Perhaps a city is a living thing. Each city has its own personality, after all.
Los Angeles is not Vienna. London is not Moscow. Chicago is not Paris. Each city is a collection of lives and buildings and it has its own personality.
So, if a city has a personality, maybe it also has a soul. Maybe it dreams.
-Old Man from "The Sandman" by Neil Gaiman
70 Howe Street
Published Wednesday, December 28, 2005 by Starry Saltwater Rose.
The entrance to 70 Howe
When rooming choosing time came up at the end of my sophomore year, I decided I wanted to move off-campus. My roommate had spent the first semester sleeping with my ex-boyfriend from high school while I made deeper and deeper dents into our futon in the common room (and had a sore back most weekends for my trouble). She spent the second semester going crazy because he moved to California and broke up with her. I gained 20 pounds and a case of acne not seen since junior high.
I did the research and found a studio apartment (not a New York City studio, which is equivalent to a closet, but a place with a big room, separate kitchen and bathroom) at 70 Howe Street. I knew the place was for me because the apartment number was 511, my birthday (May 11). After a little coercing, my parents saw the financial sense (it was cheaper to live in a studio off campus for 12 months than to pay Yale's outrageous fees for room and board for eight months and have to eat that disgusting food).
So come August 2001, I was sort of on my own. My mother came and we found some furniture, put it all together, creating my new space for the next two years. Being my first place, I was happy as a pig in shit. I got to cook for myself, and contrary to popular belief, I NEVER ate a package of Ramen noodle. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm a damn good cook. My friends would come over immediately when they found out I was cooking rice and beans. It's a classic Puerto Rican dish and many of us hadn't had a good bowl since we left home.
That apartment saw an awful lot of my life. She saw me get my first pet (Reina the Cat), my first girl on girl kiss, my first (and second and third...) reckless love affair, my first threesomes. She was always there, no matter how long I had been away, how late I came home, how drunk or stoned I got. The pots were always in their place, the lightswitches never moved. The closet door was always too big and the elevator was always rickety.
I had plenty of friends over. I wasn't too far from campus and they liked getting away from the dorms, because those were the kinds of friends I had. Not too long after I moved in, I smoked my first blunt with a three-night fling. It actually got out of control for me, just before graduation, but until then, it was a safe space for people. One 4/20 was spent with several people crammed into my apartment, me sitting on my futon like some (much more attractive) Jabba the Hutt, reigning over a holiday.
Strange things happened there, too. I had friends over and they all proceeded to pass out on my futon (which was also my bed) so I slept in the kitchen, making out with a cute guy. One of my friends' boyfriends came over and threw up on my floor after taking three hits. I made her clean it up. I figured they were sleeping together, so she was probably used to his bodily fluids. I had an affair with a wonderful woman. It never went past kissing, but at that sexually tentative time, it was more than enough for me: her soft mouth, the swimming feeling of being high, the time always cut too short, forbidden and delicious.
There were quiet times. Sunday mornings with the sunlight coming in. Tuesday nights and Gilmore Girls on the TV. All-nighters fueled by ganja and red wine (it worked for Hemingway!), with a play to show for it in the morning. Sweeping and mopping the floors, putting everything in its place, then being able to walk barefoot on clean hardwood. Singing and dancing, no one watching (better than any dance club). Paying the bills (phone, cell, cable, credit card) and slipping them into the mail. Checking my outfit in the big mirror in the lobby on my way out or in. Sitting with a book in the laundry room. Sleep. She saw many hours of sleep.
Those were my wild days, though. Two good years of them. More than enough, maybe. After I moved out of that place, I had to start my real life. But 70 Howe was a good place to start.
The Advocate
Published by Starry Saltwater Rose.
The Advocate lying on a bench in Rudy's
The New Haven Advocate is a little tempestuous free paper that circulates all over the city. It has Fairfield County, Valley and Hartford cousins, neither of which I like half as much. On the regular, it comes out on Wednesdays, suddenly appearing in almost every establishment I frequent. It has listings of stuff that's going on around town--from who's playing at Cafe Nine or Toads to the newest gallery opening. I first used it to find a good restaurant, as navigating the New Haven eating scene is as precarious as the club scene. The Advocate attempts controversial article writing, which sometimes succeeds and usually hooks me in.
Chris Arnott, Mark Oppenheimer and Carole Bass are the main contributors. One of the bartenders at Rudy's, Craig, usually has an article in it, too, about music or bars. The Advocate tries to give everything a scandal ring to it, but when you're at Rudy's drinking a beer waiting for your boyfriend to show up or looking for something different to do, the Advocate is useful.
Becky likes the horoscopes, which are always a little silly and off-kilter. The personals probably keep the thing going, along with all the ads. At least it's anti-Bush, which is its saving grace. It's fairly anti-almost-any-politician-who-sucks. As many of the Connecticut politicians are found guilty on counts of corruption, the Advocate has a field day in this arena. I do have to say that their point of view is at least different, which is a nice change. Sometimes they're funny, too.
