East Village

East Village

  by Steven Hager

  with watercolors by the author

  art and text copyright 1967 by Steven Hager

  New edition with watercolors released 2013

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-4659-9019-8

  Dedicated to Harold Chang

  This story was intended to capture the spirit of the young people that inhabited New York's East Village 1966-7. The author is deeply indebted to Robert Henderson for his help in the technical aspects of the story.

  Foreword

  People often ask me how I evolved into such an anti-establishment character and I explain it all happened in the 5th Grade. I’d moved around a lot, from Boston to Cambridge, England, to Munich, Germany, back to central Illinois, where I was born. So when I entered 4th Grade at Yankee Ridge I was bilingual and spoke German with a perfect Bavarian accent. It was hard making friends with all those changes. But it got even harder the next year because I was moved to Leal School when my Dad bought a Tudor-style brick house on Delaware Street.

  Leal was very different from upscale Yankee Ridge, much more working-class. Phillip Patton (sitting next to me in the center of the front row) had a little gang he started with three or four of his buddies. I sat behind Phil and he tried to recruit me. West Side Story had recently come to the Princess Theater and that movie deeply affected me. I understood instinctively that forming a gang was a noble quest, but instead of joining up with Phil, I decided to create my own.

  Andy Miller (top row, second from right) was my initial co-conspirator in this mission, and all the early meetings were held at his house. I must have pulled the rest from another class. There were about six of us to start. I do remember Eric Steffenson (who would die tragically young) was one of us. For some bizarre reason, I named us “The Roaring 21 Club” and we had a secret sign, which was a perpendicular line with two horizontal bars. Maybe it was a take off on a Christian cross since I was still a Lutheran at the time, attending Sunday school every week.

  When a big snowfall hit town, I challenged Phil and his gang to a snowball fight in Carle Park. Unbeknownst to Phil, however, right after he accepted this challenge, I went around school recruiting about 30 extra members for my group, most of whom came from lower classes. I quickly gathered them all in the pavilion on the east side of the park and taught them the secret sign so they would be official members. At the appointed hour, Andy and I stood in the center of the park with three or four others, while the rest hid in the bushes around the perimeter. Before long, Phil and his gang came screaming into the park with gobs of snowballs in their arms. When they got close, however, I gave the signal and everybody came running in, surrounding them, pelting them with snowballs.

  They valiantly tried to make a fight of it, forming a circle with their backs together, but it quickly evolved into a remake of Custer’s Last Stand, so they took off running towards Dennis Seth’s house, which was their nearest refuge. We followed, raining snowballs on their backs. When we got to the house, we pelted it with snowballs. There was a jar of nails on the porch that got broken. As soon as that happened, I pulled my troops back to the park and boy, did we have a hearty chuckle, many of us bent over double, others writhing on the ground, as I recounted the engagement from the battlefield, pointing out where the various highlights had taken place. “Did you see the look on Phil’s face when he realized the was surrounded?!!Hahahaa!”

  But the next day, Phil got called into the principal’s office over something he’d done, and while there, he told the story of the snowball fight. The principal wanted to see everyone involved and when we showed up, he had to move the meeting from his office to the gym. He lined up Phil’s gang on one side, and mine on the other; it was like 40 versus five. He looked at me and said, “Do you consider this a fair fight?” I didn’t know what to say. It was just a snowball fight, fer christsake, I’m thinking.

  But that principal made sure when I moved to junior high I was put in a program for problem kids. My classes were weird, full of people with learning disabilities and serious issues with violence. It wasn’t until I got to high school that I realized other classes weren’t like mine. Other classes actually had serious discussions and were learning all sorts of stuff, while I was basically being warehoused in a room filled with dangerous bullies and idiots. I blame it all on West Side Story.

  Phil later confronted me in the schoolyard and we had a fistfight to settle things that became quite a famous showdown at the school, gathering a crowd that was evenly split between who they wanted to root for. Phil boxed me in the ear pretty hard. It was my first fight so I just landed body blows. I didn’t have the guts to swing for the face or head, not yet, anyway.

