Sometime in New Haven - Part VI

Sprague Hall is one of the gems in the city - great music on a regular basis - and few people know about it. Haven't been there in a long time, but we used to practice nearby and would quietly stop in afterwards to see who was using the room to rehearse. The talent level, as you would expect from Yale, was incredible!

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

Part VI


We left Fitzwilly’s and started walking downtown.
I was amazed at how things work. Here I was, on what should probably be the most depressing day of my life. One of my best friends moved out of state and one of the people I most admired in the world had been murdered. And I was not going to be given the opportunity to sit around and mope. I wasn’t going to be allowed to have a dark cloud drape my spirits.
Instead, I had a chance to show Sara some of the reasons why I stay in New Haven.
Besides, I knew there would probably be a very good moping party at the house later. The people that lived there thrived on reasons to have a party. I also knew John Lennon’s murder wouldn’t make sense to me no matter what I did; whether I sat around at the house or walked around the city.

We walked to the Copper Kitchen on Chapel Street, a small counter top breakfast joint where we ordered a couple of corn muffins and another coffee and tea.
“So how long have you lived in New Haven?” Sara asked.
“About a year,” I said. “I came here after I got out of the Air Force.”
“Oh yeah, did you fly?”
“As little as possible,” I said, thinking that I should stop telling people I was in the Air Force so they will stop asking me if I flew. “I hate flying. I was a cook. I guess I hate cooking too. But I was able to spend two years in Virginia, a few hours from Virginia Beach, and three years in Germany.”
“That’s great, why did you get out?”
“Because I hated people in uniforms telling me what to do all the time,” I said. “I hated being in a uniform myself. I wouldn’t have stayed in so long, but my parents were proud of the fact that I was in the military. They were enjoying the fact that they had a son in the Air Force so much that I couldn’t really leave early. And I guess I had no reason to leave early. So how long have you been in Connecticut?”
“I just moved to Madison from New Hampshire,” she said, between bites of her muffin.
“So what was in New Hampshire? Do you have family there?”
“No, I went to college there for a few semesters,” she said. “I was living with my boyfriend in Portsmouth the past year, but things weren’t going so well. I had to leave. So I came down here to take a break from everything. I’m living with mom and my twin brother, but I don’t know how long that can last. I always thought by the time I was 23 I would be doing something besides living at home.”
“Hey, didn’t we all. But it works as a short term plan,” I said. “So what do you eventually want to do?”
“In life?” she said. “Go back to school to be a social worker. I want to work with kids. I really want to help kids. What about you?”
“I’m not too sure about that one,” I said. “I want to play music and write, but I don’t know if I can really make a living at it. I don’t know what I want to do to sustain my music and writing habit. I figure it would have to be something where I figured I was doing some good.”
We finished our muffins and both lit up cigarettes. I was thinking that I had to find out more about this boyfriend situation. It was just my luck, though, that a boyfriend would drift into the conversation.
In the background, the radio news report talked about John Lennon’s murder ("ex-Beatle killed by a deranged fan"). I tried to listen to see if there were any more details, something that would make me understand why it happened. I couldn’t hear, although a handful of people walked over and huddled by the radio.
“Are you originally from New Haven?” she asked.
“No,” I said, taking another drag and watching the smoke float to the ceiling. “I’m originally from Stratford. While in high school, my friends and I used to come to New Haven all the time. This was where everything seemed to be happening. So after five years in the Air Force, away from friends and family, I thought this would be the perfect place to start new. This is a good place. There seems to be a lot going on every day here.”
“Like what?” she asked in a challenging tone.
“Well, do you want to check out some music?”
“Now?” she asked.
“Now,” I said.
“Where can you do that on a Tuesday afternoon?” she asked.
“Yale.”
“My only dealings with people from Yale is from the restaurant,” Sara said. “And I’m less than impressed with the way some of these people act.”