Now, never mistake a copy of PLAY for the Advocate. You'll be sorely disappointed. PLAY is free, too, but only because no one would buy it if they charged for it. It's the "club" paper, I suppose, attempting to make itself out to be the place to find entertainment. But if you're in New Haven and don't know where the clubs are (Crown Street, mostly), then get out. It's for college kids who can't use a map and like having their pictures taken while they're sweaty, then plastered in full color in next week's PLAY.
So, drink a beer, read the Advocate. It's good for your health.
Poetry from the Elm City: Rudy's Ballad
Published Tuesday, December 27, 2005 by Starry Saltwater Rose.
I wrote this, originally, for Lenny, my fiance, as part of a collection of poems I gave him for Valentine's Day, 2004
Rudy’s Ballad
A man left Maine with a limp and a broken heart.
He followed the thin line of highway down the coast
and found New Haven. Now he sleeps inside her
and, on summer days, walks her womb with wonder.
A girl left an island with dreams and hope her burden.
She followed the traffic of the air, got in a taxi cab
and found New Haven. Now she sleeps inside her
and, on summer days, walks her womb with wonder.
A man and a girl, in their mutual travels, find the corner
of Elm and Howe, find a small bar with familiar faces.
One night, on the first of the year, they find each other.
They drink, climb trees and tumble chastely into bed.
In all they have found, they find they have lost things:
He’s lost his pain and she’s lost her defenses,
they have lost their hearts within each other,
so life must be spent finding them again.
A man left Maine and a girl left an island, following
chance and running from lives that proved too small,
finding New Haven. Now they sleep inside her
and, on summer days, will walk her womb with wonder.
PQ
Published by Starry Saltwater Rose.
PQ is the kid over there. Yes, the one with the dirty blond curls and clear eyes. He told me once that he gets all the curls from Pantene curl gel. It really works, too. I bought it because I loved those little curls on his head, like a halo.
Now give him a second and the impish grin—there it is. Friendly, sparkly, Puckish. Met him a few months ago. He just graduated from Vassar and moved back here, where’s he’s from, originally. Sensitive kind of kid.
One evening he comes in, orders a beer and, with his eyes all blurry, says, “Marlon Brando died today.” The boy was close to crying. Now Marlon, God rest his soul, was one of my favorites—I am very sure that Tennessee Williams saw Marlon and went home to write A Streetcar Named Desire just so Marlon could be Stanley Kowalski. And there’s Pasquale, tearing up because the man died—I’ve never seen a guy that carried that much emotion around.
You can find him at Urban Outfitters, where he works. He used to work at Mexi Cali Grille, but it shut down. I think he’s relieved to be out of the food business: “I’m just glad I can go to the bar after work and not smell like fucking burritos,” he said.
I think he’d make a good art teacher, actually. He’d be great with children; he is one himself, the way he finds simple joys. And he’s an artist—anyone could see that from looking right at him. He’s excited that there’s a Michael’s opening up near his house so he doesn’t have to go all the way to A.C. Moore to get cheap art supplies. That’s probably why we get along—art seeks out art.
He’s also a perfect gentleman. I dressed up as a Catholic schoolgirl for my boyfriend’s birthday and we went down to Rudy’s. PQ, like a true man of the court, framed his compliment with intellectual introspection: “I mean, I went to Vassar with all those feminists and I have nothing against feminists, but my girlfriend at college would never dress up like that. I mean, I went to Catholic school. That’s, like, the ultimate fantasy.”
He was with a girl named Heather for a little while—a kind of a joined-at-the-hip love affair. I felt bad for him when it was all going on, because she was boinging on a rebound and that fool falls hard. Jelly heart, sucker punch.
If Pasquale were a Tarot card, he’d be the Sun. In my Vertigo Tarot, the Sun is a radiant newborn, riding a horse with wings, heralding in joy, simplicity, confidence and innocence. Pasquale’s heart may break easily, his smile may be quick, those eyes may sparkle with a little fairy dust, but in the end, he’ll be happy.
Cutler's Music Store
Published by Starry Saltwater Rose.
Cutler’s on Broadway on a winter night
There really aren’t too many independent record stores left out there, but Cutler’s on Broadway is still standing. The store is cut into two parts—the classical music side and then everything else. They have a cat that pretty much lives in the classical music section. Even when the place is closed, you can get a look at the calico staring out of the window right at you.
Cutler’s has the best used CD’s. I usually skip everything else and go there. It’s cheaper, and I’m trying to build up my CD collection. I was dating a Muslim and left my CD’s in his car. Unbeknownst to me, his family is part of some crazy Muslim mafia type thing and, when his car broke down, they shipped it to Syria to sell it, along with a few other cars. My entire CD collection is in the Middle East.
So I raid the used CD’s section and then wander around. Cutler’s has 80’s era arcade video games—Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, Street Fighter—lined up along the back wall. I suck at video games, so I avoid them, but sometimes I pause to check out the intro graphics.
