An
Anti Anti-Gentrification Game
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When
I lived in the East Village, NYC, from the mid 80s to early 90s
there was a great deal of anti-gentrification sentiment in the neighborhood.
"Gentification," as far as I could determine, was a derogatory
term attached to the phenomenon of an area that's been targeted
by developers for rennovation: buildings are purchased and upgraded,
or out-and-out demolished and replaced with new ones, thereby attracting
more affluent residents and driving rents higher; as more affluent
people move into the neighborhood, businesses spring up to serve
them: chic restaurants, designer clothing stores, cyber cafes, supermarkets,
pet grooming salons. In other words, "gentification" is
a derogatory term attached to an understandable and unavoidable
cyclical process of rebuilding rundown areas to serve the needs
of greater amounts of people who are benefitting from a strong economy.
From my point of view, adopting an anti-gentification stance was
a pointless waste of time that wouldn't alter matters one iota:
might as well adopt an anti-thunderstorm stance as well, and see
whether that yielded any results.
The
"approved" attitude for a resident of the East Village
in the mid-80s to adopt was that gentification was an evil manifestation
of shameless greed that was eroding individuality. Adopting
the "approved" attitude assured one of being "progressive,"
"cutting edge," and "anti-establishment": fly-by-night
trendy terminology dreamed up as a means for utterly mediocre and
commonplace imbeciles to feel they were something more than mob-mentality
governed cattle. It's interesting to note that, more often than
not, the people who professed virulent anti-gentifrication sentiments
were themselves part of the gentifrication process: artsy politically
correct suburbanite poseurs: many of them spouted platitudes concerning
individuality from the economically secure position of living off
of handouts from mommy and daddy.
I've
never cared for "approved" attitudes; I loathe the implication
that I'm expected to wear readimade opinions, join a cause, project
a predetermined image, be political in any manner whatsoever; I
vastly prefer (1) getting my writing done, and (2) amusing myself,
often by playing pranks. In other words, far from having anything
to do with anti-gentrification posturing, I was going to amuse myself
at the expense of those who did.
I
lived in a dumpy illegal sublet (I only paid $231.00), worked sporatically
(i.e., when I needed money) as a cab driver, and had far less money
than most of the people who professed anti-gentrification sentiments.
One
morning, at about 5:00 AM at Astor Place, a man was selling Bill
Blass suits that had been filched from a delivery truck. An idea
immediately occurred to me and I tried the suits on: three of them
fit like a glove. I paid a total of $45.00 and returned home immensely
pleased. A few extra days of driving allowed me to supplement the
suits with shirts and ties from Bloomingdales and two pairs of Italian
shoes from Orchard Street. In addition, I found a deal on a cashmere
topcoat. I was all set: now I could amuse myself by strolling about
in the suits, being
a walking and breathing symbol of the gentrification so many people
made a point of despising. Again, most of these anti-gentrification
people were so-called artists from the suburbs who were having their
little "anti-establishment" fling, going through their
requisite "rebellious free-spirit" phase, before settling
down and hightailing it back to where they came from: it was fun
to annoy them.
Besides,
being pointed out as an enemy "gent" and sneered at when
I lived in a dump and drove a cab suited my contradictory nature:
I've always been fond of projecting images I have little in common
with. Why? For the sheer game of it; because it's a means of livening
things up; because
it's a way of keeping idiots at bay; because it's freedom from caring
what others think.
During
this period I made the acquaintance of a Polish girl who worked
as a waitress at one of the East Village Polish restaurants; equally
as appealing as her comely face and curvy, perfectly proportioned,
figure was her mischievous disposition: we hit it off immediately.
Minxa (not her real name) was tickled to death by my dress-up-and-infuriate-pretentious-twits
game and soon joined me in playing it. She'd put on her "church"
clothes: suits from Bergdorf's given to her by her mother, as well
as some prim ensembles found in thrift shops. To my mind, the conservatism
of these clothes further accentuated Minxa's curves and aura of
earthy sexuality by providing a contrast to these qualities. Yes,
as far as I'm concerned, a knee-length long-sleeved wool dress,
wide at the shoulders and tight at the waist, only serves to make
a luscious girl's body simmer underneath it more vividly. An acquired
taste, no doubt...
So
I'd put on a Bill Blass suit with the topcoat and Minxa would put
on a Bergdorf suit with a drab gray ankle-length wool coat and we'd
go to an East Village pseudo-trendy artsy place filled with would-be
artists and delight to the dumbfounded stares. In particular, we
picked on a short-lived cafe-bar thing called the Lizard (not it's
real name). The place was decorated with stencils of lizards done
in fluorescent paint and lit by blacklights; essentially, it looked
like the walls of a suburban teen's bedroom, circa 1975. The "artists"
and "designers" of this nonsense were always present (doubtless
waiting to be discovered by some well-known gallery owner or critic)
and never tired of proudly admitting, in very loud voices, to having
created it; and, ha ha, did they ever hate us! Yes, there we'd be:
the cab driver and the waitress, dressed very conservatively, sipping
our club sodas (another intentionally conservative touch) while
seated at opposite sides of a table and not saying a word to one
another. We'd pull out magazines such as National Geographic (of
which I'm still an avid reader), US News and World Report, and Forbes
and read them while the artsy dolts muttered disapproval, darted
hostile glances, and sought to make us uneasy with assertions as
to how much they hated gents, yuppies, careerists, right-wingers,
proper people, whatever stupid label they could think to attach
to us. They'd have intentionally loud conversations, generally about
getting drunk (apparently this most typical of activities was their
idea of being extraordinarily wild), that were laughably transparent
attempts to shock us and, the more we continuing reading as if they
weren't there, the more upset they'd get. Yes, upset is the word
for it, incredible as it may seem: they were such insecure, shallow,
fraudulent losers.
