Another Crazy in Manhattan
The Carlow Nationalist January 2010
"Hey man I know you." the guy said.
I'd seen him earlier in the day; somewhere on 3rd Avenue reciting poetry. A tall black man dressed all wrong; he wore a woman's fur coat over trousers that stopped being trousers half-way down his shins. On his head he had a blue hard-hat, but you could tell he was no construction worker. "I know you man, you's the guy I saw lookin' at me today. How you beeeeen maaaan?" I kept on walking.
It was 11pm in central Manhattan and a conversation with a crazy wasn't what I needed. You see, I'd been in Midtown bars all day slugging back weak beers and trying to get a feel for the city, already I'd met enough crazies to last me a life-time.
"You wanna make a quick million?" the drunk said across the bar near the corner of 47th, "I swear it ain't nothin' illegal." He made a vague sign of the cross in the air. The drunk was small with a pointed oily face making him look like he'd just squeezed his way up through a grating from the sewer. But I could tell by his finger nails he didn't always look like this. "I used to be in banking," he confided offering me his limp white hand. When I didn't take it he used it to wipe the drip hanging from the end of his ratty nose. "I'll show you," he leaned closer, "but don't go tellin' no-one." He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and attempted to flatten it on the counter. "It's all here," he said snapping his fingers like Dean Martin keeping rhythm. The barman, who looked like Felix Unger from the Odd-Couple, threw his eyes up to heaven. "Jesus Christ Mooney, can't you leave the customers alone. Can't you see the guy just wants to a beer in peace." It was a scene I'd watched a million times on TV. The drunk held his hands up. "I'm not doin' no harm, am I buddy?" I felt sorry for him and nodded to the barman. "Your funeral Mack," the barman said pouring him a shot of whiskey.
Mooney held the piece of paper up for me to inspect; it was littered with numbers. At the bottom of the dilapidated page a figure had been underlined so many times the pen had bitten a hole through the paper. $2,000,000! "What ya think of that then?" he said pointing to the figure "Looks good to me," I said. The drunk slammed the counter with his palm. "You see Kaminski!" he shouted, waving the paper under the barman's nose. "My buddy knows what I'm talking about," he took a little bow, "and you said I was talkin' through my ass." The barman steadied himself with two meaty hands on the counter's edge. "You shout at me again Mooney and they'll be feedin' you through your ass. Now get the hell outta here."
Mooney gulped the drink from the glass and staggered, head-down towards the door. If he had had a tail it would have been wedged firmly between his legs. With the door half-open he turned back, "F**k you Kaminski," he hissed, "when I'm ridin' high again you'll be knockin' on my door beggin' for crumbs." "Yeah, yeah," Kaminski waved him away. "And when I'm married to Madonna you'll still be an asshole!" When the door slammed I ordered another beer. "Who's your friend?" I asked. "Who, Mooney?" he answered as if nothing had happened. "Him? He used to be a big shot in Chemical Bank, until he fell in love." Kaminski lifted his hand pretending to drink from a bottle. "Son of a bitch was married to my late sister..."
A couple of bars later, at the corner of 52nd and 2nd, I heard a piano. 'MIMI'S PIANO BAR' the sign flashed. When I rubbed the fogged window pane the wet glass made the scene inside look like a smudged water-colour. "You lookin' for a table sir?" The doorman asked. "Not really," I said, "just a beer and some reasonably sane company." "Well then," he said opening the door, "you've come to the right place."
"...at the Copa, Copa Cabana, the hottest spot South of Havana..." wheezed the piano player; a sixty-something-year-old man wearing a Carmen Miranda fruit-bowl head-dress and a pink feather boa. Standing at the busy bar everyone was getting served but me. "Hey guy," the bar-maid finally shouted, "you wanna drink or did you just come here to look at my chest?" "Can't I do both?" I asked.
A fat white-man with thick black curls slapped the counter and laughed. He turned and held out his hand. "Let me shake your hand buddy," he said, "she's had that comin' for a long time." His name was Lou and he bought me a beer, then he told me his story; but he made it quick so I didn't mind too much. Lou had been a hat-maker all his life. That must have been interesting I lied. "Interesting?" he looked sideways at me. "Interesting? Are you jokin' me? Forty-one God-damn years making hats for suits who wouldn't know a Homburg from a hyena's ass... The only INTERESTING part was when I sold the whole damn thing. Now THAT was interesting. Hey Sweetie," he shouted, another couple of beers."
In the background the piano player warbled the first lines of 'Diamonds are a girl's best friend'; he'd changed the fruit-bowl for a peroxide-blonde wig and a pout as big as Central Park. Draped across the instrument he looked like a cat on a hot window-sill. "Who's the piano player?" I asked Lou. "That's Chicken, Chicken Delicious, but his real name's Hunter. Say, where you from buddy, Mars?" "Ireland," I answered. "Hey Chicken," Lou shouted, "we got a Mick over here who wants to sing." Chicken swapped the wig for a green bowler and I sang Danny Boy. The crowd cheered and Lou bought me another beer.
When I'd finished the bar-maid took me to one side. I thought I'd done something wrong. "Not bad Irish," she said with a smile, "your first time in the City?" I nodded. "That's just fine," she said taking me in from head to toe. "Why don't you stick around for a while," she winked, "this place could always do with one more crazy!"