CHAPTER 6
Soon I saw the neon sign of the i-Bar. A piece of cardboard announced: Ladies Night. The edges of the sign were decorated with vintage photographs of women wearing lingerie.
Before Zac could push the door, it opened outward and we were inspected by a big burly fellow with black, brilliantined hair. A green silk tie was around his bare neck. He wore a coat adorned with a bunch of pig’s teeth.
Nearby a guitar made a tinkling sound as if a rat were running along the strings.
After getting sourly looked over, the bouncer stepped aside.
Against the walls, the tables were full of locals: whores from the Tenderloin, their breasts scarcely concealed behind stained cheap clothes, and beside them their pimps; various workers with hairy hands and clumsy fingers; out-of-work waiters, and pock-marked clerks.
As we slid into a table, Zac and Joshua immediately started wiping down the surface with napkins. I picked up a spoon laying on the top and found it chained in place.
As if they had simply materialized before my eyes, two figures sat on the stage. One was an old man with the long white beard of a prophet. He wore a black silk skull-cap such as musicians wear to hide their bald heads. He was blind, and his glassy, milky-blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling as his skinny claw-like fingers tore at the strings of his electric guitar. Beside him sat a bloated female in a greasy green taffeta dress. She was pushing the buttons of a small synthesizer sitting on a wobbly stand. A wild jumble of notes came lurching out of the instrument like they had been left over from the last time she had used the device. Then, exhausted, it settled into a feeble repetition of notes.
The old man snapped his fingers in the air a few times, then opened his mouth so wide that we could see the blackened stumps of his teeth. Slowly, amid all sorts of strange gutturals, a wild bass voice forced its way up from his chest:
“Thaaa Oii-lee old eeeeggg waaas bluuuue—”
“Trallala,” screeched the female, immediately flapping her spittle-flecked lips shut, as if she had said too much.
“Wiid ah red peeg leeg, Thoughhht pooorky piiig waaz his dollor.”
— “Trallala.” — “Bluuues awl kinds a' bluues, all kinds of sta-hars,” — “Trallala, trallala.”
Couples stepped onto the floor and danced abstractly.
“Trallala-trallala.”
“Sta-hars both re-hed and bluuue,” the old man’s bawling had turned into a howl.
Then the tune became muddled and gradually adapted itself to music popularized by some trendy skipping beat. For a moment I thought I knew the song.
“I’m sure Bobuck has never heard about Dr. Hulbert and his Residence,” Joshua cheerfully stated as he held aloft a spoon with a chain attaching it to the table. Then he gave a surreptitious wink to the old puppeteer that I was not supposed to see. I well understood what they were up to; it was the same as earlier on in my room. They wanted to cheer me up. The idea was that Zac should tell me some story, any old story.
I felt myself growing colder and colder, just as when I had when seeing the wooden puppet head lying on Zac’s lap.
Zac began his story:
-----
The story of Dr. Hulbert and his Residence
“Hulbert’s face was covered in warts and he was bow-legged. Even as a boy all his time was spent at his studies, dry-as-dust studies that he hated. He made a little money by giving private lessons, and from that he had to support his sick mother. I think he rarely saw flowers or trees. You know how little sunshine reaches these streets.
He graduated with distinction, as was expected, and in time became a celebrated lawyer. He was so famous that everybody, even judges, would come to him if there was something they didn’t know. And all the time he still lived in a wretched little basement apartment next to the Methodist church.
The years passed, and Dr. Hulbert’s reputation as a leading light of the legal profession spread throughout the city. To everyone’s surprise, he announced that he had become engaged to a beautiful young woman who lived over on Conte Avenue. It really seemed that Dr. Hulbert had found happiness. The marriage remained childless though, at times, he seemed to treat his young wife like she was his child. He showered her with expensive gifts that she didn’t need.
He did not forget those less fortunate than himself, he took in a poor student. Presumably, he was motivated by the memory of his own suffering. However, the earth we live on is full of surprises. Dr. Hulbert’s act of charity backfired.
The student did not have warts nor bowed legs. Unfortunately for Dr. Hulbert, it was just the opposite. He had perfect skin and teeth, and his blue eyes sparkled with inviting warmth. Dr. Hulbert came home unexpectedly with a bouquet of roses as a surprise birthday present for his wife only to find that the handsome young man was giving her what she really wanted for her birthday, if you know what I mean.
