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7.14..05
Pond Scum: Sir Finbow Visits NYC
By Steve Finbow
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I’m sitting with Lola on a slab of concrete jutting out into the Hudson; we’re looking at the lights and buildings of the Manhattan skyline; it is 10 o’clock at night. Behind us are two Hasidic Jews and behind them a Hispanic couple are kissing and cuddling. A black van pulls up, its headlights on full beam. I have a fleeting thought that maybe all of us have stumbled across a Brooklyn crime family’s secret drop-off spot and the guys in the van are waiting for us to leave this river scene so they can dump some no-hope informer in the murky waters.
Art By Nicholas Allanach
It is three days since I left London, four days since terrorist bombs rocked my home city – 07/07/05. I was less than half a mile away from the bomb on the bus. Londoners were pretty sangfroid about the whole affair. I, personally, have been in the vicinity of three explosions: an IRA mortar-bomb attack on Downing Street in 1991; an IRA bomb on Oxford Street, December 1992; and a nail-bomb attack on the Admiral Duncan pub in Soho in 1999. On the Friday after the outrage, I was due to fly out to New York. I felt guilty. I felt I should stay; see how the old girl was doing. But I knew she’d be OK. London’s a hard old bitch. By the time I got to Heathrow, I was ready to go to New York. I’d lived in New York and hadn’t been back for 15 years. I was leaving London behind – it was like leaving an old lady in the gutter after a brutal stabbing, but it was all right – some kind soul would bring her a nice cup of tea.
At JFK, Lola met me with a sign that read, "Sir Finbow." A reporter from the New York Post also met me. Why are reporters so obsessed with age and occupation? The poet Ted Hughes (68) was always described as an ex-rose gardener. The Post’s reporter asked about Londoners’ reactions to the bombings and I shrugged and said, "We’re used to it." And I think we are.
I wanted to see if there was any palpable change to New York fours years after the events of 9/11. To further my research I headed straight for the White Horse for a pint of Stella Artois and a burger. New Yorkers are known for being loud and brash but the asshole sitting at the table behind us was an ear-splitting moron, so loud he could have woken Helen Keller. I looked around. He was a twenty-something Asian guy, all stripy shirts, bad jeans, and topsiders. Lola, who is from New York, raised an eyebrow. If it had have been in London, I would have said something staggeringly witty and cruel, but the guy’s friends were laughing so much I decided to put up with the braying. I think he must have been some kind of alternative comedian because he was making my lunch a fucking tragedy. Oh, and Ethan Hawke was there having his photograph taken holding babies.
Did I miss the twin towers of the World Trade Center? Not really. They just weren’t there. Did New Yorkers seem less rude, friendlier? Well, if you took the bar and waiting staff of the White Horse, Chumley’s, the Baggot Inn, the Peculiar Pub, the Grassroots, 7b, and the Kettle of Fish as a fair representation of everyday New Yorkers, i.e., actors, writers, students, businessmen, artists, and Irishmen, then, definitely not. And why do dollar bills smell so funky? Like stale feet and cabbage.
Maybe it’s me but I don’t think New York has changed that much. When I lived there, Alphabet City was pretty much a no-go area, now it reminds me of what the East Village used to be like. Has New York lost its edge? I did note that instead of switchblades, steel cobras, and handguns the accessories of choice seem to be dogs and tattoos. I didn’t see a tattooed dog – that would have been interesting – what would a dog have as a tattoo? I think it would have ‘maw’ and ‘paw’ tattooed on its knuckles. There also seems to be, amongst young men at least, a preference for facial hair and hats. Maybe the dogs signify a gentler society, the tattoos a sign that people are proud to stand out as New Yorkers, the facial hair that there is an access of testosterone in the drinking water. Or are all of these things a sad and desperate attempt to be alternative and edgy? Most of Manhattan is gentrified, it feels softer and cleaner.
I stayed in Williamsburg – it was great: busy coffee shops, designer bars, and eclectic bookshops. If there is one thing that has definitely changed among New Yorkers, it is their desire to have fun. When I lived in Greenwich Village the emphasis was on standing around and looking cool, being hip, posing, but now everybody just wants to have fun. I went to a bar called Galapagos on North 6th Street. Karaoke night – young guys and girls singing songs, playing air guitars, banging tambourines. Never in a million years would you get anyone from Hoxton or Shoreditch participating in a dodgy sing-a-long.
So, did 9/11 release New Yorkers to have a good time? Did it allow them freedom? Did it mean they didn’t always have to be so achingly hip? Is the wild revelry a symptom of the post-apocalypse? Will the terrorist attack on London create a similar need to show that fundamentalist idiots will not bring the city to its knees? I don’t know about you but I reckon Londoners have always known how to enjoy themselves in the face of adversity. And on that note – and this is becoming something of a sign-off – I’m off down the rub-a-dub for a pint of Scott Ritter, a tub of jellied eels, and a rousing rendition of ‘Roll Out The Barrel.’
Click here to read previous Pond Scum columns.-------------------------------------
Steve Finbow writes out of London, England. He has worked for the poet Allen Ginsberg, the writer Victor Bockris, and the artist Richard Long. His fiction, essays, and short plays appear, or will appear, in Eyeshot, 3am Magazine, Yankee Pot Roast, uber, Locus Novus, InkPot, Dicey Brown, The Guardian Online, and Pindeldyboz. He is currently working on a novel (Yeah, right). He can be contacted here.
© 2005 Me Three