“It’s probably a good thing we do this because they all aren’t like some of the arrogant little shits you meet at Fitzwilly’s, where they are usually running wild with Daddy’s credit card thinking we are some substitute for the servants that wiped their asses back home,” I said, thinking I may have gone a little too far on that tirade. “Most of the people you meet outside of that situation –outside the restaurant - are pretty cool.”
I found that there are actually two Yales. The first is the one we always bitch about, the arrogant little shits. The other Yale helps make New Haven very cool. We walked past the green and up College Street towards Sprague Hall, which is a recital hall next to Woolsey Hall. Like any walk through New Haven, it was inevitable that you would be cutting through some corner of Yale. As much as I complained about some of the Yalies, I knew that if you took Yale out of New Haven you would be left with Meriden.

“What is that song?” I asked, finding something very familiar in what Sara was humming.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I hum it all the time and half the time I don’t realize I’m doing it.”
“It sounds familiar,” I said.
“Yeah, my auntie used to sing it all the time when I was a young girl, but I don’t know what it is,” Sara said. “My auntie - my mom - says she thinks she heard someone sing the song at a Joni Mitchell concert, but she doesn’t remember the words or who it was. It was probably some unknown, obscure artist and we will never know what the song is. Where do you think you heard it? If you can tell me what it is you will be solving probably the longest running trivia question of all time.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Keep humming it and it may eventually come to me.”
“Alright,” she said. “A few people have said it sounds familiar but no one ever knows what it is.”

“That’s so messed up about John Lennon getting shot,” I said after a pause. I was actually amazed I hadn’t brought it up in the Copper Kitchen.
“Yeah, that’s such a shame,” Sara said. “I liked the Beatles.”
“Yeah, and I really loved his solo stuff,” I said. “This is really a bummer. I loved him.”
I had to chuckle. Normally, back at the house, any reference made to John Lennon’s solo career and his career as a Beatle would have started a debate between the two. There’s no doubt Lennon brought an edge to the Beatles, musically and lyrically, but most of us maintain his most important work came as a solo artist, where he developed into more of an activist. Still, if Jack and I ever baited anyone into that kind of argument, we would usually debate it for fun for awhile, then abruptly end it with the resolution that it is a stupid argument. The correct answer, we would arrogantly say is that Lennon’s solo career was more important, but because of the depth of the Beatles catalog and the influence the Beatles had on music as well as culture, we would also accept the Beatles as a correct answer. We really were snobs.
“My brother was pretty upset this morning,” Sara said. “I think he took the day off from work. Actually, my auntie was more immersed in the 1960s generation thing than we were and I know she was really upset.”
“So, what’s with this ‘auntie’ stuff?” I asked. “How did she get that name?”
“I don’t know,” Sara said. “We’ve been calling her that for years. But she's really mom. Or auntie.”
We walked into Sprague Hall and started heading up one of the side stairwells.
“Can we be here now?” Sara asked.
“I never really asked anyone,” I said. “You just have to act like you belong here. And we have to be really quiet.”
We went up to the balcony and grabbed a seat. On the stage were two women playing cellos. I think they were playing Mozart, although I wasn’t sure. I was never sure what anyone was playing when I stopped in. I just knew that someone was usually using the stage and it always sounded good.
We were slumped in the seats, lounging and looking around at the architecture while listening to the music. Sprague Hall looked like a turn-of-the-century opera house. It sat about 1,500 people and its upper balcony wrapped around the back and sides, cutting in front of the six large arch windows along each side. The shades were down on each window, as they usually are in the afternoons. I looked over at Sara and she seemed to be enjoying herself. I admired the way her hair flowed to her shoulders and wished I was close enough to count the freckles on her nose. I was startled though, when she looked over to catch me staring at her.
“This is nice,” she said after a pause.
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
I could usually stay in Sprague Hall for hours, even if no one was playing. There was always a calm in the large room. There was always inspiration. It was a great thinking room.
