The Swing Voter of Staten Island (24 page)

“Quarter-stamp admission,” whispered a striking young woman with bells on her wrists and a reindeer tattoo on her shoulder. She pointed to a handmade sign that said,
Quarter-Stamp Admission.

“What exactly is this?”

“Karl Marx Brothers Church of Political Poetical Potency.”

“Is it a funeral?”

“No, the Foul Festival poetry reading.”

“Is this really a celebration of the Day of the Dead?” He thought maybe the cynical bus dispatcher in Brooklyn had been kidding.

“We used to celebrate Halloween, but the Piggers accused us of Satan worship, so we moved it to All Soul’s Day, which is both a Catholic and pagan holiday.”

“Wasn’t that two days ago?”

“Yeah, but the celebration permit just came through today.”

The belled beauty handed Uli a mimeographed map of the area, complete with dots showing where various artistic, theatrical, and musical happenings were taking place.

“Zoning madness, irrational parking regulations / unscheduled bulk trash collections,” he heard the poet rant. “Do pigs roll in crap, or the other way around? / Soon he, she height, brings us all way, down, down …”

“Do you have anything to drink or eat?” Uli asked softly, surrendering his quarter-stamp. The bell-jiggling lady meekly inked the back of his hand with a chicken-foot peace sign.

“You’re in luck,” the woman said, pointing to a table several feet away “There’s a cactus soufflé that, like the poet who made it, was unfairly neglected.”

“What time does this end?” he asked, hungrily inspecting various dishes sitting on the tabletop.

“It’s an all-night marathon,” she replied, as another poet moved to the podium.

While the new poet read more civic-minded verses, Uli gobbled up the last squares of casserole. He gulped down several cups of bitter cactus tea until he felt bloated. Almost immediately, though, he started feeling queasy and needed to sit down. The only available seat was in the front row.

“I’m sure our next reader requires no introduction,” the woman with the tiny bells introduced. “Along with Gregory Corso and Jack Kerouac, he is one of the founders of the Beat movement. When he came here, he felt bumped out of life, so he now refers to himself as founder of a new movement—the Bump poets. I have the privilege of introducing Allen Ginsberg.”

In a show of appreciation, everyone in the audience bumped their feet against the wooden floor.

“Happy belated Day of the Dead, I hope you all remember to vote tomorrow.” The poet commenced reading his latest work, “Foul”: “I smelled the worst farts of my age and wondered, what do these pigs eat? / But then I remember that crap smells like perfume to none but the Crapper …”

Uli brought his hands to his face. The cactus was returning with a vengeance. “Where’s the bathroom?” he nervously asked the poetry aficionado sitting next to him.

“There.” The youth pointed to a door behind the podium.

Uli rose to his feet and staggered three short steps down the center aisle before he felt his entire midsection clench up. A projectile of bright green vomit shot out of him onto the poet’s beard and chest.

“Oh my god!” yelled the emcee. A neo-Victorian free-associator who thought she was witnessing a violent act tackled Uli as he was still heaving.

“Leave him alone!” Ginsberg shouted sympathetically. “The poor bastard’s sick.”

After a minute of regurgitating tremors, Uli finally regained gastrointestinal control. He rose, wiped his chin, and explained that he had just filled himself up at the food table.

“Take it easy, son,” Ginsberg said, wiping the vomit off his own shirt. “That cactus dish was sitting in the sun way too long.”

“I’ll be glad to pay for the dry cleaning,” Uli offered.

“It’s okay,” Ginsberg said, and added, “I was meaning to buy a second shirt anyway.”

Most of the people had returned to their seats but were still chattering anxiously as two volunteers hastily mopped up the greenish puke.

After a few more minutes of fidgeting from the crowd, the bell-wristed woman approached Uli with her middle and index fingers V-ing upward. “Peace, bro.”

“I’m really embarrassed about all this.”

“Listen, I know this sounds really uncool,” she said in a whisper, “but if I refund your admission, would you mind leaving quietly?”

“But—”

“The thing is, until you’re gone, it’s going to be difficult for us to regain our peaceful poetical center.”

Uli saw her point, but he explained that he too was in a bind. A fierce storm was raging and he simply had nowhere else to go.