After
all, what crime did Minxa and I commit? We'd enter, find a table,
order club sodas, quietly read, and that's it, always being very
polite; but the amount of resentment that this behavior inspired
was beyond belief! -- and, of course, immensely funny! These artsy
twits who considered themselves to be leading such "cutting
edge" (whatever that means) lives were no different than the
easily amazed residents of an isolated, God-fearing, stranger-distrusting
town.
Minxa
and I annoyed the patrons of the Lizard in this manner for maybe
a month, often dropping in twice a week (it was something of an
aphrodisiac for us, actually: we'd often go straight from the Lizard
to bed, laughing all the way). They really were nothing but a pathetic
clique of failures who had nothing better to do than endlessly stare
and speculate about and attempt to intimidate some people who dressed
differently than they did and completely ignored them. And, believe
it or not, I didn't have any plan in mind for intensifying this
game -- I wasn't knowingly setting up the artsy clowns for a surprise;
but, as it turned out, I ended up giving them a surprise, and this
is how:
At
the cab garage on Sundays cars were available at 1:00 PM for those
who worked the night shift (as opposed to the usual 5:00 PM) and
many of us took advantage of this so as to drive during peak hours
for our entire shift (12 hours) and make more money than usual without
too much exertion, there being far less traffic. One Sunday a number
of us who lived in the East Village or nearby decided to work this
early shift and go drinking afterwards. After driving our twelve
hours and turning our cars in we shared a couple cabs back to the
East Village; and, lo and behold, my driving buddies and I were
standing on a street corner that was close to the Lizard. The Lizard,
of course, was excessively boring and we were headed for a place
that was much more fun. But an idea occurred to me: I told them
the regulars at the Lizard had been rude to my girlfriend; I asked
them if they'd do me the favor of having a quick beer there and
being a bit difficult. They were only too happy to render me this
service; after all, the night was still young...
Now,
most of my driving buddies were interested in little but nookie
and the trading of cab stories and some were authentically tough
and fond of brawling (our shared point of interest being the nookie
and trading of cab stories part, as I'm neither what would be termed
tough nor fond of -- or any good at -- brawling) and weren't the
sort of people anyone in their right mind would want to tangle with.
I enter the Lizard with them and look the complete opposite of how
the regulars are accustomed to seeing me: faded jeans and leather
jacket. We find two tables, roughly shove them together, and are
loudly trading war stories: assorted lunatics met; girls who flashed
us or, perhaps, did a bit more; cons that were attempted against
us; pranks played; retaliation tales; good deeds done; far-flung
neighborhoods we went to. My friends are yelling things such as:
"Can we get some beer here, now!" -- "What's
this dumbass lizard shit on the walls?" -- "Can you turn
these fucking lights off?" -- "Hey, what's that logo crap
you're wearing?" -- "Are you pretending to be artistes?"
Ha
ha! I almost felt sorry for the artsy twits, so mouth-agape and
fearful were they! I was very tempted to meet their stares with
a poisonous smile and openly gloat, but successfully resisted such
weakness: such would've been a reference to my previous visits and
perhaps given the game away; it would've also revealed I was aware
of their existence. Far better to carry on with my friends without
paying the artsy twits any mind and allow them to imagine the worst.
We didn't stay long: a beer apiece and we were making for the door,
laughing and shouting all the way; my pal Bob -- who'd played trumpet
in the orchestra at the Wagner festival in Bayreuth, Germany, and
was presently putting together a swing band -- slammed both hands
on the bar and yelled, "This place sucks, you pussies!"
by way of a parting flourish.
When
Minxa and I returned to the Lizard later in the week, dressed in
our usual conservative manner, the uncomfortable fidgeting of the
artsy clowns was almost pronounced enough to be a palpable substance
one could reach out and touch; from the corner of my eye I observed
their apprehensive expressions, and it was difficult to suppress
a laugh. Yes, gone was all trace of the contempt to which they'd
heretofore treated us; the moment we sat down, the waiter appeared
and respectfully took our order without any inclination to snicker;
whenever I pretend-innocently glanced about the place with my well-practised
vacant look and encountered the eyes of one of these worthies, the
said eyes would immediately glance away and quiver with bafflement
and worry. As before, we did nothing but silently read our magazines
and sip our club sodas; Minxa was tickled to death at the degree
of cautious respect we were being accorded -- our reversal of effect
upon the place -- and wilder than usual, which is saying a lot,
when we returned to my apartment for fun and games.
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