I was glad I had the chance to share it with someone. Actually, I was glad I had the chance to share the day with someone. My luck with women was somewhat nonexistent.
Not a particularly fast mover, I usually had to get to know a woman well before asking her out. By that time, they either had a boyfriend or I was misclassified into the “friend” category. Once in the friend category, it is inevitable that you will eventually hear the line, “I wouldn’t want anything to ruin our friendship.” And, of course, that always applies to sleeping with each other. I guess friendship shouldn’t be a foundation for a relationship.
I enjoyed the occasional physical relationship I had with women since I moved to New Haven, although I think I usually kept an emotional distance from them. Maybe it was time to change that. I didn’t know if Sara was the one I would change that with, but I knew it would have to be a woman who, like Sara, usually left me breathless for a second or two whenever I saw her.
“Rory,” Sara whispered, startling me out of a good mind drift. “Isn’t that a John Lennon song?”
I listened for a second and heard that the song “Imagine” was flowing gracefully from one of the cellos. The other cello player was already quietly packing up her instrument. I still couldn’t imagine Lennon dead. And I wished I could at least talk it through with Aragon. I still had a dry lump in my throat.
When the woman was done playing, she walked to the side of the stage and quietly started packing. No one was on the stage. I stood up and slowly clapped my hands together about a dozen times, getting louder each time. The cello player looked a little startled, but still glanced over and smiled. She quickly went back to gathering her things.
“I thought we had to be quiet in here?” Sara asked.
“We do,” I said. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Where to?”
“Well, I thought we could hit the Group W Bench,” I said. “Unless there’s something you would rather do.”
“No, I’m following you,” she said.
Instead of heading straight back to Chapel Street, where the row of shops are, we cut back through one of the Yale courtyards where the monuments and benches always made me feel like I was walking through a castle courtyard. Whenever I cut through there at night, I often wondered if the people inside the walls looked at the moon and sky any differently than the people outside the ivy walls. I wondered if the safety of Yale made the world look any different.

Group W Bench was a head shop, of sorts, that sold cards, clothing, bumper stickers, jewelry, incense and all the gear you would possibly need to join the counter culture. Like just about every place we hit, there was Lennon music playing while we were there. The Group W Bench, though, was the kind of place where every time you went in there they had really cool music playing.
“Have you ever been here?” I asked, as Sara smelled the various sticks of incense.
“No.”
The day seemed to be filled with firsts for Sara. She said she found a new favorite store in Atticus Bookstore where I think we spend an hour or so browsing and reading. I think I almost died watching her sit cross-legged on the floor reading Maya Angelou. Between shops, we chatted about all sorts of things and even agreed on most, such as how we both believed President-elect Ronald Reagan was the anti-Christ. No matter what we talked about, my mind kept jolting back to John Lennon.
And, between shops, Sara kept humming that song. I still didn’t know what it was although I was sure I had heard it before.
Of course, we disagreed on basics, such as how she thought the best place in the world to live would be in an A-frame house in the woods, far from the city, while I insisted that the best place to live would be in a brownstone in a city neighborhood.
“So, should we take a stop by Rudy’s and see if anyone from the restaurant made it?” Sara asked.
“It’s up to you,” I said. “I could live without it.”
“Let’s go, it might be fun,” Sara said. “If it’s a drag, we’ll just leave.”
“Cool, let’s go,” I said, liking the fact that she already opened the door to leave.
We went to Rudy’s. Ordered a couple of beers from Leo the bartender and sat at the booth in the bar near the front window.
“So, do you like cooking?” Sara asked, lighting a cigarette. “Are you good at it?”
“I can hold my own,” I said. “I could cook a dinner if I needed to and it would taste great. But, no, I don’t really like cooking that much. Do you like being a hostess?”
“No,” she said. “I’m doing this to get in line to be a waitress so I can make some money.”
“Yeah, I’m in it for the money too, although the money would probably be better if I was doing something else.”