Cutler’s also sells vinyl, which makes me want to buy a turntable. Not to spin or anything silly like that (I’d be a lousy spinner, no motivation), just to have at home and play around with. I didn’t even know that they sold modern songs on vinyl. I’m seeing Madonna, 50 Cent covers—and then I do a double take. They’re way too big to be CD’s, too small to be promotional posters...oh, hey, they’re records!
At Sam Ash on Amity Road, they have hundred dollar record players. But that doesn’t include all the speakers and amps and shit. One day, though, I’m going to walk into Cutler’s, straight through Videos and DVD’s, skim the new releases, linger my gaze over the used CD’s and start flipping through those records with intent of blasting those bad boys out in my entertainment room in the basement. Smoking a joint, of course.
The guy behind the counter with the blue hair is Ryan. My friend Becky gets along with him pretty well. She ran into him at Rudy’s when she was down for a weekend from Boston. They chatted, he told her to come by the store the next day. So while I’m digging around in the used bin, Becky gets free music from Ryan that he burned for her.
Poetry from the Elm City: July on the Green
Published by Starry Saltwater Rose.
I wrote this when I returned to New Haven while living in Boston for two months. It was a two day visit, to see a boy. That dates this poem to July 2003.
July on the Green (a clandestine visit)
I’m in love again. Her pavement skin
and tar street veins creep over her body
and under my feet. She knows the sorrows
of the drinkers and whispers a lonely, lovely
song into the ears of the night creatures.
I remember the names of all of her spaces,
the intimate phrases of pillows and sheets.
I left her and now I return, a remorseful lover.
I crawl into her bed (the green place in her heart)
because she’s always pulling me close and closer.
I came to find a man, to take a trip to his home.
We fight and we scream and we destroy ourselves
and us. I watch him tend lovingly to his plants
on his front stoop, looking for any way back in.
But there is nothing and I turn my eyes away.
Desperate and melancholy, I ask for an oxycotin:
he sucks the green coating off, grinds it fine,
lines it up and rolls up a dollar bill, offering
it to me like an absolution, a salvation, escape.
On my knees, I inhale, snort, pull it all inside.
Just as quickly as I ran to her open heart,
I run away, back to Boston and into pretty eyes
that I could never love. There was no place
for me in New Haven that day, that weekend,
but one day she will find where I fit into her.
When I can love her right, when I can be here
everyday, then I will ask her to “Marry me.”
I have nowhere to go, but she holds me anyway.
I know I have a wanderer’s heart, but goddamn—
she feels like home to my seeking, shaking hands.
Pat the Fireman
Published by Starry Saltwater Rose.
Patrick at Rudy's Bar and Grill
That’s Pat over there. If his shot glass is empty, it’ll be filled with Polish brandy sooner or later. He’s Irish and a fireman, so there are a couple excuses.
Everyone says different things about Pat. He is an asshole, but he told my boyfriend Lenny that the reason he liked me was because I was a lady. A lady that punched him twice, but still, a lady. Hey, I take my compliments where I can.
He’s terrible with women, which might have something to do with him still living with his mom and dad, but I don’t know the circumstances. Maybe there’s a good reason. The lack of rent and grocery expenses certainly does help pay for beers, but they more often than not buy me a few beers.
I can see how he gets the girls to giggle and throw their brightest eyes at him. He made me glitterbug the first time I met him, but I went home with the man that ended up being my boyfriend. See, Pat’s not boyfriend material. He looks normal and then he looks bad for you—like a shot of tequila.
It’s the blue eyes. Underneath that baseball cap he wears to hide the balding and in the dark light of Rudy’s, you don’t notice them at first. They took me by surprise one day in the afternoon, near springtime. “Your eyes are blue,” I said.
“Yeah?” he said, giving me the “duh” look.
“I never noticed,” I retorted. “They’re nice.”
“Thank you,” he said.
So I’m sure that it’s the eyes. The blue eyes, the lean body and classic lines. I’m sure he’s been in love before. I’m sure he’s been heartbroken. He’s too cynical not to have been.
Pat has colorful, cartoonish tattoos: a Grateful Dead dancing bear, a pen portrait the Pasquale drew of him on a Rudy's napkin, and Tigger dressed as a fireman. I almost fell out of my chair laughing when he showed me the Tigger tattoo. I had just discovered the “Tigger” peeking out from his boxers. He did not seem to appreciate my mirth at his expense. I just thought it was so vulnerable. What a strange way to show the cracks in your armor.
Pat invited me and Lenny to his house for the Fourth of July and we didn’t go. He sounded sour the next Tuesday: “Thanks for coming,” he said sarcastically. As if it mattered to him whether or not we went. As if we were friends.
Sometimes I kiss Pat goodbye on the cheek. It’s the hidden corners around the bend from his angles and turns that makes his blue eyes human. If not lovely.
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