It’s safe to say, growing up in any
part of NYC is a unique experience. Particularly during the 1980s, before
gentrification set its overpriced anchors.
While I was attending one of NYC’s
magnet high schools, I had no clue I was living in an era which now lives in
mythos. My hat was hung in the borough of Queens, but from an early age, I
learned how to navigate the big, bad rotten apple.
After learning how to commute on
the NYC subway system, it was time to discover all that Manhattan had to offer.
Uptown, midtown, downtown…this was right before the Crack epidemic. Manhattan looked almost attainable. Through my
curious eyes and a free student train pass, Manhattan became my playground.
The main playground was Greenwich
Village. We’re talking about the years from 1984 to 1989. NYC teens flocked
there after school and during weekends. Back in the ‘80s, the main starting
point started at 8th Street. Before the days of Hot Topic, 8th Street was known as a trendy area. The
stores there sold anything from pointy witch shoes to obnoxious tee shirts.
Businesses of bygone days were Postermat,
Flip, and Patricia Fields. Afterwards people ate at a pizzeria that had a
design only feasible during the early ‘80s. The seating arrangements were set
up against the walls in a zig-zag order. This had nothing to do with studying
statistic charts. It was purely aesthetics. This meant you had a choice of
picking a regular table, or stepping up and chomping your slice down at the
table above and a little to the left.
Only a few blocks away, was Washington Square Park. During the
warmer days, breakdancers would put on shows near the huge fountain. Closer to
the French inspired arch was the Punks, Skinheads, Death Rockers (now known as
Goths), squatters and other outcasts. They would constantly get harassed by
tourists to pose for photos. The Punks, Skins and Goths soon grew hip and
turned this into an opportunity to make extra cash. They demanded a dollar per
photo. This cut down the tourists’ interest in half. Sometimes the Punks made a
bit of pocket money for chips and cheap beer. Some squatters resorted to
stealing, but would occasionally bring along their pet rats. The huge vermin would
be the same size as a small dog, yet these rats became beloved pets. The
squatters living in abandoned buildings from Alphabet City would successful
domesticate the street rats. In 2019, one might find this strange, watching
subway rats wadding on the tracks while waiting for the M train.
Broadway had Zoot, Unique, Antique Boutique, and further towards
Canal Street was, Canal Jeans. All
these stores, along with Flip and Postermat gave away promotional buttons.
These promotional buttons had logos from each store. Back in high school, we
would pin the buttons onto our army surplus bags, which we wore with a Bundeswehr tank top. Yes, I had that
vintage German army shirt. Anyone who didn’t want to look like a ‘Guido’, a
Metal head, or a Rapper from the outer boroughs leaned towards this look. That
way it gave off the impression that you hung out in Downtown Manhattan. You
see, back in those days, everyone didn’t shop at chains like Zara or Old Navy.
If one was feeling particularly
edgy, you could take a stroll down to St.
Mark’s Place. First sight was of a street mural above a corner newsstand.
It was an image of a somewhat androgynous man wearing an eyepatch as a
cigarette dangled out of his mouth. It
was a simple, yet strong graphic. The outlines were in bold white against a
black background. As you walked down, you discovered where to purchase Punk ,
Goth and Glam Metal threads from stores like the original Trash and Vaudeville, Endz,
and The Pit. You could buy used
records at Sounds, and sip beer below
at the Grassroots Tavern. Manic Panic was where I learned about
hair dyes like Directions. Later Manic Panic created their own brand of
hair dye. At the end of the street was yet another newsstand that sold egg
creams. Around the corner was where I brought my first import album. It was at
a tiny record store which sold Hardcore, Goth and other underground Rock
records called Freebeings.
A little past St. Mark’s was the
building they used as the photo for the cover of Led Zeppelin’s classic album “Physical
Graffiti”, released in 1977. But no one cared about that during the ‘80s.
