A Day in the Life - Part Six

Name dropping alert:

It was hot and stormy summer in New York City’s East Village when I wandered into a local pub I had read about in the local paper. The year was 1993. I was filled with a deep thirst as I . . .

Ah, screw that. I’m not good at writing mystery stories. If you’ve ever read a Craven story, you already know that. What I want to talk about is Elizabeth Gilbert the writer.

I never wrote about the folks of any note that I’ve come across as a result of my job. I know I get a bit squeamish when someone’s telling me their name-dropping tale. And I really don’t have a lot of stories to tell on that front. But in doing these sketchy life sketches it seems name-dropping them is reasonable if you’re writing about parts of your life. So, here goes one more that’s a particular favorite.

One day I walked into the Coyote Ugly saloon in the East Village. Behind the bar was a young blonde haired woman who threw out her hand to a new customer. Her name was Liz, a twenty four year-old recent graduate of NYU (New York University).

My brother and I worked for Collins Bros. moving company at the time. He drove the truck and I was his helper/schlepper/monkey. We were always scouting the city for different places to grab a beer during our lunch break. I read about the Coyote in the local paper. It told of wild women bartenders who fed you tequila shots from a cowboy boot while gyrating on top of the bar; that was for the night crowd. The liquid-lunch crowd were a mix of blue-collar workers and local riff raff looking to spend their unemplyment checks on cold beers and a great old country music jukebox. Willie, Waylon, Johnny, and the like.

We got what we came for and more. Liz Gilbert was a hoot. A charming extravert behind the bar with an easy smile and a good joke. None of which I can remember. It was thirty three years ago. I was envious. I’m an introvert and do not know any jokes. There’s something in my brain that disposes of any joke I’ve ever heard. So, I don’t even try.

Liz and I weren’t close friends, but we got chummy enough over the next few months that she asked my brother Dave and me if we’d move she and her fiance Mike into their new apartment in the Flat Iron District. She couldn’t afford much but offered some cash and a lunch at a local watering hole called the Old Town Bar. And we did just that. I’d like to say we had a stimulating literary converstion at lunch and that I just knew she was going places, but I didn’t.

I was not writing at that time. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I only ever thought about writing. Always writing in my head, never on paper. And I was forty years old at the time. What’s that about? No wonder I go to therapy.

Liz did tell me soon after that she was geting a short story published in the November issue of Esquire magazine, and soon after she was no longer working at the Coyote Ugly.

She had taken a bartending job at a more upscale joint in her new neighborhood. I paid her a visit once or twice, but it was not my kinda place. Liz was still as down-to-earth as ever, but it was the sort of place that when I mentioned to someone that I was a moving man, the converstion came to a screaming head-hits-the-windshield-halt. At the Coyote, if I mentioned I moved furniture for a living, I’d be accused of being a bit hoity toity.

Soon after, I ruptured a lower disc at work and would no longer move furniture for a living, and wouldn't be back to a new job in the city until foiur years later. I never saw Liz again.

But she’ll will always have a little cormer of my head and heart.

***

Fast forward to 2011.

I was cleaning off one of my book shelves and came across the Esquire magazine with Elizabeth Gilbert’s short story titled Pilgrims. I had meant to get it autographed, but never did.

No longer knowing where she lived, I sent the magazine to her publisher at Riverhead books. And damend if she didn’t return it autographed:

For Rich -

Wow!

You are patient!

Liz Gilbert

She also included a personal note and an autographed copy of Eat, Pray, Love. Paperback edition. I was delighted.

End of story. For now.

If anyone is interested in Elizabeth Gilbert’s take on her experiences at the Coyote Ugly saloon. Here’s a link to the GQ article:

https://www.gq.com/story/elizabeth-gilbert-gq-march-1997-muse-coyote-ugl...