In a reply to “What I need to brighten things up” Ghost of J McG mentioned an artist loft I lived in during the 80s. It’s not much covered in the book and his comment elicited the following revery which I decided needed it’s own post.
That loft couldn’t have existed anyplace but where and when it did. It was on the corner of Ridge and Rivington in what was then a little Puerto Rican village. Grandparents and children and spanish coming from the windows. It was there that I was surprised to learn that when someone gets stabbed there isn’t any sound. I’d only seen stabbings in movies and tv and thought there would be a squush but there wasn’t. Just an arm thrust and blood and complete silence.
Scott was there. I took him there the first night we meet. That was the place I lived when I worked for the Native. I fucked my first porn star there to Poulenc’s “Stabat Mater” played way too loud. And I was almost mugged. One night after covering something for the paper I was headed home just after dark and decided that it would be alright to walk the few block south down Ridge from Houston. This was before I had a camera bag so all my equipment was on straps around my neck and as I walked two of the local boys fell in behind me. I was trying to decide if I could outrun them when a cop car pulled up on the corner and I caught their eye and they drove along side me until I got to the building. I took cabs home after dark from the on. And I got a bag.