and headed to his apartment on Sherman Avenue listening to a Television cassette.
“Are we listening to this because your television goes tonight?” Jack asked.
“No, we’re listening to this because they are one of the five best fucken' bands that ever played,” Aragon answered. “But the television goes tonight.”
We weren’t sure what Aragon had planned for his television, but we knew it would be good.

“Geez, I wonder if Ronnie is still alive,” Aragon said, parking the car.
“I wonder if he is and wishes he wasn’t,” Jack said.
“I wonder if he’s dead, if can we be nailed for inflicting a cruel and unusual punishment on someone?,” I offered.
We ran up the three flights of stairs to Aragon’s apartment and burst through the door to find Ronnie sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of his drum set. I was struck by how empty Aragon’s apartment was. The place where we would sit for hours and talk about music while surrounded by the largest record collection I had ever seen - a product of his days in college radio. Now it is almost empty. Just some musical equipment, a mattress roll in the corner, a television on a small, folding table and an echo that filled the apartment was all that was left.
“So, what do you think of the tape?” Aragon asked. “You look like you survived just fine.”
Ronnie looked up and, after a lengthy pause, asked, “Aragon, do you know why Lou Reed made this record?”
Ronnie looked like he was deep in a troubled thought.
“I don’t know, Ronnie, I guess because it had to be made,” Aragon said, pacing the near-empty apartment.
“It is sad, though, don’t you think? Don’t you think it’s sad?” Ronnie asked.
“So, did you drop some acid?” I asked.
“Yeah, but I think it helped because I don’t think I could have listened to this any other way,” Ronnie said, sounding almost dismissive that mixing acid and "Berlin" should prompt concern. “Maybe I could hear ‘Ripple’ by the Dead once, just to mellow me out.”
“All my Dead is already in Boston,” Aragon said, opening three Schlitz beers and pouring four shots of Jack Daniels. “How about some Modern Lovers? Or Miles Davis?”
“How about ‘Mind Games’ by John Lennon,” Ronnie asked.
“How about ‘Metal Machine Music’,” I jokingly said of the Lou Reed double album masterpiece that featured nothing but feedback and drone.
“Ronnie may jump out the window on that one,” Aragon said.
“Do you have ‘Hunky Dory’ by Bowie?” I asked. “That would be a perfect follow-up.”
“How about some Sire?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, let’s play,” Ronnie said. “But wait… Why did they have to take the kids from that woman? How could someone write a song that justifies and crucifies all in one four-minute period? How is the listener supposed to react?”
“The same way you did,” Aragon said.
“But why would he convince us that this woman was bad, from his perspective and from the perspective of society,” Ronnie said, his soft, high-pitched voice rising. “And then, when we push aside the tragedy long enough to think that maybe it was the right thing to do, that it was maybe right that this woman doesn’t raise the children, he brings in the children’s perspective?”
“Because Lou Reed is not a songwriter; he’s an artist,” Aragon said.
“But, when he recorded that album, he had to know he was telling a tragic story,” Ronnie said. “There is death and destruction! Putting the crying children in was tough. It didn’t really make it a better song. But it wasn’t just a song anymore. I don’t know what it was, though.”
“Look, I don’t think that’s Lou Reed’s best album, but it is a masterpiece for what it is,” I said, a little frustrated that "Berlin" was being over-analyzed, although I was about to jump in with both feet. “He brings a story to life. That’s what his music does; it shows you life. ‘Berlin’ is like the anti-‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ At the end, instead of George Bailey getting the money, getting back his family and having that little Clarence mother-fucker get his wings, Lou Reed leaves you with broken people, broken families and broken lives. Of course the children are crying. It’s painful, but it’s real. He probably could have left that out and he probably could have written all the songs so they could be played on the fucken' radio. But that’s not what a real artist does. Besides, look out the window. There are no fucken George Baileys out there. It’s Berlin.”
“Are we going to fucken' play?” Jack asked, looking very uneasy. “Come on!”
“Aragon, could I have that tape?” Ronnie asked, although I think we all raised our eyebrows at the request.
