77. 'I DON'T KNOW, HE WAS JUST HERE'

77. 'I DON'T KNOW,

HE WAS JUST HERE'

I had a lot of things pulling

me, in one direction or the

other, the entire time I was

in NYC. I could have simply

selected to be a criminal. But,

I guess I didn't. I've written

about this stuff before, but

no matter -  I was occasionally

running packets for others, I

knew what was up but pretended

otherwise. The money was cool

the instructions were simple, and

a few times the calls were close.

Decisions to be made always

circled me back to the presence,

within me, of 'other' things. I

was possessed of a spiritual

voice, and an artistic voice  -

and I knew it and accepted it.

Accepted it willingly and as

far more powerful than the

dreck any of these jerks

around me could offer. It

was more right, and I knew

it. I had never been the

vacuous kind, and had

always answered to 'higher'

impulses I'd always felt

within me. They spoke

to me, and gave me

things. Words. Writings.

Pictures. Whenever I met

a real jerk, an impudent

idiot, it was always one

of these criminal types,

mob-induced and

speckled over with

dirty shit. Even funnier,

these guys were always

New York natives. Like

they just grew thugs here.

Westside dock guys, Hell's

Kitchen types, 'Westies'.

It was a law unto itself,

and nobody much else

was let in, or, if so then,

let out. Mostly unless you

were dead. They were

career guys. Middle-aged

men. Deadheads.

-

One time, much later, one

of these guys came to me

and asked for a nickel. 5

cents. He was an older mob

guy, and he, along with the

big fat guy with him, came

monthly, end of each month,

to a biker bar where I hung

out, to collect their take,

their pay-off. They claimed,

and got, some cover-money,

some percentage, of the action,

whatever it was and however

it was accounted for  -  not

my problem, never my

concern. He called me over,

asked for the nickel  -  'to

make it a deal, there always

has to be payment,' he said.

He gave me something that

looked like a rich, silver pen,

anodized finish, with a pocket-

pen-clip, all that. When you

opened it up, instead of a

pen, it was an extremely long,

thin, triangular, razor-sharp

knife-blade. His point to

me, after this instant, was

two-fold: 1. If ever asked to

kill someone with this, or if

for some reason you have to,

you strike and strike quickly.

Unsheathe it, and in a swift

motion, while twisting it, drive

the blade, with some force,

into the guy's ear canal. Into.

He'll be dead before he hits

the ground, or gone enough

anyway not to tell what he

even thought happened. And,

2. Once I accept this token, it

must always be on me and in

my possession. He said he'd

make a point of asking to see

it from this time on, each time

he saw me, anywhere. If it was

not on me, there'd be my own

little hell to pay. Fair enough

deal, even as I had no plans for

any upcoming needs or action.

It was just part of the (sometimes

tough and deadly) game. The fat

guy always went in to (they arrived

in a big Lincoln, with the fat guy

always driving, and parking

wherever they chose) get his

money pick-up, and this other

guy, older, skinny, and even a

bit natty, sat outside on a chair

there, facing out, as a watch. The

whole thing took maybe 15 minutes,

a bit longer of they had a beer out

front or stayed to chat. Not often,

it wasn't good for the 'transaction',

and anything could go wrong. I

learned all this. I learned these two

'always faced in two different

directions; only a fool would

only be looking in one, together'.

I learned they both were packing,

didn't often turn the car off, only

told you what they wanted you

to know, mostly knowing you'd

tell others. Evidently their 'beat'

consisted of picking up the monies

extorted from various locations

around their turf. Little trouble

was expected, or resistance anyway,

and evidently little was ever given.

From what I learned, most of these

proprietors had little incentive, or

reason, to refuse. It was like part

of the rent.

-

That was the invisible side of 

New York that you never really 

see or know of, unless you're 

involved in it. As I said, I had 

the opportunities to just be a 

criminal, from that point on,

and all around there. I took 

any number of assignments, 

did some weird stuff, and got 

away with things too, but that 

was all and enough for me.

Everything was getting too 

close, and I knew I was too 

stupid to not, at some point, 

screw up and regret it. And 

anyway, my mind was really

elsewhere. really. Once I got 

better involved with the Studio 

School, and started doing some 

more credible stuff with a, let's 

say, less 'transitory' nature, I did 

Somehow get away from all this. 

Lucky for me; I guess I managed

to wiggle out before it was too 

late and I'd be stuck. Outlaw

motorcycle clubs were like 

that too. Once and if you're 

asked in, do the Prospect crap 

needed, and get 'accepted', then 

if you say yes there's no stepping 

back, and your bike and registration, 

plurals here or not, get turned over

to the club, a ready part of the

'fleet' if needed, as it were, in 

case there's any need. Same with

all else. The reputation of others

all of a sudden rests with you. That's

a big burden and, if you do screw

up, the onus of that falls back onto

the guy who sponsored you in. 

That was made really clear to 

me, once, by a guy who 'lived 

under the bridge' over in Port 

Elizabeth. Known to be mad,

known to have killed and done 

time, this guy somehow took a

liking to me, requested for me to

come in under his name, but made

it clear that if I screwed up on

him, it was HIS name, he'd have

to kill me. I readily understood.

In a cold sweat, I declined, in the

nicest, swellest fashion I could.

And he accepted that. The 
problem I'd created, in actuality, 
was that none of this was really 
'me', but only I knew that. I'd 
convincingly played the part 
selected, and none of these people 
understood, or would understand,
had I let on, that the better part

and the better task of me would have 
none of it and was NOT that at all 
I'd almost created a real problem for 
myself, and one that could cost me.
That mis-representation alone could 
really get me a hurt-on. Best again,

as I saw it, was to just slowly back out

and disappear; but I've always taken

all I've ever learned from such scenes

and situations with me, as I've 
disappeared, leaving 
nothing behind.