I left Times Square and its business of naked and boozy in the mid 80s, but like a ballplayer past his prime with just one shining season – I still live there. It was the most vibrant time of my life.
I kept records of everything–diaries, journals, calendars and phone books going back to 4th grade. Everything except the ten years that were Times Square; almost none of those records survived. Maybe they never even existed. According to Social Security one of those missing years I earned a total of $8 on the books. Eight dollars? I was off the grid before I even knew it existed.
Having no records and an unreliable vodka soaked memory, I sometimes doubt what I think I know. Then they invented the Internet and filled it full of everything–facts, locations, dates, newspaper stories. I found out that Louie the Ice Man had been a big deal wiseguy, a really big deal. And he’d come home from prison this year. Home, just a ten minute drive from where I am today. Thirty years from where I was.
I started to fantasize about being back with Louie. I’m older, and not as cute, but maybe just a little something something to pay the bills while I write about the days when I’d do just about anything to pay the rent. I remembered Louie as sweet. And generous.
I became obsessed with the Ice Man all over again.
If I’d known how big he was, would I have taken more advantage? Probably not. I just wanted to drink and be loved and being with him made me feel wanted. If that was as close to love as I could get, that was okay by me.
He wasn’t mean. He didn’t make me cry. He never hit me. He called me to tell me he was going to prison, instead of just disappearing. He didn’t have to do that, he could’ve just left.
I found court papers, deeds and addresses online.
I showed up at his house a few weeks ago. It’s a little too close to the roar and grime of the highway, the building, slightly run down, the neighborhood, less than inviting. I’d imagined a brownstone or a private home with a lawn. And a gate. Even though I’d been looking at photos of this street for a week on Google Maps, staring at the front of this building. I recognized the air conditioners and the vertical blinds. Still, I expected the photos to be wrong, I expected something…better. There are no names on any of the three buzzers.
I buzz all three bells and stand in the center of the driveway. Totally unprepared and naked in a whole new way. With no makeup, an over-sized thermal t-shirt, sweatpants, sneakers and three extra decades. Decades. This is not my most alluring outfit.
A thirtysomething pokes his head out the third floor window. Yeah? he says. I’m looking for Louie the Ice Man, I say. Only I use Louie’s real name. I don’t say Ice Man.
Is that okay? Yelling out his name on the street like that? What am I thinking? I never would have done that 30 years ago. I knew better then.
Thirtysomething says the Ice Man lives on the second floor.
An small woman in a bathrobe peeks through the curtains at the second floor window. She’s old. I wonder, Is he living with his mother since he came home from prison? Then I remember the thirty years. Louie was in his 50′s then, he’s in his 80s now. His mother, I’m sure, is dead. This is either his sister. Or his wife. Either way, she was young and pretty once. Either way, I’m not welcome. She shoos me away with her hand, clutching her bathrobe closed with the other and never opening the window.
I consider leaving a note in the mailbox. Hi, remember me? I gave you blowjobs 30 years ago, surely you remember? Just stopped by to see how you’ve been. What? I don’t want to start giving random blowjobs again. I didn’t have the energy to dress up like someone’s goumdada back then, and even less so now. What is there to talk about when what I remember is how he liked it when wore my glasses while I sucked his cock. I didn’t want to know that I have a nicer apartment than he does, or maybe this is a decoy apartment. And just like that, without even seeing him, already I’m making excuses the way I made excuses for them all back then.
I get back in my car. I wish him well. He was what I’d needed then to make myself feel safe, but the old lady who shooed me away is right.
I don’t belong here anymore.
This entry was written by , posted on December 25, 2009 at 12:52 am, filed under the diary and tagged 2009, dirty boys, Times Square, wiseguys. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