  When I look back on this now, I realize the creation of secret societies is probably wired into our DNA. Another thing that springs to mind: Within a few years The Merry Pranksters would become my biggest role models, accomplished scouts on the Fun Vibe trail, who actually replaced my media-induced street-gang mythology with The Magic Bus, the true secrets of which remain little-known today. I know some. Not as much as Babbs and Mountain Girl, and the grandmaster now resides in the unknown dimensions. This I know: The snowball fight was a prank. Nobody got hurt. Under Prankster rules, I should not have been shamed, and my education should not have been torpedoed. How many kids in America were there like me, shunted into a separate education system for lost causes and instigators?

  East Village

  Bugsy became conscious of the heat on his eyelids. He shaded himself with his grimy hand, determined to catch another hour of sleep so he could continue a delicious dream in which he portrayed a modern-day Al Capone. But just as he was about to drift away, his hand slipped and the afternoon sun cut into his eyes. He jerked out of bed still wearing the beer-soaked jeans of the previous night's frolic.

  "Stop the car at this corner," commanded Chancellor. He watched closely for any sign of activity in store. Suddenly, the Chevy door flung open, ejecting Chancellor. He sprinted inside, bought a pack of Camels and rushed out as fast as his nervous little legs could carry him.

  Yukyuk rapped loudly on the door. It opened slowly as far as its multi-assorted chains would allow. A baseball bat with spikes driven through it appeared. Yukyuk handed its bearer a five dollar bill, and in return, the baseball bat bearer handed Yukyuk a deck of New York crystal.

  Bugsy staggered out the door and down the hallway to the john wondering why he never had those really spectacular hangovers like Cary Grant seemed to suffer in the movies. He turned the corner past the bullet holes the neighboring thugs were so proud of. He remembered the day they'd arrived. He'd been visiting Marshall Gates (who'd lived there previously) when the three thugs kicked down the door and decided to move in. Bugsy and Gates were quickly evicted to a smaller room in the back, but Gates must have tried to return during the night because Bugsy had been awakened to the sounds of screams and gunshots. Every now and then the trio dragged in tourists off the street to show off their handywork. The 45 slugs were imbedded in the hall across from their door. The latest news on Gates was he'd split for Los Angeles.

  Bugsy smiled as he sat on the can, reminiscing what almost seemed like old times to a 16-year-old. He looked out the window into the courtyard just in time to see a bottle come crashing down from the sixth floor and shatter against the wall on the other side of the dingy courtyard.

  "Go West, young man," he said pointing to himself in the mirror. He made a half-hearted attempt at grooming his disheveled hair with his fingers. Strolling back to his room, he spied Yukyuk firing up in the hall. Yuk was a very strange cat. He'd adopted this building about a year ago as a sort of 11th Street Opera House of which Yuk was the phantom. Yuk often stalked the halls at night completely wiped on speed, mumbling "yukyukyukyukyuk." Bugsy didn't
think Yukyuk was insane. He thought he just acted like that because he didn't like people. This is not until he talked to Yuk once and Yuk pulled out this little red plastic lobster and started petting it like it was real.

  Yukyuk saw Bugsy stumble into the hall but he didn't pay Bugsy any attention because Bugsy never gave Yuk anything. He wouldn't even give Herman some food. Yuk pulled Herman out of his pocket and stroked his plastic scales. Yuk propped his elbow up against the wall. His unnaturally thin arms made it possible for him to easily find a vein without a tourniquet. The walls rained electricity. Yuk smiled with the needle's first touch.

  Bugsy dropped himself on the mattress deciding it wasn't clean-up day yet. Every now and then, when the room got really filthy or infested with crabs, or even worse—bedbugs, he'd throw nearly everything out, clean it spotless, and keep it that way for a few days. He stretched his arms and yawned deeply, while surveying the room. This entire floor had been designed as a single apartment, until some slumlord discovered more money could be made renting rooms with communal bathroom and kitchen facilities.

  "What makes a cat like Yukyuk tick?"

  Chancellor ran upstairs to Bugsy's room and barged in as if he held a tommy gun.

  "Up against the wall, motherfucker," he joked.

  Bugsy ignored him.