“You want to listen to it again, don’t you?” Aragon said, almost triumphant.
“Either that or I’m going to burn it,” Ronnie said. “I don’t know which.”
“Let’s play,” I said, turning my amp up.
As was the usual ritual whenever we played at Aragon’s apartment, he grabbed a large tumbler and filled half of it with Jack Daniels. Aragon then turned on the television with the sound off. Looking down at his guitar, Aragon strummed a few chords and looked over at me.
“It’s the Sire farewell jam, let’s start with ‘Sniper’,” he said of a poem I wrote about an overseas G.I. sitting on a rooftop getting ready to jump because he was homesick, although he really wished he had a rifle so he could shoot everyone else.
Aragon and I usually traded off using the single microphone since we only recited our own stuff. Jack wasn’t comfortable sharing his stuff in a musical setting yet.
Between songs, we would drink more shots and beers while Aragon would talk about how we all ought to go to Boston.
“Come on, it’s the place to be. Boston is where the culture is. Boston has a happening music scene. Boston has Fenway Park,” Aragon said.
“You almost convinced me until you got to Fenway,” I said. “Besides, I’m a Yankees' fan. They probably wouldn’t even let me into the city. And you know New York has a better music scene. I’m just going to say one word: Television. And Patty Smith and Richard Hell and the Voidoids.”
“Yeah, well: One; you did a shitty job counting, and two; you are still going to wake up in New Haven tomorrow morning,” Aragon said.
“I’m happy here,” I said. “New Haven is my city.”
“You’re hopeless, Rory,” Aragon said. “Listen, fellas, it’s like the Residents say, ‘Ignorance of Your Culture is not Considered Cool!’”
“Oh, sure, and the only way to have culture is to move to Boston?” Jack, another New Haven fan, said. “What about Paris, Edinburgh, or. . .”
“Or Berlin,” Ronnie said.
“I think you ought to forget about Berlin,’ I said to Ronnie.
“I don’t think I can, but I’ll try,” he said, finally letting out an uneasy smile.
Aragon didn’t tell a lot of people that he was leaving. There was the restaurant’s manager, because he had to give his notice, and then there were the chosen seven or eight people he told, who went with us the night before on a bar hopping farewell adventure.
“I want people to look around one day and say ‘What ever happened to Aragon?’” he reasoned.
“You will be missed,” I said.
“Here, here,” Jack said, raising his shotglass. “Besides, how many people do we know who listen to the Residents?”
“Fuck-you, let’s play,” Aragon said.
More songs and more beers and more shots. Fortunately, when you don’t really have much training in music, you can get sloppy and it sounds about the same as when you started. Somehow we were starting to sound pretty tight musically. We still lacked confidence to play out, even though a lot of people saw us at the house.
“You know, we probably could have played out if Rory wasn’t such a chicken,” Aragon said.
“Fuck you,” I said. “I don’t think we could have pulled this off just yet, and you all agreed, so it wasn’t just me.”
“What about Ron’s Place?” Aragon said.
“Especially at Ron’s Place,” I said of the “house of punk” in New Haven. “They would have torn us up. Sometimes we sound like we could pull it off and other times we sound like shit.”
“Come on Rory,” Aragon said. “You were just afraid.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But that’s only a small part of it.”
Ron’s Place on Chapel Street was a tiny bar that booked punk bands whose music was good, but the names were better. Names like The Vatican Commandos, Desperate Bellboys, Next, Saucers, October Days, Thinking Out Loud, and The Poodle Boys. It was the only place in town to hear really good original music. With black walls and an inch of water on the bathroom floors, Ron’s had an atmosphere that couldn’t be beat. It was like hanging out in someone’s basement.
Rock-n-roll was at a crossroad, it seemed, between the established rockers who lost their inspiration and the punks who had all the inspiration. I loved The Who: Pete Townshend will always be a God and John Entwhistle will always be the one who first inspired me to pick up a bass guitar, but, as a group, they were dead. Fortunately, Townshend put out a great solo album in “Empty Glass” - he was still relevant. But The Who were dead.