Feeling adventurous? You could
creep up to Avenue A. That’s where all the squatters and hardcore kids really
hung out. It should be noted that the original NYC ’77 style Punk evolved into
different sub-genres. The main splits were mostly Goth and Hardcore. The
Hardcore kids and squatters would gather at Thompkins Square Park. I knew I
would never have survived the rough Hardcore and Skinhead scenes. It didn’t matter; I was more inclined towards
the darker batcave imagery. One time I saw a mother and daughter team shoot up
heroin together on a park bench. At night you could check out such Lower East
Side dives like Pyramid Club, Downtown Beirut, Mars Bar, and Lucy’s.
Before rich kid Jennifer Levin got killed by “Preppie Killer” Robert Chambers
on August 26, 1986, some of us sneaky teens
managed to get into some these places without being asked for ID. Aztec Bar was notorious for never
inquiring proof of age. I should know. It was one of the first bars I drank at,
and I was only 15. Anything past Avenue A was still unchartered. Remember; the
real estate vultures had yet to feast upon the area.
In the middle of such surroundings,
I met someone who would be one of my best friends during high school. Our
teenage friendship was instantaneous. Whenever he walked into a room, sunshine
followed. With a tall, slender build, a very short afro, light brown skin, long
vintage men’s wool coat, and a permanently attached smile, it was easy for
Carlos to stand out. We bonded over music which is now considered Post Punk. My
favorite bands at that point were stuff like Siouxsie and The Banshees, The
Cure, Sisters of Mercy. Think of it as basically Goth 101. Rafael was more into
Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys, and the more electronic danceable groups. We got
to know each as we cruised through West Village records stores, like Record Runner and Bleecker Bob’s.
Rafael was warm, kind, whimsical,
and extremely generous.
His life at home in the Bronx was
anything but.
Rafael lived with his elderly
mother who only spoke Spanish. Where his father was, nobody knew. There was
never a word spoken about his paternal side. Maybe his father existed once upon
a time back in the Dominican Republic. His older brother was never around. When
he did occasionally show up, the brother would exhibit shining examples of what
we now call “toxic masculinity.” Both Rafael’s mother and brother disproved
greatly of his homosexuality. His mother was disgusted, but she depended on him
too much. The phantom brother would swoop in to verbally abuse Rafael. The homophobia
and misogyny was passed off as crude humor. Luckily for Rafael, his brother was
too busy proving his manhood on the Bronx streets.
Unless one lived with Rafael, a
person would’ve never known about his bleak compass. Instead, he would insist
on taking me out to lunch. After school, he prided himself on introducing me to
various eateries. Thanks to Rafael, I learned about delicious vegetarian
dishes. On a fresh spring day, we munched on sunshine burgers in the East
Village. Sometimes lunch would be at Yaffa
Café, sometimes Dojo. Other times
we would causally hit up local falafel places on the west side. Afterwards we
would walk down 8th street holding hands. Rafael loved to hold
hands. There was no romantic attachment. We were just lost in our own world.
Our conversations consisted of British New Wave bands, film, and imported Punk
influenced clothes we couldn’t afford. There were moments we acted rather
silly.
One time Rafael and I spent a warm
summer sitting on a rock in Central Park. He laid across the rock as if he was
on the sands of Malibu. Suddenly, he lifted the upper part of his body to plant
a sweet kiss on my lips. Being fully aware of his sexual orientation, this act
took me by surprise. When I looked back at him, he just smiled. Just as nonchalantly,
he laid back upon the rock where we were high up, away from other casual park
habitudes.
Looking back, Rafael wasn’t trying
to seduce me at all. His only intention was showing me love for our friendship.
That’s all he wanted. Rafael was free spirited like that. He wanted to give,
and receive love unconditionally. That’s when a kiss is just a kiss.
Yet to this day I’d still say he
treated me better than some of my ex-boyfriends.
As old clichés go, they say it’s
better to give than to receive. Not so sure about Rafael’s case. As much as he
gave, he rarely got anything in return. Rafael desired a monogamous relationship
of his own. Someone he could call a boyfriend.