“Why don’t you wait tables or bartend or something,” she said. “You have the personality for it. You would probably only have to cut your hair.”
“Is that all?” I said sarcastically. “But I don’t want to cut my hair. I just got finished having to cut my hair regularly and wear uniforms for the better part of five years. I don’t want to do it again for a while. I’ll hang out in the kitchen for now; dress like a bum, let my hair go, pass on shaving for a few days if I want.”
“It sounds like the life,” Sara said.
“I know, but it works for now,” I said. “I’m in transition. I just feel like I have to find my footing.”
“You know, you don’t sound like you cared much for the military,” Sara said.
“I didn’t,” I said.
“So, how did you end up there?”
“I had nothing else to do,” I said. “My grades weren’t great and I had no money for college. Life at home was kind of rough, so I joined the Air Force. I didn’t really think it through because I immediately found out that I hated it when people told me what to do all the time.”
“So why didn’t you leave?” Sara asked.
“It doesn’t really work that way,” I said. “The make it tough for you to get out. They kept bringing up that damn contract I signed with them. Besides, like I said, every time I went home my parents seemed so proud of me and had told all their friends that their son was in the Air Force. I felt like I really couldn’t leave. Besides, there wasn’t really anything to get out for.”
“So how did you end up a cook?”
“Once I realized that I didn’t have all the guarantees I thought I had going in, and that I was probably going to get a shit job, I started raising hell trying to convince them not to make me a member of the base security force,” I said. “I didn’t want to have to walk around the perimeter of the base all day carrying an M-16. I would be training on the rifle range three days a week. You know, the targets they used on the firing range are shaped like humans. It just didn’t seem like it would fit my personality. They finally assured me that I wouldn’t have to use a firearm, which I thought was a good thing. But they gave me a spatula instead."
“So did you cook before you joined the Air Force?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I didn’t have to because I had three sisters that liked to cook. So, did you grow up in New Hampshire?” I felt I had to get the conversation off me.
“No, my family moved around a bit,” she said. “We lived in a few different states. I eventually moved to New Hampshire because of school.”
“And why did you stop taking classes?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” Sara said, looking down at her beer. “You don’t really want to hear all about this.”
“Come on, I already told you more about myself than I usually tell anyone,” I said.
“Well, I really wanted to work with children,” Sara said. “I’ve wanted to help children since I was very young. And I landed this internship last semester at a family counseling clinic. I was really excited about it. At first, I worked part time, but soon I was able to work more hours because they were so short-handed. The problem was that no matter how many hours I put in, there was always more that needed to be done. The kids were wonderful, but the problems they faced were so complicated and intervention was needed on so many levels.” Sara paused often while talking, taking drags off her cigarette or staring out the window. She didn’t seem comfortable in the conversation, but she continued.
“In each case there was a real obstruction,” she said. “Some were because of the parents, some were the doctors and some were the insurance companies, who never seemed to want to understand what it takes to help a kid. But I couldn’t accept that. I would work all hours trying to get things done; trying to get through to people. After a while, I found myself taking the work home with me. I was working 12- to 16-hours a day, sometimes just working the phones at my apartment, and finding that I still wasn’t able to accomplish anything. And there was this one child, he was physically and emotionally abused by his parents. I kept documenting his case, but nothing was being done. No mater how many bruises he had or tears he shed, no one was able to help him. I went nights without sleep trying to think of a way to help. I kept imagining the unimaginable; I mean, how could someone hit and degrade a child? I started becoming obsessed with the case. I couldn’t understand how it could happen. I don't know."
“But you’re going back?” I asked.
“I have to.”
“To New Hampshire?” I asked.
“Maybe not,” she said. “I don’t know yet. I still have to find the right approach to this.”
“And how do you find the right approach?”
“That’s what I’m going to spend the next few months trying to figure out,” Sara said. “And now I’ve just told you more about myself than I ever told anyone. We’re even.”