The Rolling Stones were already dead. Hell, even Aerosmith, who blasted onto the rock scene with a debut album that left many of the established acts face-first in the dust, were about to turn into a Vegas act now that Brad Whitford and Joe Perry were gone.
The only exceptions, in my mind, were The Kinks, Lou Reed and Iggy Pop because everyone was still trying to sound like them. And they were still releasing albums worth listening to.
The Sex Pistols, of course, made one of the best albums of all time in “Never Mind the Bollocks.” The Clash were one of the absolute best bands in the world, although a little full of themselves. Music was changing fast and we were observing; having a blast and trying to play along.
“Aragon, are you going to continue playing in Boston?” Jack asked.
“Of course,” Aragon said.
“But with a band?”
“I don’t know,” Aragon said. “I used to be content just writing music and playing all night with the television on and keeping it to myself. Then Rory came and fucked that up. I don’t know what I’ll be doing. This type of situation doesn’t come along very often.”
Aragon and I got along well at work when we first met at Fitzwilly’s. We hit it off musically right away. We got really tight when we went to New York with a few people to see Public Image Ltd and James “Blood” Ulmar at the Palladium. The other two guys we traveled with wanted to skate in Central Park’s Woolman Rink, but Aragon and I wanted no part of it. So, while they skated, we sat on a nearby rock drinking beer and talking about writing and music. By the time the other two were done skating, Aragon and I decided we would start jamming together. Besides, we were convinced we both knew the same three chords.
Over the past few months, whenever there was a party at my place – which was often – people would come downstairs to the living room to check us out. We actually got into the reactions of the people watching; reactions that ranged from looks of amused curiosity to clenched fists of approval. We loved playing for people at the house. It was always a relatively safe, supportive crowd.
“We had a pretty good time, huh?” I asked, looking over at Aragon.
“Fuck you, let’s play,” Aragon said, pouring the last of the Jack Daniels into his tumbler. “Let’s go, the television is gone on this one.”
The last of the Jack Daniels meant the last song. And it would last as long as the Jack Daniels, which in the case of half a tumbler usually meant about 45 minutes.
I played a few notes, a jumpy riff, which sounded like an unintentional rip-off of The Who’s “My Generation.” (yes, yes, I know… The Who were dead, but their music was still a major inspiration to me). Ronnie jumped in, although he looked like he was still deep in thought over “Berlin.” Jack quickly jumped in as well, playing what sounded like a backwards – or sideways – minor scale. Aragon switched between picking notes to striking chords and violently shaking the whammy bar.
I sang a poem about rebellion, which I wrote in high school, where every other line ended in “Fuck You,” then we went off on a musical tangent for the next half hour or so. Then Aragon stepped to the microphone, and, as usual, tossed a little humor in:
“The Killer awoke before dawn,” Aragon said in his best Jim Morrison voice. “He put ‘The Three Stooges’ on.” After a chuckle, and a few minutes of jamming, Aragon threw in a verse he had stored in his head about a subject he saved his most bitter writing for: his family.
With each line about unacceptance, denial and banishment, Aragon would strike the guitar with his fist to start a drone or feedback to sing over. By this time, Jack and I were playing the same “My Generation”-type notes over Ronnie’s steady beat to keep the groove going.
Finally, as he started chanting the last lines, something about telling his sister to fuck off, over and over, he laid the guitar on the floor in front of the amp, where it still hummed loudly, and grabbed another mouthful of Jack Daniels. Then he started screaming the last lines into the microphone: “Wasn’t that you who walked right past by me. Existing…. Judging in your own little world. You didn’t even look up to say hello. No acknowledgment. No nothing. No. No. But it couldn’t have been you. Because you never smiled. God knows I tried; Mom watched and cried; and cried. You wouldn’t talk you wouldn’t tell us. You shut us out. You wouldn’t smile.” Aragon was kicking the guitar, which at this point was screaming with feedback. Then, as promised, Aragon grabbed the television, which was still on, and dropped it on the floor next to the guitar so the vibrations would allow the guitar to make all new sounds.