Rafael finally got his wish. Around
1986 or 1987, the NYC underground Club Kid scene started to rise. This was
after Andy Warhol’s death, but right before Michael Alig became king of the
nightlife. These ‘Club Kids’ all had unique names which helped making them
stand out. So it was easy to remember this fellow Rafael would mention in our
conversations. The mystery man was known as Boyd.
Boyd’s nights were spent partaking
in performance art and wearing crazy DIY outfits that would only be appreciated
in areas such as the East Village. By this point we were in the mid-80s. Club
culture showcased in places like The World,
Save The Robots, and Tunnel started to rise. Boyd was a
regular fixture within this scene. It wasn’t anything new to him though. Boyd
was a Southern boy, who came to NYC from Atlanta, Georgia. He moved to New York
with someone the world would later know as RuPaul.
One day I suddenly received an
invite. It was time to meet this Boyd I’ve been hearing so much about. Rafael arranged
a congregation at the original San Loco
location. San Loco was a cheap
Mexican fast food joint, right next to the St. Mark’s Place newsstand that made
egg creams.
The introduction between me and
Boyd went well. Boyd himself was an older white man, probably in his mid to
late 20s, maybe older. Light complexion and hair, with a body similar to Rafael.
After ordering a cheap vegetarian taco, Boyd demanded to know what PeeWee
Herman’s secret word of the day was. What was the word? Did it matter? For the
next hour, whenever someone unknowingly uttered the secret word, all three of
us screamed, disturbing the other patrons’ inexpensive meals. Boyd smiled. I
had passed his test.
Boyd liked me enough to invite me
over along with Rafael over to his makeshift apartment located in the heart of
Times Square. This was before the Giuliani cleanup and Disney takeover.
Everything was still sleazy. Crack hadn’t totally infested everything yet. It
was late afternoon. Grimy peepshows with garish neon signs stood next to aging
Broadway theaters. The area was congested. Streams of disgruntled people went
about their business. Former movie palaces showed porn. Even the sun looked dirty. Boyd quickly led
me and Rafael out of the subway station straight up to his loft. As we entered
the loft, he introduced us to his platinum blond roommate, also of the early
Club Kid/performance artist ilk. Thereupon we were ushered into Boyd’s
bedroom.
Boyd, the non-discerning host, got
up and laid across the upper part of his bunk bed. We coolly conversed with
each other. My eye though, was too immersed with his unusual décor.
Covering each wall inside Boyd’s
lair was photos of all his various ex-lovers. Pinned next to each photo was a
used condom. Each condom was left over from a venereal encounter shared with
the pictured companion. After the sexual exchange, the condom was hung up next to
the photo as a memento. Over time, the condom would shrivel with its contents
of dried sperm. I’m surprised Boyd’s bedroom didn’t stink.
As stated, all four walls were
completely covered with photos. Which meant of course, lots of dried up, used
condoms. There was barely any room for future entries, except for the
occasional club flyer.
Boyd noticed what I was studying.
Unconcerned, he gave a short explanation. “Oh yeah. I just basically put up photos of all my
ex-lovers. Those are the condoms I used with them. Just something I was doing…”
With a shrug, he moved onto the next subject.
Recalling all of this, a person has
to realize this was the first generation dealing with the AIDS epidemic. Mainstream
mass media was pushing safe sex to counteract the rising statics. Boyd’s
bedroom installation was most likely his defiant response to the safe sex push
and the AIDS crisis, but also his act of queer rebellion.
Boyd turned to Rafael. “It’s your
turn to put on music.” It felt as if he was slightly in a position of
authority, and Rafael received permission.
Rafael was about 16 or 17 by this time. In the search for a cassette, Rafael
jumped up excitedly. As strains of a Kate Bush song started to play in the
background, Boyd turned to me. “Do you like Kate Bush, Madeline?”
