Quiet Seventh Street

"I'm not waiting in line to get in to no god-damn bar," said my short, fat, gay, Indian companion. There was a long line outside the bar early on Saturday night. The sidewalk was narrow and they had a police barricade keeping the people from blocking it. It was five thirty and the rest of the block was deserted. We were at McSorley's.

There were two large men smoking outside the door. One looked over at us. "He's not Indian like that." The man laughed and gave me a cigarette. He had impossibly bowed legs and a gut that hung halfway down his crotch. "Doug," he said and shook my hand, "but youc'n call me Precious." He thought that was hilarious. So did his friend. Doug had a long scraggly goatee and a pony tail coming out of the back of his New Jersey Transit baseball cap. He told me he was a train conductor and that we were with him. "You don't have to wait in no line."

Two women followed us in and as we pressed through the crush they were prodded, cajoled, and tormented by terrible men. These predators are the reason for the Sunday morning Horror. A pack of dogs, drunk before seven in the oldest working saloon in New York. It smells bad at McSorley's. You get two beers for the price of one. A set, they call it. You may have light or dark, but it doesn't matter, both taste like fish. Flat, viscous, slightly warm beer served in hastily rinsed glasses. Doug told us they were going to Jack Dempsey's right after. He's kind of friends with the owner and he gets hooked up. Then Doug forgot about us.

McSorley's never cleans. They still throw down sawdust in case some one throws up or is bleeding everywhere. There is a lamp near the center of the bar with tendrils of dust hanging off of it, and something else I couldn't discern. "Dude," another large man told me, "the lamp has wishbones on it. They'd hang a wishbone on the lamp when a sailor went to sea. If he never came back, the wishbone would never come off. It's beautiful, bro. Beautiful." Groups of men punching each other on the arms. One man had bought a McSorley's tee shirt and was wearing it over a dress shirt. "Do you think maybe you hit an age where you don't go some places?" I said. My companion wanted to know where the hell the pisser was. "They don't have a ladies room," I said.

Doug told a woman at the bar that she wanted to ride him like a Rigid down a bumpy road. She smiled prettily and tried not to say anything. Doug looked satisfied. My companion was still in the pisser and I pushed my way out of this vile trap. I couldn't breathe. One man took a cowboy hat off another man and put it on. "I'm a goddamn cowboy!" I opened the door and lit another cigarette. I'd never return. It's become a joke and a must-see in the tourist books. A filthy hole masquerading in the light of tradition. They don't have to clean the lines because they've never cleaned them. The bartenders are laughing at you. Joseph Mitchell's vision of the Wonderful Saloon no longer exists. All that's left is a coal fire and the wishbones.

Quiet Sunnyside

The 7 train stopped running the other night after it entered Queens. We sat there and listened to the speakers in our car. We couldn't understand a word. After a few minutes we still weren't moving, the train was empty, and the doors were still open. My short, fat, gay, Indian companion stood and threw one end of his scarf over his shoulder in a flounce. "Let's blow," he said. We were in Sunnyside.

It was quiet on the Highway of Death, and we couldn't find a cab. But my companion almost managed to get hit by a stopping bus. The driver regarded us from his open door. I dragged on my cigarette. "No way," I said. The bus pulled away. I don't trust busses in Queens. Who knows where you might end up?

It was cold, though, and soon my cigarette hand was red raw. Switching hands didn't help. I knew I needed gloves. My companion said the next best thing to gloves was stopping in at Gallagher's 2000, the gentleman's club. I hadn't realized we were so close. It was off of Queens Boulevard, a little to the north. No streetlamps. No parked cars. No sign. Before I knew what was happening, we were at the security post.

On Sundays there's no cover at Gallagher's 2000, but bag check is compulsory. The lighting in the entryway is harsh and fluorescent. It feels like a post office. Linoleum on the floor and acoustic tiles on the drop-down ceiling. Four large gentlemen stand by an airport walk-through metal detector. They're nice enough, but one still cupped my balls. My companion giggled. I told the security guys it was okay, he wasn't Indian like that. And we were through.

Sunday is a slow night, and the big room was closed. Large armchairs were stacked in a corner by the stage, as though Gallagher's 2000 was about to move out. On our way in we passed a hot dog rolling machine. "It's Free Hot Dog Night at Gallagher's," said my companion. How would he know that? "Please," he said. We sat at the bar. There were maybe six other guys there. It was a large rectangular bar with a long narrow stage in the middle. Three poles. A lady was dancing, wearing white stockings and a matching thong, a sultry look on her face. My companion said she looked constipated. He went to get us some hot dogs. I ordered us whiskey and beer: it was cold outside. The bartender told me that water was the best thing to keep warm. She'd learned it in the service. I told her I didn't know what she was talking about. And I wanted ice in my whiskey.

The hot dogs were delicious. Our sultry white-thonged lady approached us after her featured dance. "Hey boys," she said. "How's your wieners?" "Delicious," said my companion, "now get out of here." She did look constipated.

The night pressed on. One woman or two at a time would dance for two songs, then make the short round through the room, soliciting private shows. I almost bought one for my companion at one point, but thought better of it. He's missing his husband. They had Hancock Reserve bourbon. Appropriate. We blew through maybe a bottle, and plenty of Budweiser. This is why I won't ever subscribe to a porno site or buy dvds: the length. By the end of the night the stage shows had become repetitive and drawn out. I lived in Amsterdam for a while and one night attended a live sex show. Boring. Mechanical. This is why we watch clips: for a minute, maybe two of excitement and titillation, then we move on to the next. The Internet has given us clips, and we are grateful. My companion and I talked about filming sex. We both had tried it and decided that it's very hard to make it look good, and if it does look good, it's no fun. He said he likes it when a guy spits in his mouth. And who'd want to watch that? He's missing his husband.

It was late when we left Gallagher's 2000. I smoked cigarettes the entire way and didn't mind the hands. Water be damned. There were still no cabs. As we turned down the road we'd been heading to, a Main Street bound 7 train passed us overhead.

Burial Platform

I used to know how to sharpen a knife. My grandfather, Mike, taught me when I was a child. Once when we'd been hunting some rabbit, he killed a deer. We dressed it there in the forest, in the snow, in a clearing. I was afraid of the ghosts watching us from the edge of the field. I could hear them howling between the trees when we rode his John Deere five-wheeler. Mike let me hone his buck knife on a whetstone and then he slit the deer's belly. Steam rose from it. Mike said the Indians believed this was the deer's soul rising to be with the Great Spirit. He hated the Indians.

I could make knife so sharp if you cut yourself you wouldn't even feel it until you started bleeding. The trick was to find the sweet angle on the stone. You could sense it when the blade caught, and you wouldn't even have to press very hard. Now I'm an adult and I've forgotten everything. I have a complete Wusthof knife set that's so dull I can hack at my wrists and leave only indentations, as though I'd fallen asleep on a headphone cord. Sometimes I get out my stone and steel and slice away until my forearms bulge. But my professional knives only ever smoothen and become more dull.

In the forest I said my dad told me animals go to Heaven, too. Mike hated my dad, who he saw as an effete city-boy. This is why Mike taught me hunting, fire-starting, knife sharpening, and other man things: to keep me from growing soft. I don't know if it worked. I can no longer sharpen a knife and I still believe in ghosts.