“You know, don’t they teach classes on what to expect when you get to an internship?” I asked.
“They do try to give you a good idea of what to expect, but nothing prepares you for dealing with the real life circumstances like being on the job and actually doing it,” Sara said. “I think I was just convinced that I would be able to help that I didn’t pay close enough attention to the stories of the obstacles I might encounter. It was a frustrating experience, but it will help in the end. Now I just have to realize I have limitations and do the best I can.”
“I just think it’s admirable that you are so dedicated to helping kids,” I said. “I was only asking about the classes because I was wondering how much they prepare you for the real life situations.”
“Actually, they have classes that deal with just about everything,” Sara said. “But, like I said, there are some things you just can’t teach. And they watch over you pretty closely so you can’t screw things up too much. I always wondered why there wasn’t a mandatory class that would help everyone identify all the demons they have inside them and then teach you how to exorcize them. That would be a great help.”
“I know a few people that would probably do well with a class like that,” I said, taking a swig from my Schaeffer bottle. “That could be their college major.”
“So, if you could take a class on anything–anything at all–what would it be?” Sara asked.
“Oh, hell, I don’t know,” I said. “Something music related, probably. Maybe something on writing.”
“Like what?” she asked. “Who would you want to take a music or writing lesson from?”
“Actually, Jack and I used to say we would love to get music lessons from John Lennon and just work them off as farm hands,” I said. “Now, I don’t know. If I was to take any kind of class I wanted, I would love to take a song writing class taught by someone like Ray Davies or Lou Reed.”
Arthur, a Fitzwilly’s waiter, walked into the bar and grabbed a beer.
“Hey kids, how’s it going?” Arthur asked. “You mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“So, is anyone from Fitzwilly’s coming over?” Sara asked Arthur.
“I just pulled myself away from a few people over there, but they are clinging to the bar pretty hard,” Art said. “I don’t think they will be leaving for a while. They seem to be giving Michael a run for his money. Actually, Michael didn’t look too amused with them.”
“Who’s over there?” I asked.
“Brian and Rick, they got off work when I did, and a few friends of Brian’s who were waiting for him,” Art said.
“So, did you have a good day?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Art said. “I’m surprised I worked. The news about John Lennon really bummed me out. Hey, Ronnie left work early, I think he was going to your house Rory.”
“Yeah,” I said. “So I heard. That’s alright. He’ll be in good hands with the crew there. I gotta tell you, though. I can’t make sense of this Lennon thing.”
“I just want to know why,” Art said. “Why?”
“That’s the million dollar question,” I said. “Why? I don’t know why.”
“I don’t either,” Art said.
“There was a nice Lennon tribute we heard at Yale today,” Sara said. “We went to one of the music halls and a woman played ‘Imagine’ on a cello. It was beautiful.”
“This was at Yale?” Art asked. “They had a tribute today? I didn’t hear anything about it.”
“No, we were just hanging at one of the music halls listening to a couple of women rehearsing when one of the broke into ‘Imagine’,” I said. “It was really nice.”
“You can always count on the Yalies to do something extraordinary,” Art said. “So what’s the game plan for today?”
“I think we will probably head back downtown and maybe grab a bite to eat,” I said, looking at Sara to see if she agreed.
“That sounds good to me,” she said.
“You know,” Art said. “I gotta say that I was looking forward to the 1980s. I mean, disco is done and the attitude of rock-performer-as-God is gone. I was really looking forward to better things. But now we lost John Lennon. It was like we had to sacrifice one of the good ones to get rid of all the bad.”
“And there was some real bad music in the 1970s,” I said.
“And there was some good too,” Sara said.
“Such as?” I asked.
“Bruce Springsteen," she shot back without hesitation.
“Alright, darling, I’ll give you that one,” Art said. “Who else do you listen to?”
“I like Southside Johnny,” she said. “I’ve seen him live a few times and it was great every time.”
“Oh, a Jersey girl,” Art said.
