On any given night thirty years ago, if you didn’t see me driving a cab, you’d find me at either of two infamous local dives THE VILLAGE IDIOT or DOWNTOWN BEIRUT…drinking, mingling, and of course…trying to get laid. Granted, it was a meaningless existence but as they say…it was what it was. I make no excuses.
So one night at closing time, I invited a party of three guys and two girls back to my crib. I know…not that bright. But one of the ladies had my attention. You know the rest. Now all types of societal misfits hung out at either of those bars…especially at Beirut which was a punk rock pit that attracted alternative individuals some of whom were dommes and lap dancers. I can’t remember how I knew…but the girl I wanted was a lap dancer.
The party was mostly mellow back at the mansion (as it were) until the girl I liked looked me in the eye and declared apropos of nothing “You’re no beauty.” I got the idea that she was checking out the estate…complete with guitars and amplifiers and such…while pondering the efficacy of a union with a not-so-attractive guy who could offer her junky ass a place to crash in the eventuality that she’d be in need.
It occurred to me to answer “I kind of have a hankerin’ for a big, phat, natural and firm chest – which clearly you don’t have,” but I took the high road instead. At that moment I was getting really fucked up on beer and decided to cut my losses and get everybody out before I crashed and lost something valuable to a guest.
“Everybody out,” I announced with no explanation and within a minute or two, the party was over and all had exited. On balance, it was the right choice. I was too drunk to do anything – especially with a douchebag lap dancer who’d just old me “You’re no beauty.”
The next day I recouped and did who knows what and by the following, was ready to grab a night shift down at the factory. To the kitchen I went to grab my gnarly cab bag where lived pens, a clipboard, a rate book and my hack license. And guess what. You got it! One of the douchebags had stolen the bag! Just wonderful!
Losing a hack license is a headache. First, you have to go to the local precinct to report it stolen. Then you have to hit the TLC, stand on line, and pay a fee to get a replacement. And of course, you ain’t gonna drive that day! And for what? What the fuck is a lapperologist gonna do with a hack license?
With no way to work, I was out at the bar that night and found one of the boys who’d been to “the party.” His eyes could not meet mine when I asked about the theft. It turned out that he and his buddy became my good friends following the incident and eventually, the truth sort of came out: The group had flagged a cab to go to Save The Robots (grimy after-hours joint at the time) whereupon the girl who was hanging out in the kitchen produced her theft…rifled through it…and actually threw the contents out the window in disgust when she discovered nothing of use within. But not before one of the guys grabbed the rate book. Clearly, they were looking to divvy the booty – even though said booty was a tad lacking in value. (Btw…they did give the rate book back.)
The moral: If you think trying to find love or sexual satisfaction in a whore house is a bad idea, try hanging out in East Village dives as an alternative. Talk about a rock and a hard place! The funny thing is that once I got my job at Action…and saw the opportunities that immediately availed themselves (I arranged two actual dates with hookers in the first two weeks), I abandoned bars forever in favor of whore houses when it came to hunting for hoochies. Sad state of affairs I’d say.
Anyway…there’s an old New York story for those who like them. I’m out!