PennsylvaniaTurnpike. Likenesses of President Bush and his first lady were decaled on some of these, stars haloed around their heads. I noted with some pleasure that, even when it was the artist’s job to make Mr. Bush seem strong, he still came off as the seventh-grade music teacher whose ass was kicked at least once a year by that particularly gene-deficient brand of student who always seemed to disappear or enter the Marines by high school.
In the center of the store were souvenir racks full of salt and pepper shakers and paperweights, all in the shape of monuments. One of these racks held dinner plates and mugs, on which were enameled the “sights of Washington.” I picked up a plastic sphere half-filled with water containing a tiny Washington Monument, and shook it. Snow fell over the Ellipse.
Fat Fred emerged from the back room about fifteen minutes later with my card. It certainly looked official enough, though I had no basis for judgment. What in the hell did I think I was doing?
“I laminated it,” he said proudly.
“You do good work,” I said, and gave him the original thirty he had asked for.
“Why do you always gotta fuck with me, Nicky?”
“’Cause I like you, Freddie.” I slapped his arm, which should have been on a meathook. “Thanks, buddy.” I put the ID and extra photos in my wallet and left the store.
Two doors down was a combination lunch counter, bar, and arts house called the District Seen, where one could get a decent sandwich, listen to some music, and hear anything from readings by modernist beat poets to
a capella
new wave. Though the acts more often than not were sophomoric, there was that sad and noble quality in them of the intrepid amateur.
I picked up the latest copy of
City Paper
at the door and had a seat at the black and white tiled bar. At this early hour the bartender was the only employee in the front of the house, though there was the sound of prep work coming from the kitchen.
The bartender was a burly, balding, redheaded guy I hadseen working in several clubs through the years. Gregory Isaacs, the “cool ruler” of reggae, was pouring through the Advents on either side of the bar.
I ordered a club, a cup of split pea soup, and coffee, and opened the tabloid to the arts section, skipping over the paper’s customarily unfocused cover story. Joel E. Siegel, the most intelligent film critic in town, who made waste of the
Post’
s hapless duo (the gushing Hal Hinson and the unreadable Rita Kempley), had reviewed a couple of interesting documentaries. And Mark Jenkins, who on the plus side was a Smiths fetishist but on the minus side a Costello basher, had done an enthusiastic review of the neo-psychedelic Stone Roses.
After my dinner I ordered a dark beer and drank it as I finished reading the paper. I nursed a second as the place began to fill up and become noisier. When the bartender switched over to Pere Ubu on the stereo, I settled up and left.
It was dark now, between eight and nine o’clock. Working Washington was safe in the suburbs, leaving this part of the city virtually deserted. The storefronts, mostly shoe shops displaying the latest Bama-ish styles, were closed and secured with drawn iron gates. This section of town had its own smell in the early evening, of dried spit and alley dirt in the wedges of cracked concrete.
Pigeons fluttered as I turned right off of Ninth and moved down F. Some punks were hanging outside the entrance of the Snake Pit, smoking cigarettes and looking patently sullen. The all-black dress and hairstyles had changed very little in ten years.
I maneuvered around them and entered a long hallway postered with announcements of shows around town. As I neared the doorway, humid, smoky air rushed towards me, along with the sound of a chainsaw electric guitar.
I paid for a ticket through a box office window and handed it to the doorman, a slight kid in black jeans and an army green T-shirt, with a bleached blond brush cut on his
In the center of the store were souvenir racks full of salt and pepper shakers and paperweights, all in the shape of monuments. One of these racks held dinner plates and mugs, on which were enameled the “sights of Washington.” I picked up a plastic sphere half-filled with water containing a tiny Washington Monument, and shook it. Snow fell over the Ellipse.
Fat Fred emerged from the back room about fifteen minutes later with my card. It certainly looked official enough, though I had no basis for judgment. What in the hell did I think I was doing?
“I laminated it,” he said proudly.
“You do good work,” I said, and gave him the original thirty he had asked for.
“Why do you always gotta fuck with me, Nicky?”
“’Cause I like you, Freddie.” I slapped his arm, which should have been on a meathook. “Thanks, buddy.” I put the ID and extra photos in my wallet and left the store.
Two doors down was a combination lunch counter, bar, and arts house called the District Seen, where one could get a decent sandwich, listen to some music, and hear anything from readings by modernist beat poets to
a capella
new wave. Though the acts more often than not were sophomoric, there was that sad and noble quality in them of the intrepid amateur.
I picked up the latest copy of
City Paper
at the door and had a seat at the black and white tiled bar. At this early hour the bartender was the only employee in the front of the house, though there was the sound of prep work coming from the kitchen.
The bartender was a burly, balding, redheaded guy I hadseen working in several clubs through the years. Gregory Isaacs, the “cool ruler” of reggae, was pouring through the Advents on either side of the bar.
I ordered a club, a cup of split pea soup, and coffee, and opened the tabloid to the arts section, skipping over the paper’s customarily unfocused cover story. Joel E. Siegel, the most intelligent film critic in town, who made waste of the
Post’
s hapless duo (the gushing Hal Hinson and the unreadable Rita Kempley), had reviewed a couple of interesting documentaries. And Mark Jenkins, who on the plus side was a Smiths fetishist but on the minus side a Costello basher, had done an enthusiastic review of the neo-psychedelic Stone Roses.
After my dinner I ordered a dark beer and drank it as I finished reading the paper. I nursed a second as the place began to fill up and become noisier. When the bartender switched over to Pere Ubu on the stereo, I settled up and left.
It was dark now, between eight and nine o’clock. Working Washington was safe in the suburbs, leaving this part of the city virtually deserted. The storefronts, mostly shoe shops displaying the latest Bama-ish styles, were closed and secured with drawn iron gates. This section of town had its own smell in the early evening, of dried spit and alley dirt in the wedges of cracked concrete.
Pigeons fluttered as I turned right off of Ninth and moved down F. Some punks were hanging outside the entrance of the Snake Pit, smoking cigarettes and looking patently sullen. The all-black dress and hairstyles had changed very little in ten years.
I maneuvered around them and entered a long hallway postered with announcements of shows around town. As I neared the doorway, humid, smoky air rushed towards me, along with the sound of a chainsaw electric guitar.
I paid for a ticket through a box office window and handed it to the doorman, a slight kid in black jeans and an army green T-shirt, with a bleached blond brush cut on his
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