Teeth matter

CBGBs. The New Jerusalem, place of pilgrimage. Talking Heads started
here. The Ramones. Deb. Television. Tele-effing-Vision! Holy of holies,
religious relic. All it ought to be. Dirty, seedy, rundown, explosion
of acne, perfect fit on Manhattan's lower east side. As I got there, a
band were loading up for the night's gig. Quick word with a roadie and
I was in, helping carry the gear. Thank God keyboards are lighter than
the mellotron now.
Ink scrawled sweat-stained walls. Floor of glue, spilled beer, raw
heat, body fluid turning into a sole-sucking swamp. Tiny stage.
Perfection. Promised land, historic monument.
Back into the daylight like Carter coming out of the tomb - I have seen
wonderful things, though they'd never end up in a museum. Not even on
the History Channel which just shows what we know about life.
Standing on the sidewalk, drinking a can of coke, listening to the
squeal. Old guy, pushing a shopping cart, piled up with empty cans. Not
so old. Forty maybe, grizzled, weatherworn, life beaten, holey jeans,
holy father. Stops in front of me. Looks at me. Not at me. At the
can.
"Done with that sir?"
"Not yet."
He grunts, sits down on the sidewalk. Good idea. I sit next to him.
Take a drink. Pass him the can. He drinks. Gives it back. Coke passes
back and forth a minute or two. I leave the last pull for him. Puts the
can to his mouth. Dull clunk. He swills the can around a minute,
listening to the metallic thud, like he's thinking about forming an
industrial noise band to play here next week. Gets bored with it. Puts
his hand over the hole, turns the cup upside down. A little coke
dribbles between his fingers. Tilts the can, changes the angle. Small
black oblong drops into his hand. Examines it, puts it in the pocket of
his ripped plaid shirt. Smiles at me, gap-toothed grin.
"Put it back later" he says.
Tosses the can into the cart, walks off. Watch him rolling away,
hunched over the bar, shoving it with his ribs. Stops. Drags the cart
to the gutter. Turns, comes toward me. I'm still sat on the sidewalk.
He bends down. Bends further. Unbuckles my shoes, takes them off. Takes
off the shredded moccasins he's wearing. Holds them out to me. I shake
my head. He nods, drops them back in the cart. Puts my shoes on his
feet. Looks at them. Nods. Cranes his head towards mine, mouth an inch
or so from me. Hisses into my ear.
"Give me inspiration."
Not begging, not imploring. Just matter of fact. "Give me
inspiration."
Turns, walks away, slumps back into the cart, heads off to cash in the
cans for a cup of coffee.
Feel something in my fist. Open it. There's this perfect, bright, white
tooth.