I was impressed with the move and wondered what we could have done if Aragon had access to even more household appliances. This would make Frank Zappa proud, I thought. And the television was still on; a rerun of the Bob Newhart show played - the characters, like us, oblivious to what may come next.
Then, with another scream of the last lines of his poem, Aragon lifted the television over his 6-foot 2-inch frame. He was a little wobbly from the booze. Not the guitar, I thought, don’t drop it on the guitar! Even Ronnie and Jack looked a little nervous.
Aragon then kicked the guitar to make sure the feedback would sustain and took two steps to an unopened kitchen window and threw the television through it. He quickly crouched down, avoiding the shattering glass and the whip of the cord as it pulled from the wall plug. He grabbed his guitar, viciously strumming the strings to add to the noise.
Ronnie had an “Oh, shit, we’re all going to jail” look on his face. I walked over to the window, still playing, trying to get a peek outside.
Aragon, meanwhile, started a new chant, “Yeah, yeah, no television tonight/ yeah, yeah, it’s time to live/ it’s time to take control.” Jack looked pissed.
This is the third fucken' floor, I thought. I prayed no one was under the television, although there never seemed to be anyone in the few-foot-wide fenced-in yard circling the house on the corner of Sherman and Elm streets. No one was under the television when I finally caught a glimpse of it three floors below and smashed on the front lawn. A few people on the sidewalk were looking up at the broken window, but they continued walking as they looked.
Aragon dropped his guitar on the floor, creating yet more feedback, and ran through the curtain which doubled as a bedroom door into the next room. The rest of us played until the feedback stopped, slowing the tempo with the fading sound. Finally there was no drone of feedback. No bass. No drums. No guitar.
Ronnie went to the window, quickly followed by Jack and then me. We were amazed at how people just walked by like nothing happened. Apparently, if anyone saw the television fly, they didn’t bother to call the police.
“Shit,” Ronnie said, breaking the silence.
“That was music!,” I said. That’s what we fucken' do fellas.”
“I want to thank everyone on behalf of the group and I hope we passed the audition,” Aragon said in his best Liverpool accent as he came back into the room. “Well, we ended on a high note. Let’s get the fuck out of here and grab one for the road.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Let’s leave the scene of the crime.”
Jack and I took our guitars with us, although Ronnie said he wasn’t eager to return the next day for the drums and amps. As we left the apartment, walking past the television wreckage, Ronnie said, “I don’t think I want to be around when you get rid of your refrigerator.”

Sometime in New Haven - The Story of the New Haven Berlin Survivors - Part 2

This story is going to go on for awhile. There area lot of parts ("a lot of strikes, gutter balls, what-have-you..." thanks, Dude)... Above is the Whitney Barn. In the background you can see a small piece of the Eli Whitney Boarding House, which a bunch of us lived in during the time our story was written. The Barn would be the site where, some years later, the New Haven band Thinking Out Loud put on the musical-comedy "Yankee Go Home" prior to taking it to the Edinburgh Festival. You can see a photo of the TOL boys in July 2007... but that's another story... Now for Part 2...

Sometime in New Haven Part 2

Whitney Barn (top) and neighboring Eli Whitney Boarding House

SOMETIME IN NEW HAVEN
The Story of the New Haven
Berlin Survivors

Part II

“Hey, Rory, what can I get for you?” Michael asked as he tossed a cocktail napkin in front of my favorite seat at the Fitzwilly's bar.
“A draft; a Tuorg,” I said as I lit a cigarette and positioned myself so I could see the host station just to the right of the door. “How’s it going for you? It seems like you have a pretty good crowd here for a Monday afternoon.”
“Yeah, Monday happy hour has been pretty good, but there are a few pricks here I could do without,” Michael said. “You see that asshole at the end of the bar, the one waving over here?”
“Yeah, I see him,” I said, as the Billy Joel album "42nd Street" played in the background.
