Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 155

half open, half a deck facing the river. In the morning, the temps are only in the mid-seventies, like a later date Bob Dylan song, and the humidity isn’t there yet, and the traffic is almost quiet, save for some jerk, inept garbage man gunning it on a Harley, with no patches on his denim jacket, perfectly willing to tell you how the town of New York City discriminates against him and ‘his kind.’ No, his intent isn’t a humor, other than the crass audience’s penchant to laugh at cripples. The panorama is this mix ranging from brand new chrome and glass skyscrapers, eighties Soviet looking block housing, and colonial apartment towers that are eight feet wide and look like they survived an airstrike fifty years ago and were just fixed with tarps and chicken wire. Roosters crowed to start the day, but the serious traffic hadn’t started yet, and it was otherwise as quiet as a ‘teen’ who dindu nuffin.

I did not know this but I was in the red light district, which was disconcerting upon its discovery. Lots of ladies shoved flyers in my face and yelled hello at me. This was not invitations to straight up brothels, but more of the Japanese hostess bar model. Buy ‘lady drinks’ for triple the normal cost and they pretend to be your friend. Is ‘Phatty’s Bar and Grill’ a ‘Chili’s’ rip-off or a tub and tug joint? You don’t know until you’re in there. Also most restaurants are like nine feet wide,