“No,” Sara said. “I’ve actually never been there. I really like Ricky Lee Jones and Steve Forbert too. I like a lot of stuff.”
“That’s cool,” I said.
“Hey, where’s Aragon?” Art asked. “Someone at the restaurant told me that he is heading to Boston.”
“Yeah, he headed out late last night,” I said.
“He’s a real character,” Art said. “I hate to see him go.”
“I don’t think I every really got a chance to meet him,” Sara said.
“Did you ever go into work on a day shift and hear extremely loud and usually weird music piped into the restaurant?” Art asked.
“Yeah, a few times,” she said.
“That was always a sign that Aragon was working,” Art said. “One day he would have Miles Davis blasting and the next day he’d play DEVO. It was always an interesting mix.”
“Especially since most everyone else who brought in music tended to stick with the more middle-of-the-road shit,” I said.
“You know, Aragon always struck me as someone with an extremely high intelligence,” Art said. “I was always surprised that he was in a kitchen and not either a student or teacher somewhere.”
“He couldn’t do anything like that because he would feel like he was conforming,” I said.
“A real Rebel, huh?” Art asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Kitchens tend to attract the non-conforming type, I guess. There are some real interesting people working in the kitchen.”
“I know,” Art said, checking his watch. “It’s a fun bunch. I party with the night crew often. Look, I hate to drink and run, but I’ve got to get going and meet a few people. I just figured I’d stop by for a quick beer.”
“Well, hang in there,” I said.
“Yeah, well, do you know of anything going on anywhere later?” Art asked.
“I don’t know, except there is probably a group of people who all feel the same way we do at my house,” I said. “Stop by if you want. You know where it is.”
“Thanks, maybe I will,” Art said. “Oh, and speaking of Mike, he wanted me to tell you ‘Fuck-you’ if I saw you over here. He said you would know what it’s about.”
“I’m not sure I do, but I’ll find out,” I said.
“Either way, he said you owe him big time now,” Art said. “Well, be good.”
We finished our beers and decided to order a couple more while we tried our hand at the pinball games in back.
“So, tell me about this house of yours,” Sara said.
“I live with six other people in the old Eli Whitney Boarding House on Whitney Avenue,” I said. “They are really good people living there. We get along really well and some of us didn’t even know each other before we ended up there.”
“So, how did you all meet?” Sara asked.
“Jack and I were stationed in Germany together,” I said. “Jack met a couple of the other guys, Jerome and Ken, while at Ron’s Place one night. Jack told them he was looking for a place to live and they said they were looking for a housemate. Then, Jack and Jerome used to run into David and Rudy at the downtown Dunkin Donuts all the time. Jack and Jerome would go there for a coffee every night after bar hopping and David and Rudy were always there, sitting at the same table. They would hang out and talk for hours and eventually, Jack and Jerome figured out that David and Rudy had no place to go. So they invited David and Rudy to the house one night and they eventually moved in. Then Jack called me when I came back from Germany and I took the last vacant room.”
“So, are your initials in here?” Sara asked, looking over the walls in the back room.
The initials were between the framed pictures, some of Yale athletic team captains from throughout the years, that cluttered the walls.
“Yeah, but I bet you can’t find them,” I said.
“I bet I can’t either,” she said, taking her attention away from the initials and looking closely at the large mural of a packed Yale Bowl crowd that covered one wall.
“Should we get your initials in here somewhere?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “But where?”
“We’ll find a spot somewhere,” I said, scanning the walls and tables.
We found a suitable spot near the window, borrowed a knife from Leo and Sara carved her initials into the wall.
Having accomplished immortality, and realizing that no one from the restaurant was coming over, we set out for downtown again.
“We could stop by Fitzwilly’s if you want,” I said. “It’s only at the other end of this block.”
“No,” Sara said. “We’re doing just fine on our own. Besides, it sounds like everyone there is already over the top.”
Yes!