“A real fuckin’ big spender,” Michael said. “He throws large bills on the bar while ordering drinks trying to impress his friends, but he practically grabs the change from my hand to jam it back in his pocket. You know when it’s time to leave, he’ll only leave a buck behind as a tip. These people crack me up.”
“Bartender, excuse me. Hey, buddy, over here,” the guy was yelling, drowning out the conversations of about a dozen or so other people at the bar.
“I’ll ignore him for a few minutes,” Michael said. “So, did you work this morning?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Hey, Bill Bruford is playing at Toad’s tonight.”
“Oh yeah? I thought he was dead or something,” Michael said. "He did some phenomenal work with Crimson. Amazing!"
“Excuse me, bartender, what’s your name?” the guy continued to yell.
“I better get to him before he drives me to violence,” Michael said.
Michael left at the perfect time. As soon as I started scoping out the front door, Sara walked in for her night hosting shift.
She was beautiful; she had wicked Irish looks, complete with freckles, bouncing auburn hair and blue eyes that were capable of piercing and comforting all in one glance. She threw me a smile and a wave as she headed up the stairs. I melted, but managed a wave back.
“Why don’t you just go up and talk to her,” Jack said as he grabbed the bar stool next to me.
“I’ve talked to her on quite a few occasions, mostly small talk though,” I said. “What am I supposed to say? Hi, I’m a cook, I have no car and I live in an animal house. How about a date?”
“It works,” Jack said. “Look, you just can’t buy lines that good. Besides, I thought you were a poet, you’re just cooking so you’ll have some spending money.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Hey, Jack, what will it be?” Michael asked.
“I’ll have a draft,” Jack said.
“Hey, a cook’s convention. How’s it going fellas? Mind if I grab a cigarette?” Brian, a waiter, said as he grabbed my cigarettes off the bar before I could answer. “I need to get a quick nicotine fix before anyone gets seated in my section.”
“Brian, with all the money you are pulling in here, and you’re always bumming cigarettes,” Michael said, placing a beer in front of Jack.
“I usually have cigarettes, I just forgot them today,” Brian said. “Toss me some matches, Mike.”
Michael walked over to the register to grab some matches.
“If either of you cookies are looking to cop any coke, I have some great stuff,” Brian said. “I was doing some last night and felt so mellow that I popped the sun roof out and drove into the country, letting the cold air. . .”
“Geez, cocaine, that sounds so exciting,” Jack interrupted in a monotone. “And my name is Jack. Not Cookie.”
Jack hated cocaine. I, on the other hand, remained undecided, so I did dabble in it on occasion. This would not be one of those occasions, though. Working as a cook paid considerably less than working as a waiter, so I was choosy when it came to what drugs I bought and when I bought them. I usually wouldn’t buy cocaine.
“We’ll keep that in mind,” I said as Brian grabbed the matches.
“Oh, Jack, I met John Marshall the other night; he said he was a friend of yours,” Brian said.
“He stops by the house sometimes,” Jack said. “He knows some of the people I live with.”
“He seems like a really cool guy,” Brian said.
“Seems like it,” Jack said, although we actually thought John Marshall was an idiot.
He was fun to hang out with sometimes, but usually he ended up loud and obnoxious.
“Man, we were busy as hell last night,” Brian said. “Did either of you work? The kitchen crew was humping back there. I ended up making a bundle. I don’t know how you boys do it. I wouldn’t do that.”
Brian quickly headed to the door to smoke my cigarette.
“So, Jack?” I asked. “How the fuck do we do it back there in the kitchen?”
“Just knowing I will never end up like Brian is enough for me,” Jack said. “Besides, it’s a much better situation in a lot of ways because the people are cooler and we can listen to whatever music we want.”
“I hear you,” I said.
“People like Brian, man, I don’t know,” Jack started. “All he talks about is coke. How wonderfully yuppie. But coke doesn’t really deserve to be called a drug. It pales next to real drugs.”
“Oh, it works sometimes,” I said.
“If someone wants an infusion of mellow, they can do it with music,” Jack said.
“The same can be said about any mood, not just mellow,” I said. “Music can do it all.”