  "God, how can you stand this place?" parried Chancellor while throwing open a window. But Bugsy was well aware of how envious most people were of this choice-location crib on 11th Street.

  "Want a cigarette? It's from Harlem."

  "So what?"

  "I bought it there, that's so what. You show me five guys my age with the guts to walk to Harlem."

  "Let's go panhandle," said Bugsy.

  Chancellor had gotten his name from his military-style coat, which had actually been Bugsy's idea to steal from a goodwill thrift box. It was such a nice coat, with "Chancellor Hotel" sewn on each shoulder. They crossed Tomkins Square just as the sun was setting. Ten minutes later, they were set up a block from the revolving statue. Placing themselves on opposite corners they made sure they hit-up every person that walked by.

  Harry, meanwhile, was throwing a small get-together. Harry was from Hong Kong and was always doing incredible stuff like eating cockroaches off the wall and similar feats of digestive skill. Once for a laugh he borrowed a baseball bat to smash an annoying alley cat's head open. While everyone stood back aghast, Harry calmly ate a spoonful of it's brains. Tonight Harry had a couple of chicks with their tops off, whipping each other and making out for Harry's entertainment while he passed around a fully loaded hash pipe.

  Yukyuk had been sitting on top of the building letting the warm summer breeze blow through his hair while he waited for the sun to go down. Yuk had gone by Harry's room and peeked inside. Yuk didn't particularly like people to have fun. Yuk didn't like Harry especially, because Harry reminded him of some powerful Chinese Emperor who held everyone's life in the balance. As soon as it got dark, Yuk started moving down the stairs and through the halls on every floor, doing his "yukyuk" thing at every doorway.

  Harry lived on the third floor. He was actually mildly scared of Yukyuk but Harry wasn't about to admit that to anyone. Harry was very superstitious, although he saw no justification for Yukyuk's pitiful existence. Plus, Harry didn't appreciate being startled in the middle of the night by some chuckle-head speed freak. Harry didn't like strange cats and for two cents he might throttle the maniac some day. But tonight Harry wasn't worried about Yuk. He was busy enjoying the excellent party he was having. But Harry almost choked on his hash pipe when he heard the sounds in the hall coming into his room.

  "Yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk." Usually, Yuk would just stand outside the door for a while, but this time, he walked right in. "Gurble yurble, toil and turble," said Yuk, hands waving menacingly in the air. Harry appeared stunned by this unexpected sorcery. "Chinese curble dies at midnight bays the dagger moon's dog," howled Yuk, emboldened by the apparent success of his performance. He moved closer with one finger outstretched, and then uttered a single word, hardly above a whisper.

  "Die."

  Harry ran from the room screaming, his hands above his head and his eyes wide in terror. He was still in that same basic condition when he bolted out the front door right through a crap game some Spades and PR's had set up on the stoop. They scowled as he passed through but didn't take the energy to interrupt the game or even look up to see who those fast feet belonged to.

  Bugsy and Chancellor were on their way back, a block from home. They'd given up after panhandling only a few bucks. Bugsy was splitting up the take with Chancellor when a screaming Viet-Cong ran smack between them, knocking them both down and sending their hard-earned change spilling into the sidewalk. Bugsy started fighting off the little PR kids who'd appeared out of nowhere. A fat lady stood high at the top of the stoop directing her kids to the quarters. Bugsy noticed her mouth was all shiny with wine as she gestured with one hand and held her bottle of Twister vino in the other.

  It wasn't until the next day Chancellor discovered Harry was the screaming Viet-Cong that had knocked him down. He'd gone into Harry's room to cop some grass only to find Yukyuk sitting in an easy chair, his feet propped up and a joint of Harry's best stuff in his mouth. In the meantime, Harry had split the scene and was nowhere to be found.

  Bugsy strutted into Junior's Cave and spotted Harry in the darkest corner wearing a pair of sunglasses, so he darted over.

  "Harry, where have you been? Everyone has been asking about you."

