Today is the first day of fall. The letter below, number 37 in a collection of letters written my first two years in New York City, chronicles an autumn night 24 years ago when my cousin was mugged in Brooklyn.
My cousin and I were close. We spent a lot of time together growing up, and we were in the same class at the University of California. When my wife and I moved from the West Coast back to New York City, he followed us out in a year. This created friction between me and my wife; she didn't particularly care for my cousin.
I include Rei Momo (1989), David Byrne's first true solo album, below because at the end of the letter I mention having seen him at the Roseland Ballroom. Byrne performed songs off Rei Momo. I didn't enjoy the show. He wore tight pants and did a lot of hip shimmying and ass shaking. I didn't cotton to the whole Brazilian worldbeat vibe. Byrne, as usual, was ahead of his time; as you can hear, it is a good album:
Autumn 1989
It's a Saturday night again and I've shunned social companionship in favor of sitting down here and tapping out a missive to you. It was either go to the East Village with Ashley and Jessica to see some kind of avant-garde performance at the opening of a new record store or go down to Antony's and smoke some dope and maybe see a movie. I don't get to spend that much time by myself anymore. So whenever I get the chance I take it. It went like this: after I finished telling Antony that I'd have to take a rain check for tonight's festivities I hung up the phone (8:09 PM) and rushed down to the deli and got myself three Coors quarts (I have a quart of malt liquor stashed in the back of the fridge just in case it goes into overtime); came back upstairs; took off my coat (it's cold tonight, low 40s); slapped on some Sonic Youth; cracked the top off of the first bottle, and started my head to thinking.
Ashley has harvested three more of her plants. We've accumulated quite a store and it's all in Tupperware containers in the hall closet. With all the shit around, and with Ashley's new sobriety standards, I've found myself turning more and more to a joint when I'm hankering for a little solace. I'm swearing off the shit though. I don't like the way it makes me feel the next day, just like a stick in the mud.
I guess you know that Colin is now a resident of New York City -- Brooklyn, to be exact. He finally found a place to live last week; it's with a couple of women in their twenties; one's black and beautiful and the other's homely and corn-fed, from Kansas, or so he tells me. I talked to him on the phone today. He said he got mugged last night. He gets off work around 2:00 AM. He has a computer job for Citibank; his shift runs from 6:00 PM to 2:00 AM. He takes the R train into Brooklyn. After the train gets into Brooklyn it stops and an announcement is made to the passengers that that the train will not be going any further due to repair work on the track. Colin gets out of the train and walks up to street level. He's hungry so he finds an all-night diner and has something to eat. By the time he leaves it's 3:00 AM; he figures he'll take a little stroll and unwind a little after his meal. He starts walking up Flatbush Avenue; takes a right here; walks a few blocks; takes a left there; walks a couple of blocks and the next thing he knows he doesn't know where the fuck he is. The whole time he's telling me this over the phone I'm thinking to myself, "He doesn't know what kind of neighborhood he's in -- I know that parts of Flatbush are bad -- it's three o'clock in the fucking morning, and to make matters worse, he looks like a little sweetheart faerie -- what else does he want? Why not just carry a sign around his neck: BEAT ME! ROB ME!" When he realizes that he's lost, he starts hailing cabs. One or two pass, but they've got people in 'em. So he starts walking again. He makes a left; walks a mile or so, and then breaks right. He comes to a lit street corner and decides to wait there. He sees a cab coming from down the road and he steps out into the street to hail it, but it scoots right by him, somebody already in the backseat. He paces back and forth for a while. No cabs come. He decides to start walking again. He turns to walk down the street and sees someone walking towards him from about twenty feet off . He figures the best thing to do is to just lower his head and keep on walking. Right when he's about to pass this guy, the guy grabs him and smashes him up against a car and starts jabbing him in the ribs with something hard and sharp. The guy is Hispanic, Colin's height, and has a cloth wrapped around his face. He demands his wallet; says he's got a knife and he'll cut him if he doesn't give it up.
Colin asks him to go easy, tells him that he's scared and has a big coat on and can't get at the wallet. The guy keeps jabbing and demanding. Colin bargains, says he'll give him his cash but not his cards and billfold. The guy agrees. It's at that point that Colin gets a look at the guy's "blade." -- It's a socket wrench. He wonders if he should make a break for it. But the guy still has a hold of him and nobody's around. So he decides against it; he forks over twenty-two dollars instead. The guy is not satisfied. He rifles through the wallet but can't find anything. Colin has hold of half the billfold; he won't let go. The guy darts into the dark street night with his sharp socket wrench. Colin is left alone under the yellow shade of a street lamp.
Who else but Colin, huh? You've got to tip your cap.
Well shit, I'm doing more drinking than lettering at this point. I've got a good story lined up about a David Byrne show I went to see on Halloween with Ashley and some of her friends. I just don't have the stamina anymore. Pre-sobriety regulations I was as good as gold. I could drink and write with up to four quarts of malt liquor under my belt. Now I down two-and-a-half quarts of Coors and I'm finished.
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