The Bottom Line

When my brother and Hulihand and I reached the Bottom Line in Manhattan, on that long ago January, night in the early 80s the second of the two bands we'd come to see was finishing up their set. The club's manager took pity on us and our late arrival and told us he would honor our tickets for the later set. The three of us had a quick powwow. We wanted to see both bands. But if we did opt for the second set to catch each band it meant we wouldn't get out of the club until hours after the last train departed for Connecticut. We would be stuck in New York City, on what felt like one of the coldest nights on record. With coin flip logic we decided on catching the second set.

With an hour and a half to go before we would be let inside the club we scrambled off to get out of the cold. At a nearby bar my brother ordered us three brandies on the rocks to ward off the chill. When the waitress returned with the drinks my brother gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. She replied, "You owe me four more dollars." Welcome to New York City, you rubes.

Clutching our brandies in our cold hands we commiserated with one another over our hapless adventure so far. My brother who was living and working in Danbury, had had to work later then planned. Hulihand and I who had driven a couple of hours to meet up with him were forced to cool our heels. An hour passed. Then when my brother was finally off duty and the three of us went in search of the nearby train station we got lost for over an hour. By the time we eventually found the station and boarded the train we had ten minutes to go before the opening act took the stage.

Some time later we were ensconced in the warm confines of the Bottom Line. Both bands that night, one helmed by Ronald Shannon Jackson and the other by James "Blood" Ulmer, were funky and hot and together they swayed us from any lingering doubts over our choice to catch both bands. After the final applause however the house lights came on we headed for the exit and the frigid night beyond.

We hit the streets with our breaths clouding before us. It was bitter cold and we darted into any doorway that held the promise of heat. At one point we happened upon a street where hookers were parading their wares in high-heels, miniskirts, and tight fitting coats of rabbit fur. I was struck both with pity and awe that they could be dressed so scantily on such a frigid an inhospitable night.

One of us spotted an all night porno theater and we scurried inside. For our ten dollar admission we were offered the choice between a generic can of beer or an eight by twelve glossy black and white photo of a provocatively dressed girl, the kicker being that the photo was autographed by the girl. The three of us went for the beer. (God was it lousy.) Stamping our feet in an attempt to get warm we made our way from the lobby to inside the theater proper and took a seat before the naked and undulating couples on the screen. In no time at all I was sexually aroused, but I was however many dollars short of the going price for the services of one of the come hither girls walking up and down the rows of the theater. I returned to the lobby and took a seat. The hours passed for me in a revved up state of sexual longing without redress. I stared wide eyed at the ceiling and waited for the dawn.

Morning came and we headed for the train station. Back in Danbury, my brother went his way and Hulihand and I went ours. We headed into Hartford. Hulihand wanted to do a little shopping at Capital Records a store with high sticker prices where someone had spray painted in front of their door, Capitalist Records.

The store wouldn't open for over an hour so we headed inside a nearby dive bar worthy of a Charles Bukowski poem or two. Or three. We ordered a couple of beers. It might have been only eight o clock in the morning but the bar was teeming with a lively crowd of drinkers. As I was sipping my beer a guy stepped up to the bar aside me and ordered a glass of the house red. He told the bartender to pour himself one, too. And he did. The guy raised his glass to the bartender. "To your health," said the guy and the two of them chugged down their glasses. When the bartender told the guy the price of the two drinks the guy said with a voice dripping with the obvious, "I don't have any money."

There was this woman there too who was in her forties and the obvious darling of the mostly geriatric crowd of men. She had once been it was easy to see a beautiful woman. Drink however had laid waste to her looks. Back and forth she paced the length of the bar. As she went pass each patron seated at the bar they called her by her name and plied her with drinks. At one point as she was down at the far end of the bar engaged in a conversation I saw a bicyclist who was passing by the bar's front window get sideswiped by a car. When police arrived sometime later to question folks in the bar she came running forward saying, "I saw the whole thing." No one including myself contradicted that fallen beauty's claim. For after all was said and done her allure and our fear of losing her by questioning her veracity held sway over the bottom line.