“Down the block is Post Script 123, a gallery that’s having a humongous art exhibit. I bet you can crash there for a couple of hours.”

Passing on the admission refund, Uli left quietly. Outside, the sandstorm had turned into a thick, windy rain, which at least served to rinse off his filthy clothes. In a doorway, he took out the event map that the woman had given him. Sure enough, the group art show of the Foul Festival was taking place just a few blocks away. Through the wet darkness, Uli navigated a couple blocks east to First Avenue and 9th Street.

He spotted it in the distance—Post Script 123 was located in a former municipal building. He walked past a group of men unloading five coffin-like boxes into the rear of the large structure.

In the alcove of the gallery entrance, Uli dried off as best as he could, then stepped in and began inspecting the art. Few artists had more than two pieces on the wall. What was lacking in technical skill was generously made up for in daring conception. Stick figures sheepishly performed deviant sexual acts and other base biological functions. Childishly drawn gang members wearing red and blue shirts were locked in mortal combat, complete with chopped-off limbs and eviscerated intestines. Seeing a portrait of a Pigger warrior murdered in his sleep, Uli realized that all he really wanted was a place to rest until morning.

In order to avoid drawing attention to himself, he kept looking at the art. Drawn in crayon, packs of dogs with ferocious yellow teeth were barking at blue and red people on yellow bus platforms. In acrylic, unmanned supply planes circled overhead. One series of paintings really captured the spirit of the place: water color renditions of points at which the city bordered the limitless expanse of desert. Six vibrant silk-screened posters of Pigger and Crapper politicians were mounted side by side.

With no more artwork to peruse, most art lovers gone, and the snack bowl of pretzel crumbs empty, Uli decided to make his move and snuck out into the end corridor. There, he tried turning the knobs of four doors before he finally caught one that was unlocked—a custodian’s closet with a large marble sink. Pushing aside an old mop bucket, he created just enough space to lie down in a fetal position. He removed the wiry wet wig that had become itchy and cold on his head and hung it on a hot overhead pipe to dry. With a dry mop as a pillow, he rested his head.

11/4/80

“
W
hat the fuck?” was the phrase that woke him the next morning. An old man with a stubby cigar—the janitor—had just opened the door and caught him sleeping under the sink. Exhausted, Uli lay perfectly still. The back of his head where he had been hit the night before felt a bit less swollen. His seared groin was in slightly less pain.

“Get the fuck out before I drag you out!” the mop jockey barked.

Uli slowly rose, yawned leisurely, and grabbed his now dried-out, shrunken wig. He heard it rip when he yanked it over his scalp.

As the custodian led him back through the large gallery toward the front doors, Uli saw that the art had been removed from the walls and the spacious room had been transformed into a local bastion of gangocracy. Five large accordion-like outhouses—antiquated voting booths—were stationed at equal intervals around the space. Uli realized that this was what the men had been unloading the previous night. Next to each one was a small registration table. It all served to remind Uli that even though his candidate of choice was missing, this was the big day of both the mayoral and the national presidential elections.

He stepped outside to find a line of roughly fifty young people waiting for the polling place to open.

“Anyone heard anything about Mallory?” Uli called out. No one responded. “Anyone know where the Manhattan Pigger headquarters is?”

“Go back to Queens, asshole,” one shabbily dressed rebel yelled.

To the east, Uli caught sight of a single-humped Arabian camel rolling across Avenue A. He headed in that direction and came to an empty lot stretching three blocks south and one block east. A handmade sign strung to a gate said,
THOMPSON SQUARE PARK.

The dromedary camel was grazing on one of the few trees in the north end of the park. Uli figured it was one of the desert animals Jim Carnival had said Feedmore set loose on the reservation to mellow out the inhabitants. Peering south, he saw a line of ragged kids. As he drew closer, he discovered they were waiting for food being doled out from the back of a stylish gray minivan. The small Styrofoam bowls of steaming lentil beans on white rice with a side of shredded Spam looked surprisingly appetizing. Jumping to the back of the long line, Uli could hear the thumping of music coming from inside the little gravel park. Some band was performing from a wooden makeshift platform. A kid with bright orange hair got in line behind him. As the music poured from the loud speakers, Uli thoughtlessly rocked back and forth.

“Can you believe this sell-out shit?”

