That Damned South Street!

(Photos by Bald Punk – South Street)

After a week in which I had found clouds at every turn during the day, including inside various dust-choked demo-sites where I worked, that Friday was supposed to have been a good one. Off early from work, I went home, took a shower, and zipped back out to one of my favorite watering holes, Murphs’ bar. The place is perched on the third floor of South Street Seaport Mall on Pier 17. An outdoor deck wraps around the front and sides of the mall. It provides dramatic East River views, from the monumental Brooklyn Bridge to the north and lower NYC harbor to the south.

 Something must have been in the air, because from the edges of the known and unknown universe, all my mofos were coming to kick-it sky high, including wives, girlfriends, “friends”, and one gumada. The cast included Dizzy D, Polar Bear Dave, film editing guy, Rocky, Frankie funerals, IC lighting Martinez, Louie Trips, Rockhead, and a guy with a Redsox hat that we all know but like to ignore.

With all my friends around I was certain to have a great time. Plus there was cold beer, a glorious cityscape, and a food court open late. What more could a person ask for!

Oh, for the record, we were meeting at MacMenamin’s Irish Pub, which is also on the third floor of Pier 17.

Though my lady friend(LF) had me meet her and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) on Fulton street, which runs perpendicular to the pier. She usually does that when we go out with a large group of my friends, because num and nuts like to walk into places behind me. I don’t mind.

In a terrific mood as I listened to my iPod, I had beer on the brain, plus friends and gormandizing. Before I knew it my toes were tapping and my head was bobbing, and I began to weave like a boxer. At first glance, I might have looked like a nut on the busy Fulton Street, which is the main road through Historic South Street. But since I had my iPod clearly visible in the palm of my hand, and the wires were in my ears, it was okay. People knew it was the music.

I was enjoying some real cool alternative tunes from a time when alternative meant alternative. Some of the groups were For Against, My Bloody Valentine, and Savage Republic. During one song in particular, Procession by Savage Republic, I really lost it–shimmying in a herky-jerky manner that verged on spasmodic. That’s what a great song will do to you.

Though I might have taken it to the extreme, becoming “all elbows and knees”, perhaps dancing a little like Elaine from Seinfeld.

Something caught my eye.

In the direction of the looming skyscrapers at the city’s center, I perceived the faint outline of phantom hills. They were an ethereal, dark green. I turned away and faced Pier 17, half-closing my eyes. I didn’t want to be tempted by “the hills” as I had been the week before.

Ever so slowly, as I fell into a state of complete relaxation, the spirit of old world South Street came over me. It took awhile to realize what was happening, like I was becoming aware of tiny spiders all over my body.

I lowered the volume on my iPod as I heard what sounded like creaking and popping noises from seaworn, wooden hulls, possibly of long-gone clipper ships. I also recognized the clopping and clattering of horse-drawn carts over cobbled streets. And there were voices, lots of voices. Some were familiar . . .

I turned off the music as I zeroed in on one “conversation” in particular. It was disjointed, incoherent–surely the rantings of drunkards. The closer I listened, all other sounds faded, and I could hear background ramblings that seemed clumped in the same vicinity.

Months ago I had dreamed of these “barroom voices”. The coincidence terrified me. To hear them again was mind-boggling.

A cold hand clasped the back of my neck, along with a cry of “hoo-hoo!”

I swung around to see my LF and num and nuts. If I wasn’t frazzled enough, the three of them had just gotten their haircut and styled, with all their locks blown high and pushed straight back(num and nuts have great hairlines).

“What’s going on Baldie!” my LF asked, laughing, though her words sounded sharp as I was still tuned into the otherworldly voices.

In an agitated state, made worse by their similar haircuts, I screamed, “I’m hearing voices!”

Only a few heads turned, but I could feel many sharp glances on the crowded street.

I closed my mouth tight, knowing I couldn’t take back what I said. So I stated what I thought was the obvious, “It’s that damned South Street!” I pointed to it. “It gets to me every time.”

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Twenty-Two – November/December 2009

That Damned South Street!

Ghosts of South Street

 The Strange Case of Ghostly People on South Street

 Here are my STORIES and PHOTOS