  Harry's coffee cup began to shake noticeably. He was in bad shape and it was all Yukyuk's fault. For three days he had wandered the streets and subways expecting death at any moment. He knew he would be desperate soon as he was running low on cash. But when Bugsy assured him that Yukyuk actually had no supernatural powers of prophesy and was just another crazy speed freak, he decided to visit the most cold-blooded person he knew to seek revenge.

  Harry walked over to 13th Street and stopped in front of Butch's. He was careful to step around the crap game on the stoop. He knocked on the door and Butch answered.

  "Just call me daddy," said Butch shaking hands.

  Once inside, Harry blurted out the whole sad story, sparing few embarrassing details. Butch shook his head sadly, while oiling and cleaning his favorite switchblade, stopping Harry only once or twice for some essential details, like names and addresses for the two girls. When Harry finished, he handed Butch a five spot and Butch assured Harry that he'd soon be rid of Yukyuk.

  Amazingly, the news leaked out instantly all up and down St. Marks Place that Harry had marked Yukyuk for a serious beating and possible death sentence. When Yuk heard the news, he immediately fled the neighborhood looking like a hunted animal.

  Butch came back to his pad very dejected. He hadn't found anyone at Harry's. He might have to give the five dollars back and Harry was in the midst of a gigantic feast culled from Butch's own refrigerator. Harry looked very pleased and comfortable and was even slightly disappointed Butch had returned so soon.

  "Well, is he dead?" asked Harry hopefully, munching on a peanut butter and cockroach sandwich.

  "Naw, I couldn't find him.

  "I asked a couple of guys in the building and they all said they don't think he's coming back."

  At this news, Harry jumped up, clicked his heels with glee and rushed back home.

  Yukyuk was actually having a bit of fun playing caged-animal-set-loose games all over town, running up and down alleys, constantly glancing furtively around, looking for the one-armed culprit. But it wasn't long before he discovered Herman was missing. He sat down on the curb wondering what to do when he decided to return to Harry's and look for Herman no matter what the risk. So he tip-toed back to 11th Street, and made a strange sight, tip-toeing the three miles from Central Park, but Yukyuk was a very strange cat.

  Eventually, he made it back to Harry's door and peered inside. Herman was sitting on the table. Yukyuk crossed the room on the very tips o
f his sandals just as Harry bounded in from the kitchen, humming to himself, his arms laden with snacks of all varieties.

  "EEEEEE," pitched from Harry's lips in a super falsetto that almost wrecked Yukyuk's hearing.

  "Ijustcamebackforherman," said Yuk, realizing he was intruding somewhat.

  Mistaking Yukyuk's speedfreak garble for a voodoo curse, Harry jumped out the nearest open window and ran petrified back to Butch's, while Chancellor ran up the stairs to tell Bugsy what he had just seen. But Bugsy never believed anyone could leap from a third floor and keep on running. It didn't matter how many graves or bibles Chancellor swore on, or if Harry did go feet first.

  Butch stalked back to 11th Street with a clenched jaw and his hands in front of him, ready to strangle any jerk that got in his way. Every now and then he muttered three words. "You're dead motherfucker." After all, Harry was a good friend of Butch's and it pained Butch to see him cry.

  Bugsy was on his way home singing "Wild Irish Rose" and soaked with beer when he heard a sickening thud from the alley. His vision panned from a mangled lifeless body on the ground to a silhouette on the roof. He imagined a toothy smile as he heard a cackling voice say: "Gotcha."

  Chancellor wore a sad expression as he trooped up the stairs to Bugsy's room. In it he found Bugsy and Harry laughing with Butch. Bugsy noticed the newspaper Chancellor was carrying and asked about it. Chancellor didn't often show up with the afternoon newspaper in tow. Chancellor held up the front page so they all could read the headlines:

  HEIR TO GOODYEAR FORTUNE MURDERED

  EAST VILLAGE HIPPY SPEED PARTY VICTIM

  FAMILY ESTATE VALUED AT $60 MILLION.....

  Harry broke out crying because of what he'd done to a potential life's benefactor. Bugsy just shook his head. Suddenly, they heard a familiar "yukyukyuk" coming down the hall and into Bugsy's room. Harry fainted. All Chancellor could do was smile when Butch asked who the weird newcomer was.

  The End

  I’m