“Sell-out shit?” Uli thought the youth was talking about the free food.

“Yeah, bunch of faggots think they’re the Beatles.”

Behind the orange-haired kid stood a green-haired kid. In another minute, blue-haired and yellow-haired kids also beaded the line.

“You want a glimpse into the future of rock music, come see us perform this afternoon,” the orange-headed youth suggested.

“Who exactly are you?”

“We’re Fuck the Rainbow. I don’t suppose you’re important or nothing?”

“Important, how?”

“Like the music critic for
Rolling Bone
magazine?” said the green head.

Instead of pointing out that he was waiting in a free food line because he was impoverished, Uli just smiled.

“We’ll put you on the guest list anyway. One o’clock at CoBs&GoBs over on Bowery.”

The line was inching forward and Uli found himself at the minivan’s side window. It wasn’t until he was being served that he realized this was a Pure-ile Plurality service. He didn’t recognize the woman handing him the plastic spoon, napkin, and carton of milk. But the fellow who gave him a bowl of rice with shredded Spam and lentils was the same one who had been laughing to
The Honeymooners
in the TV room. Uli’s hippie disguise seemed to do its job as he took the steaming food, thanked the guy, and walked solemnly into Thompson Square Park. He slipped down the long walkway toward the center of the lot. Joining the youthful audience, he squatted on a rocky field dotted with camel dung.

Uli ate his food while an ugly man in a skimpy dress with pancake makeup sang “The Tracks of My Tears” by Smokey Robinson & the Miracles. The cross-dressing crooner covered another four songs before being forced off the stage by an emcee with a blond halo-cut named Jonathan Sexual.

“Folks, as you know, today is erection day, so when you go into those little booths, be sure you pull the right lever. And just remember that Mallory is the only candidate who came out against the war. Now please join me in welcoming our next performer, Taboo!”

Another female impersonator came on stage and began singing a string of campy folk songs in a tinny falsetto. People kept flooding into the little field of stones, forcing those sitting in the rear to stand in order to see.

Suddenly,
boom!
A car bomb exploded on the east end of the park. Wild screams and black smoke, thick as wool, rose from the site. Most of the crowd hurried over to see the carnage.

“Folks, please clear the area so we can get an ambulance in there!” the emcee shouted, to little avail.

More people on Avenue A rushed forward until
boom!
This time Uli actually saw bodies flying through the air. An even bigger car bomb went off twenty feet in front of the first one. The dense crowd crushed along the east end of the park broke out in pandemonium.

From the painful shrieks and panicky shouts that rose up a block away, it was evident that people were getting knocked down in the stampede. Out of nowhere, scores of balloonishly overweight men in tight blue button-up shirts converged on all surrounding corners—Pigger Council cops.

A new voice came over the P.A.: “Stay calm, folks. I’m Council Officer Gonzalez. Please help us.” It was a chubby Pigger who had just mounted the stage. “There’s a terrorist in the crowd detonating the bombs. We got three clearing stations. One on 7th Street, another on 8th Street, and the last is on 9th Street. Please get in one of the three lines for a quick ID check, and we’ll try to find the bastards who just brutally killed your neighbors.”

They’re using the explosions to screen the crowd,
Uli thought. He discreetly blended into the frantic rush of hippies streaming southwest. Pigger agents were corralling everyone into a line at the clearing station on 7th Street.

As Uli moved toward the rear of the line, he passed an older man holding a bag of groceries. He was the sole person walking against the crowd eastward. Uli hung slowly behind him until he spotted the man entering an apartment building on 7th Street within the confined zone. Uli caught the door just before it locked shut. He waited until the old man had climbed the first flight of steps, then slipped inside. Walking to the rear of the building, he found a door to the backyard. He climbed over the rear fence and was able to open another door to a run-down apartment building on 6th Street.

Once out on Avenue A and just south of the sealed perimeter, Uli looked over at the 7th Street checkpoint and saw the Piggers fingerprinting everyone.
That was close
, he thought. He had to get out of the open. Then he remembered the invitation from Fuck the Rainbow. Rubbing his hand through his mop-headed wig, he headed a few blocks southwest to the venue on lower Bowery.

A dirty white canopy announced
CoBs&GoBs
in black letters. Inside the dark alcove, a large guy on a stool pointed to a sign:
Quarter-Stamp.