“Yeah, I just hate cocaine,” Jack said. “Booze and pot. I think those, and of course acid, are probably the only drugs worth doing. For everything else, we have music.”
Jack and I would take great pride in the fact that we could suggest music to fit certain moods. If a few of us were in Jack’s room, we could say something like, “You know, I had a miserable, hectic day and really need to settle down and get back to earth.” It would then be up to Jack, or whoever’s room it was, to put something on the stereo that would set the desired mood.
David, one of our housemates, would joke that we administer music in the same way a doctor would administer drugs.
“So, did Dick leave?” Michael asked as he came over to check our beers.
“Who, Brian?” I asked.
“Brian, Dick, same thing,” Michael said. “He thinks he’s a big man because he got a piece of his dad’s money, a nice BMW and he always has cocaine. I can’t be bothered with people who have such an inflated view of themselves. I mean, I couldn’t live like that. When the cocaine is gone and the car is wrapped around a tree somewhere, what are you left with?”
“Yeah, but Michael, what do you really think?” I jokingly asked.
“Yeah, I should really open up,” Michael said. “Actually, I never had any trouble speaking my mind. If you think I’m wrong, be around Brian when he has a couple of drinks. And if you get a few shots in him, forget it! Instant asshole! I’ve never seen anyone who can’t handle shots like that kid.”
“Bartender,” the guy at the end of the bar started again. “Set up my friends here.”
“Speaking of assholes,” Michael said. “If he grabs the change from my hand again, I’m going to fix him. Watch.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting sir,” Michael said. “What can I get for you?”
Michael made the drinks and set them up in front of the guy and his four friends. Just as expected, he tossed out a $20 bill and, as Michael was handing him back his change, he grabbed it and jammed it into his pocket.
Michael smiled and placed some glasses on the rack at the end of the bar when he glanced over at us and gave us a nod.
“Excuse me, sir,” Michael said. “I think you dropped something. It looks like you dropped something.”
“Oh,” the guy said, looking at the floor in front of him. “I don’t see anything.”
“I’m sure you dropped something,” Michael said. “It looked like money. I thought it was a five dollar bill.”
“Really?” the guy said, this time moving a barstool to get a better look at the ground.
“Maybe it dropped in there,” Michael said, pointing to a three-foot high plastic trash can a few feet away at the end of the bar which is usually used by the wait staff to throw away napkins and empty ashtrays, and generally toss away anything nasty left on the tables, like the mash potato mountains–or sculptures–some people make during dinner conversation before putting their cigarette out on it as they leave.
“Are you sure?” the guy asked.
“I could be wrong,” Michael said. “But it looked like a five dollar bill. Maybe a ten.”
So the guy, complete with white shirt and tie, reached into the trash can.
“You know, Michael’s a man who has a real handle on his job,” Jack said.
“Sure enough,” I said.
“Well, Rory, we ought to fly if we are going to meet the other guys at Rudy’s,” Jack said.
“Yeah, I saw Ronnie earlier but I haven’t talked to Aragon yet,” I said. “Last I heard we were all meeting at Rudy’s to have a few warm-ups prior to the Sire farewell jam.”
“I think Ronnie and Aragon are already there,” Jack said.
We rifled down our drinks and waved good-bye to Michael, although he was still busy with the guy at the end of the bar. I glanced over to the host station, but Sara wasn’t there.
“It must be in there; keep looking,” a straight-faced Michael said to the guy who was now elbow-deep in discarded, tobacco ash- and ketchup-stained cocktail napkins.
“So, did you hit a few classes today? I asked Jack as we started down the block to Rudy's.
“No, I spent some time at the libraries, Yale’s and the town’s,” Jack said. “I would love to live in a library. Imagine having all that information and all those stories available whenever you wanted.”
“I would rather live in Brian’s Guitars; or Cutler’s record shop,” I said. “Actually, I don’t know where the fuck I would want to live. I guess the house we have is pretty good. I just feel like I should be doing more.”
“More what?” Jack asked.
