The Night To Come

A quarter to Two.

I'm early. I'm standing out in front of the Bowery Electric, and it's cold and windy. There are many doors into the establishment, so I try them all. The last one opens to me. I begin to step in but is stopped by a woman standing just inside the door. She is short, and lean with long, black hair. "What do you want," she asks immediately. I'm here with D2theL and Dimitri the M. I reply. "Nobody's here," she says tersely. She is definitely not standing aside for me to enter so we have an uncomfortable moment until I get the message that her body language is sending out. I was not getting in. I took a step back out of the doorway and she reached out, grabbed the door handle, and slammed the door shut and locking it.

Well, that's nice.

I head to a Think Coffee not far off, order a cup of the bean, and read a newspaper article about the Art Dealers Association of America. Interesting. I get into it and other articles when OBSIDIAN walks into the establishment. He did not find the Bowery Electric and had stepped into Think Coffee to get warm. We marshaled our resources and headed, once again, to the Bowery Electric and upon reaching it, we meet up with D2theL and Jerry standing just before the entrance. D2theL introduces Jerry as being the Literary Executor of Herbert Hunkee's estate. Impressive. We all shake hands.

D2theL returns with us to Think Coffee, explaining that we will now not be needed until Six O'clock with the Audio/Video guys arrive with the equipment. Super. D2theL is heading home for a break and I ride the Way uptown to do the same. I wonder why I feel like I will never get used to the long ride up and downtown that I have been doing ever since moving into the Upper West Side.

I get home and get online for about an hour, make lunch, take a break and then head back downtown. I get to the Bowery Electric late, take a flght of steps down from just before the front door and to a balcony area where a bar is situated off to the side. Stairs from the balcony area lead down to the dancefloor(?) and a small stage is set off just after that. On the dancefloor is D2theL, Dimitri the M, and OBSIDIAN, with a group of others either sitting or walking about. Everyone is busy. I sit down with my brothers.

"Hobobob," D2theL says. "Your mission is to walk around with the guest book and get as many people to sign it as you possibly can." I give him a nod and accept the composition book and pen. My brother's assignment is to be a bodyguard for one of the readers. Don't ask me the particulars, all I know is that one of the readers, a frail man, is in mortal terror of someone, or someones, that will be attending the reading. He would not come without having a bodyguard, and my brother was the one of choice.

Time was rushing now towards when they would open the doors. The projector was tested, a screen was drawn down, and a movie of Herbert Hunke was played. Film clips of him talking, reading. Every film clip had him growing older and older. He lived a rough, tough life of a junkie and an excellent writer. I am amazed.

Suddenly people begin to trickle in. I move around the room offering the Guest Book, and get varied responses to it. Some are incensed, defensive, reluctant, others are willing and grateful. I don't let it bother me. I work the room. Then I turn around, and find the dancefloor full. I work my way up to the balcony area and it is filling fast. Shit, word did indeed get out about this event. We were only, honestly, expecting some twenty to forty people. The room was at about ninety and soaring. I shoulder my way to the bathroom and wait to use it with a few others. The door opens and Tatum O'neil walks out, slipping right past me. I am taken aback. She even smells good.

The perfor- mance starts. The house is packed. Wall to wall human beings. I move to the doorway at the foot of the stairway exiting out and can see at the top of the stair a line of people out into the cold. Holy shit. As individuals leave to either go home or take a smoke, I ask for them to sign the guestbook. I score high with this tactic. I'm also in good position when Patti Smith takes the stage. I hold up my recorder and get her clearly. She puts on a good show. I expected more music from her, but she did a spoken word piece with her guitar. It was alright. I guess I thought she would sing: 'Because the Night." After her, Tatum O'neil took the stage and read a work from Hunkee and spoke about how she met him and how he introduced her to Heroin.

I'm catching people leaving. Coming up and stopping right across from me in the narrow corridor of the stairwell is Patti Smith, so close that we could have been two lovers smooching. She smiles at me as she waits for her entourage to catch up with her. I smile back, dumbfounded. She was thin, not as tall as me, but close, with a pull over hat, dressed like a punk kid. Her attire seemed a little too thin for the night that she was preparing to enter. She wasn't all that attractive either, but I had the impression that she didn't attempt to be. She wore absolutely no makeup, looking probably like she does when she wakes in the morning. I just stand there, staring. Soon, her people catch up and she is gone.

The show breaks up with the same sonic boom that it started with. It empties out faster than it filled. It was a useless gesture trying to get names and email addresses now. People were leaving quickly. I run into a group of friends, 'Nessa, Su P and a bunch of other poets. I invite them to the afterparty that will be happening later. OBSIDIAN stumbles by with his charge, the man he was to protect. My brother is sincerely hammered. He careens from person to person, slurring into their ears. The man that he is to protect is on his own. OBSIDIAN claims that he can take care of himself. That whatever fears he had in coming had now passed.

D2theL and Dimitri the M take us like shepards to the afterparty where food and beer is served. I get into a conversation with Phyllis from Texas who is now living in New York. A retired Wall Streeter who is trying to keep her head above water in this tough economic time. Phyl retired early on in life to become a poetess. Well a spoken word artist to be exact. We were having trouble with the semantics.

DJ Bensonhurst came over and the little clique of us waited until D2theL arrived to ferry us across the river Styx. He led us pass the rank and file party on the first floor, which was just about as packed as the reading, and downstairs to the basement bar area which had far fewer guests, and off to the side, to a 'backyard', which was actually the downstairs basement exit to the sidewalk above. A heavy metal grating was our roof above which afforded the smoke a chance to rise up and out. We passed around a few joints here for a few minutes until everything got funny. Then the host invited us upstairs to the 'upper lounge'. DJ and Phyl called it a night and peeled off. Whereas Myself, Dimitri the M, D2theL and OBSIDIAN went to the upper area and chilled. More joints were passed around here in an area cluttered with books, chairs, sofas and an army of cats.

My head started to swoon. It was time for me to leave. My brother D2theL, and Dimitri the M headed off into the night afterward to get some dinner. I struck off towards the Way and home. The fresh air steeled me against my high. I made it, took off my clothes and crawled into bed. Exhausted, stoned and satisfied with the day.

I drifted off to sleep.

Poof

Hobobob