paella and cigars

(medium-length journalentry/poem about visiting a friend in newark a long time ago)

paella and cigars

The last cigar I smoked was
in Newark, New Jersey in nine
teen eighty five in the sum
mer. I lit it on a wine col
ored stool in a Portuguese
bar with a belly full of
shrimps and paella and beer
and finally threw the butt
from the window of K’s Hor
izon. It had been a good vi
sit – I met Nick, I slept in
a small room, I lifted Nick’s
weights when no one was aroun
d, I had a shower. I ate good
all the time – corned beef
sandwiches at places in New
York, diner breakfasts, pae
lla with lobster, not chicken.
We hit a discount bookstore
-remainders very cheap, it
was heaven after Europe and
Japan. I loaded up. I saw
the Statue of Liberty. I saw
galleries built in a spiral.
I saw a girl putting me, and
the rest of her past behind
her and getting on with her
life. I saw City College,
Soho, Chinatown and the Dan
cing Hen. I watched an engine
winched from theguts of a
stolen car. I met Brenda, “so
what do you do for fun?” she
aksed. You name it. I met
K’s folks, his friends, giv
ing me no chance but to be
lieve all the stories I’d
heard and doubted but still
believed anyway because
they were so well told. I
met the dogs – Ruby and Lady.
His son wasn’t conceived
yet so I couldn’t meet him.
Nick said Italians at the
Post Office were persecut
ing him because he was
Russian. He wanted to go to
Nicaragua and pick coffee:
do something! I saw the
sidewalks and parks, bars,
a strip joint, restaurant
s, churches, freeways, all
eys, cars and homes homes
homes. The last night we
had the paella at the port
uguese joint, it was damn
good. We bought the cigars
they said were Cuban but
K insisted were Portugue
se. We drove through dark
streets and smoked them
the night of Newark poured
in through the big windows
of the Horizon. Cigars
embered still as we visit
ed somebody’s parents in
the Polack section, and they
embered when we drove off
again. That was a good
visit, a good time, and I
think of the cigars and
the Portuguese bar when
ever I reminisce. All the
polished wood, the bar
clock, photos of fish
caught and of young guys
in Everlast trunks, mena
cing welterweights now
tending bar. The smell of
beer, hops, piss, cigar
smoke. Shrimps and hot
sauce. Perspiration. Dark
and cool except the doorway.
With K, I went to an Irish
bar in New York where your
pint came in two frozen
half pint mugs. We went
to some other bar where
he wanted to pick up these
two nurses, oriental-look
ing Filipinas. I said,
forget it, they’re ugly.
But they’re all alone,
he said. He drove me to
the airport where I caught
the red-eye west. My books
made it on alright, but
then I had to pay extra when
I changed planes in Hous
ton at four a.m. It was
a bad flight but I’ve had
worse since, and it beat
the bus for four days
straight. And K – that was
a few years ago. He lives
one place, then another,
now he’s not sure where to.
Exactly like me, only
right now he’s broke and
I’m not. I see him now and
then, for a few days. Then
I get back on a red-eye a
gain. We write letters and
tell each other what hap
pens to us or what we hap
en to do. And that Portu
guese place and the cigars
move further and further
away.

15.12.88