writethis

new york and cubism, cont.

josh davis

Cabbies, car alarms, MTV, Jennifer Lopez, cops, traps, whistles, bars, baracades.

I hop the subway to 18th and 7th. There are advertisements for foot doctors and dentists,

network comedies and "a delicious blend of cognac and fruit juices."

Outside i follow a girl in baggy green pants past a series of drug stores, book stores,

smoke shops, pizza shacks, and traffic hacks. Eventually she leads me straight into Washington

Square Park whereby I am immediately propositioned.

"Want some smoke?" I nod no. "What?"

"No thanks!"

The girl and her baggy green pants are gone. But off to the right is the faint sound sweeping

sound of a saxophone.

doo--lah--tru-hoop-- ho-lah-tru-doop-- wee--hee-hee-hee-- tru-lah-do-loop-- hoo--da-la-loop--loot--loot--sco-da-tra-loop-- hoo--hoo--hoo-do-tra-loop-- hoo--hoo--oo--ah--ah--oo--tru-la-ta-doop

He blows the ground apart. He blows hard and passionate. Eyes closed. He blows like John Henry swings a hammer. He blows like a feather falling to the ground. He shatters rock with bright tennor notes. He swings on a tree branch. He flips, sails, hangs, slugsm and drops.

oo--ah-oooo-- do-loo-de-hoop

An elderly man joins him on trumpet, playing slow, soulful Louis Armstrong yalps through a white muzzle.

trep-heh-- waw-heh-- tweet-huh--heh-ha re-pa-ah-lay trep-ha hoo-hoo-- scoo--trep-scoo-hoo-ha-- broo-ha--

The old man is more thoughtful, and ragged. He's the slow subtle blues of the depression. But he's no match for the tenorman who blows like an excited hurricane who rains until here is no land and no air left to blow. Who consumes oxygen like a flame. Who rages. The old man knows this and lays still and soulful underneath the water, only occasionally opening up the white mute on the bottom of his horn to really blow.

Not too far away, I find a little bookshop on the sidewalk full of dusty classics and philosophy textbooks. A bright-eyed, toothless old man with a long white beard looks up from behind a long wooden table.

"Looking for anything in particular?"

"Got any Celine?"

"Yeah, I got Journey Into the End of the Night in yesterday."

"Great!"

"In French."

"Fuck."

"Got it in yesterday."

"Yeah. Thanks anyway."

"Hey, remember what the Chinese say, 'be careful what you wish for.'"

"I got it."

"But hey--I have a French dictionary and some audio tapes. You could learn..."

"Thanks anyway."

"Any time."

By the time I get back to the park, my tenor man is long gone.

Instead, there's a grinning man with leathery skin and a black cape imitating a matador. People clap and yell, "bravo!" as he dodges the imaginary bull, singing, "meric bo quo!"

A few guitar players strum classic rock tunes from higher up in the circle. They play with all the bravado of a bull fighter, but none of the absurd comic irony. The rest read, or sunbathe, or frown blankly with their eyes closed, dreaming of sandals and shellfish.

A man in the audience shouts at the matador, "cut orange! Cut orange! Cut orange!"

The matador stops and stares obstinately. He approaches the man with a new seriousness, and of course an orange. He hands it to the man and declares at his fingers, "this is the sight, this is the trigger. Sight, trigger. Got it?"

"Yeah!"

"This--people--is a beginning. Just bare with me, and there will be an end! Cutting an orange is now show. Cutting three oranges is. Do I have any volunteers?" One man, middle aged and chuckling, steps forward. Another, a young woman, is pushed. The matador brings them together.

"This is the sight. This is the trigger. Sight. Trigger. Got it? Good." He steps back and inspects the ring. "You--you stand here. You stand here. You stand here. Good. Now--you have a window this big." He indicates a small square which centers around his face. "The center of the window is the nose."

The three volunteers throw practice oranges at the matador. Everyone throws low.

"The window is my nose. Remember, this is the sight, this is the trigger. Now, you stand here. You stand here. You stand here. The window is my nose."

He returns to the center and addresses the crowd, "Ladies and gentleman, this will come only one time, so I'd advise you to keep your eyes open. Now--I am going to give you something you have not seen, felt, or heard before. I give you--the spirit of the sword!"

The matador holds up a large, plain looking wooden sword. The audience laughs.

Meanwhile, three black kids careen down the side of the circle on a red moped. One of them shouts, "hey Hector--you gonna waste these peoples time much longer?"

"Please do not rush me! I need your attention--and a dollar." The audience laughs.

The youth continues, "someone told him he's talented. Someone was mistaken."

The matador continues, "ladies and gentleman--you know what i do for a living--and to tell you the truth I am not living. So give generously!"

"Just cut the damned orange!"

"I want you all to give a dime, a nickel, a quarter, a dollar..."

"An orange!"

"A few dollars..."

"It's hard to believe that out of eight million sperm cells, you were the winner!"

The matador never finishes cutting the oranges. Instead, he walks around collecting dimes and quarters into a brown burlap sack. At the end, he walks into the center of the rings and gathers his things.

"There is no future in swordsmanship!"

The matador bows and a few people clap.

"Do you understand that you're messing with three large black men?"

"He's got a sword!" I yell.

"He's got a wooden sword--that's a step up from a stick. I think we can take a damned stick!" The black kid chuckles, "if you see a half-a wooden sword lying in Washington Square, you'll know who did it!"

The three large black men then start their show, flipping and breakdancing for twenty minutes over eighties pop and hip hop and telling jokes.

At the end, they ask for four volunteers. One of them, remembering my brashness, grabs me by the hand and leads me to the middle. "This fucker'll do!"

"WE--people! Listen! We are going to jump all four of these people. But we need your help. Now--we could jump them now--but then you could leave. So we're going to take your money first."

They go around the circle and collect. After the gratitude has dried up, they play the neighborhood card.

"Who was the last to give? You sir, where are you from? Brooklyn! Hey Greenwich, you gonna let that happen?"

"I've got two dollars!"

"Two dollars! Two dollars! Harlem, you gonna let that happen?"

"I've got a quarter!"

"A quarter! Harlem has a quarter! New Jersey you gonna let that happen?"

"I've got a dollar!"

"A dollar! Where are you from sir?"

"Hoboken!"

"Hoboken! Damn, Bronx, you gonna let that happen?"

A young woman throws another dollar into the bag.

"Where you from, m`am?"

"Pakistan."

"Pakistan! Iraq, you gonna let that happen?"

Finally they walk back into the center. "You two--the two guys, get out of here, we were just kidding." The audience laughs. Somehow I saw that coming.

The kids finally jump the two girls, making them bend over for a prolonged period first for inspiration.