“More writing and more learning how to play music,” I said. “Maybe I should just go to school. I don’t feel I’m doing anything that has a future. I’m 24-years-old. I just don’t want to do nothing while I’m waiting to do something and then realize there is no something to do.”
“Maybe it’s time we hit the dairy farm in New York,” Jack said.
While stationed in Bitburg, Germany, we talked once of someday trying to find the dairy farm John and Yoko Ono Lennon owned in upstate New York. We figured we could ask John Lennon for music lessons and work the cost of the lessons off as farm hands.
The idea sounded crazy on the surface. But, what would we really have to lose besides bus fare to New York? Besides, we both loved John Lennon, which is why we probably would never invade his privacy like that.
John Lennon, to us, was probably the most truthful rock and roller out there and he always had balls enough to say what needed to be said at any given time. He threw himself out there for any issue he believed in.
“Hey, did you have the new Lennon album on this morning?” Jack asked. “I wasn’t sure if I heard it coming from your room or if I was just dreaming.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I had to hear ‘Starting Over’ one time before work. I think the album is starting to take hold.”
“It cracks me up that some people don’t like it because there is so much Yoko on it,” Jack said. “Like it’s some sort of new revelation that Yoko would be featured on a John Lennon album. It’s like they never heard ‘Sometime in New York City’.”
“Fuck them,” I said, although there were times while listening to Lennon’s music that I wished there wasn’t as much Yoko on it. It never stopped me from listening to the music, though.
“Have you thought about whether you still want to play after Aragon leaves?” Jack asked.
“Sure, I guess, although I don’t see us playing as often as we are now; not 'till I take some lessons,” I said. “And I don’t think we could ever call ourselves ‘Sire’ with Aragon up in Boston.”
“You know, there is a way we could still play as often,” Jack said. “I keep running into this guy Buddy. He is a phenomenal blues guitarist. He sometimes plays on the steps of the Yale Rep. Other times he just sits there chain smoking staring at his guitar case. He wants to find a few guys to play with while he goes through his ordeal.”
“Yeah, and what’s the ordeal?” I asked.
“He’s trying to kick heroin.”
“That’s insane,” I said.
“No, it’s perfect because if he plays with us there is no pressure for him to play out,” Jack said. “And in the process, we’ll learn the blues, which is perfect because if you know the blues you can play anything.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Just think about it,” Jack said. “He wants to play for hours on end while kicking the shit. He’s dying to play with people. He's convinced this is how he will shake the habit!”
At Rudy’s, we grabbed a couple of bar stools and ordered two Schaeffer bar bottles. I was a little miffed there was already a couple at my favorite spot: the table closest to the front window.
Between talk, cigarettes and sips of beer, I tried to figure if there was actually a table–or a chair even–I never sat at during my many visits to Rudy’s. There might have been a few tables, however, that I didn’t carve my initials into. The wood tables and wood trim along the walls were packed with carved initials. There were so many carved initials in the walls, tables, and bar that it was actually difficult to find new spots for initials.
It didn’t seem like the couple sitting at my table were going to leave anytime soon, so we stayed at the bar.
One thing I liked about Rudy’s, aside from the comfortable atmosphere, was that there was always a good mix of people–young and old; students and workers. There were always guys there who were probably going to Rudy’s since before I was born talking with people who were just barely legal drinking age.
Every once in a while, someone would walk in and start scanning the walls looking for the initials they carved years ago. Most remembered Leo, the regular bartender, and they would usually tell some great stories about their time in New Haven.
Rudy’s, which has an enlarged, autographed “Doonsbury” comic strip that mentioned Rudy’s by name hanging above the bar, was billed as “The Friendliest Place in Town.” Who ever came up with that tag was right.
I was getting a little upset about playing that night since it would be our last time together. One thing I learned from five years in the military is people often say they will keep in touch, but they rarely do. Another thing I learned was how to say good-bye. Aragon and I, though, had an agreement that we would only say “Good-bye.” And nothing else. No bullshit. We had each other’s address.
“I can’t believe you boys started without me,” Aragon said as he walked over to the bar. “You should at least have a shot of Jack Daniels waiting for me.”