“I’m on the guest list,” Uli said.

“Name?”

Uli realized he hadn’t given the band his name and let out a frustrated sigh.

“Oh, wait,” said the doorman, “this must be you.”

Seeing the guest list upside down, Uli read,
Old hippie dude in army jacket and yellow pants
. He thanked the doorman and heard lite muzak playing as he walked down the corridor to the rear of the venue where the stage was located. In addition to the scent of choke, which seemed to be ubiquitous in the East Village, he also inhaled a far more pleasant aroma—a hairy guy was operating a small concession stand selling steaming cobs of buttered corn, thus explaining the name of the venue.

When Uli reached the small dark auditorium at the end of the corridor, he realized that the lite muzak he had been listening to was none other than the rebellious sounds of Fuck the Rainbow. He also saw why they had taken pains to put him on their guest list. The only other person in the place was some elderly lady who looked to be the mother of one of the band members.

The green-haired kid was the group’s high-pitched vocalist. Orange-head was on the drums and blue-hair strummed the guitar. Uli noticed that the floor of the stage was covered with corncobs and figured that patrons used them to show their appreciation. The good news was that Fuck the Rainbow’s gentle tunes were perfect for repose. Taking one of the empty booths in the back, Uli found himself lullabied back to a soothing sleep.

A
sudden crashing of cymbals and drums pulled him back up. A loud new power had seized control of the littered stage.

“Hey! Dude! Pull out of my bush …” he heard shouted over the microphone. A group of lean hard bodies were shoving and spinning around on the darkened floor.

Upon a deep yawn and good stretch, Uli rose and headed back toward the entrance, where he bought a warm corncob, well-lubricated in a cup of butter. He salted it and asked the concessionaire for the time.

“Six o’clock.”

Fuck the Rainbow had finished performing hours earlier. The new group of young men who had taken up the stage announced between tunes that they were playing covers of a different group called the Rolling Stones. He listened to two more songs before grasping that the band was probably bastardizing the lyrics.

“I have a pussy and I want it to gro-o-ow out,” the singer ranted. “Pound it, bang it, slap it, slam it hard, hard as rocks, make my balls two big orbs in the sky …”

Squinting through the darkness, Uli saw that all the boyish band members—just like everyone in the audience watching them—were actually young ladies. Evidently, the lyrics had been revised to suit the strange female subculture. The band’s name, emblazoned on the biggest drum, was Girls Beat Boys.

Uli slipped out to the men’s room. As soon as he locked the door of the smelly corner stall, he heard a couple enter.

“Someone spotted him in the park, so
blam!
Then the Council came in, but …”

“Technically, I’m supposed to keep campaigning until the polls close. But what’s the point, the whore’s going to win anyway.”

Uli recognized the voices immediately, but he didn’t know from where.

“At least she’s
our
whore now,” the first voice spoke clearly. “Just pisses me off that Shub is getting his ass kicked even up in Queens. I mean, where’s the loyalty?”

It was that monstrous Pigger Deer Flare. It took a moment longer to place the second voice—Kennesy, the curly haired deejay who ID’d him at Rikers.

“Come on,” Flare said sensually, “I know where we can get a little R-and-R before getting back to P.P.”

Through the hinge space in the stall door, Uli watched the two women kissing. When one pulled back, Uli caught a glimmer of something shiny in the long bathroom mirror. The wedding band that Deer had stolen from him was now dangling from Kennesy’s neck. A flush later and they were gone.

Uli decided to take a chance in his hippie disguise and follow the couple. He pulled on the cheap sunglasses he’d found during the windstorm and left. Outside CoBs&GoBs, he trailed them up Bowery.

From a block away, he saw the pair, arm-in-arm, enter a dilapidated building at the corner of 4th Street. A sign over the door said,
Mamasita’s Blah Blah Theater.

If anyone knew where the Piggers were holding Mallory, it would be Deer. Fearful of getting ambushed, he knew he had to play this carefully. He waited roughly ten minutes before another couple exited the establishment, then slipped inside. A tall fold-out signboard listed three plays being performed that night as part of the Foul Festival.

An elderly ticket seller sitting in a closet behind a Dutch door said, “Welcome to the festival, how many?”