What was I supposed to do? While I
did like Kate Bush, silently I was still processing Boyd’s intimate photo
exhibit. Somehow I never let on about my shock. Instead the conversation
continued. We switched the topic from Kate Bush to Nina Hagen. This gave Boyd
more approval towards me. Meanwhile, Rafael ignoring any potential red flags,
had stars in his eyes. Eventually I excused myself. It was time to head back to
Astoria I said. Maybe subconsciously, I was glad to head back to Queens. Boyd
sealed our new friendship, inviting all three of us for another get together.
Perhaps it was a good thing I didn’t come across as judgmental.
Rafael became more involved with
Boyd soon after. Boyd’s influence was good at first. Rafael spoke about becoming
an artist. He often mentioned ideas and concepts. Like Boyd, Rafael also got
involved with the Club Kid scene. Along the way I dipped my toes in, just not
far enough to be considered an official Club Kid. The door people, taking cues
from Studio 54’s heyday were very selective on who entered such places. The
difference between the downtown club and Studio was, the freakier, the better. My
alternative looks were perfected by this time. This granted me access to
Tunnel’s basement parties, which separated itself from the rest of the club.
The basement party was where all the “cool kids” hung out, aka the Club Kids.
One night as I was entering the basement, I passed a female Club Kid taking a
bath fully clothed inside a child’s inflatable pool. Later that same night, I
accidentally bumped into a rich yuppie smoking crack from behind a curtain. The
smoke and stench surrounded the man. I received a dirty look, even
though he was holding the crack pipe. It
was 1998, and Crack had infected NYC.
A year or so after that first
visit, Boyd moved out of his Times Square loft, and into an apartment on Avenue
C. Eventually Boyd got another apartment somewhere on East 9th
Street between 2nd and 1st Avenue. Rafael ended up being
homeless. He was forced to move out of the Bronx. His mother could no longer
cope with having a gay son. This resulted in Rafael dropping out, never being
able to complete high school. He did move in with Boyd for a while. Theirs
developed into a long term relationship. Finally Rafael got something he
wanted, although the relationship itself was on and off. Along the way, Rafael
somehow got into heroin. Our friendship continued, but eventually as adults,
our connection began to fade away. Such is the transition to adulthood.
Ironically, I remained friendly with Boyd. There was never any bad blood
between us. He always welcomed me into his home, regardless of the circumstances
between him and Rafael. If there was a party in his apartment, and he spotted
me, an invite was extended. His timing was impeccable. By the time Michael Alig
was indicted for murder in 1997, Boyd had long left the Club Kid scene. Last time I ran into Boyd, it was 2005 at a
monthly club party called M8. His new shtick was entering the professional BDSM
field. Boyd whispered that his new trade was that of a professional dominant.
He catered to gay men in search of a master. Haven’t seen or heard from him
since.
In early fall 1999, I accidently
ran into Rafael. By this time he was recovering from his addiction.
Unfortunately, there was damage. He completely lost hearing in one of his ears.
Rafael was having trouble securing work as well. He was let go from a temp
assignment after obsessively counting paper clips. Management complained about
his development of OCD. All the trauma and abuse Rafael went through had taken its
toll. Yet there was a small spark of the old Rafael I knew. Or at least Rafael
tried. He was working part time as an usher at the Film Forum. He used this position to comp both me and another
friend for a free movie. We sat in the theatre, watching a documentary about
another lost generation, The Beats. As images of Burroughs, Kerouac, and
Ginsberg flickered on the screen, Rafael tiptoed to check in on us. He waved. Poor
Rafael…ever giving but not receiving anything in return. Afterwards Rafael
insisted on walking me to the subway station. The more he spoke, it became more
and more obvious that he was barely a shell of his former self. Rafael insisted that he wait on the platform
with me. This developed into an awkward situation. He looked and sounded like
someone mentally ill. It was too painful to even stand with him. My other adult
friend wasn’t aware of my teenage history with Rafael. Rafael picked up that
things weren’t the same. He excused himself. It’s been twenty years since we
last stood together on the 8th street platform, waiting for the
subway to take me back to Queens.
MB - March 2019
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