That very same evening he was here at i-Bar dead-drunk on cheap beer. i-Bar became his home for what was left of his pitiful life. Dr. Hulbert had lost interest in the challenges of living.
Gradually the local scum gathered round him, until finally a strange community of losers formed what even today is still known as the “Residence.” Dr. Hulbert’s comprehensive knowledge of the law shielded those in whom the police took too close an interest. He knew hundreds of ploys to render the legal system helpless.
For their part, these outcasts, the dregs of human society, faithfully contributed everything they scammed to a common pot, from which they supported themselves. It was this iron discipline that led to them being called the “Residence.”
Every year on the 1 of December, the anniversary of the day of Dr. Hulbert’s misfortune, a strange celebration was held here at i-Bar. The beggars and vagrants, pimps and whores, drunks and thieves would all gather. They would be as quiet as if it were a church service. Dr. Hulbert would stand on the stage and tell the story of his life: how he had suffered, and worked his way up to being a respected lawyer. And every year when he reached the point where he entered his wife’s room with a bunch of roses, he would collapse, sobbing, onto the table. And on occasions some street urchin would go up to him, and place a half-withered flower in his hand.
It was genuinely touching. While his audience was too tough for tears, they stayed quiet and stared at their shoes.
One morning old Dr. Hulbert was found dead on a bench. His funeral was something I’ll never forget. Behind the hearse, the interminable file of the “Residence” marched; barefoot, filthy, ragged and torn. They loved him more than anyone imagined. He loved them as well.
On his grave in the cemetery is a white stone with Jesus on the cross between the two robbers. No one knows who had it put there, but I think it was his former wife. I heard she became a successful lawyer as well.
He did leave a will which provides a free bowl of soup every day for each member of the “Residence” at i-Bar. That’s why the spoons are chained to the table. The depressions hollowed into the wooden tabletops are the soup-bowls. At noon every day, a waitress comes along with a huge metal pump and squirts them full of soup.
That is why we wipe the table with napkins when we sit down.”
-----
I saw Zac moving his hands to demonstrate the soup pump and it made me smile since he looked more like he was masturbating than pumping soup.
I was drifting away. Perhaps I had had too much to drink.
The feeling of the room changed. Something was happening. People stopped dancing, the bouncer shouted out something that had startled them. The musicians continued, but the music started losing a sense of rhythm.
A uniformed police officer appeared in the doorway. He spread his arms out so that no one could leave. Behind him was a plainclothes detective.
“So, we’re dancing? Having a little fun, are we? I’m closing the place down for health violations.” The cop barked out the words, like a military command.
The synthesizer made a tinny squawk and died away with a whistle.
Out of a dark corner, an elegant figure in black stood and made his way slowly across the dance floor.
The officer seemed spellbound by the black patent-leather shoes confidently strolling towards him.
Bypassing the police officer, the young man spoke directly to the detective. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
The elegant gentleman was well known to the detective. He was known by everyone. Standing before the detective was one of Hollywood’s most popular actors, Leonardo DiCaprio. The crowd listened breathlessly for what would come next.
The actor, working the moment for maximum drama, casually said, “The ladies and gentlemen whom you see gathered here, he extended his arm and slowly passed it over the attentive crowd, are all guests of mine. Today is my birthday.” The actor's smile was unnervingly soothing. The detective muttered a few embarrassed words about only doing his duty and turned to leave the bar. The other officer followed a moment later after taking a selfie with the congenial actor.
The wild music started up again. “Trallala, trallala.”
We had finished our beers and decided to leave. Zac called to the waitress, his words swallowed up in the general noise. A chant started, “Rolf, Ralf,” and people craned their necks to see the dance-floor.
An effeminate young man in pink leotard and tights, with long blond hair down to his shoulders, his face in full make-up and his eyes cast down in provocative false modesty, was clinging, lovesick, to the chest of the actor who was always delighted at being the center of attention.
The synthesizer started oozing a sickly satirical waltz as the couple spun around the dance floor; the actor laughing loudly and the young man lost in the moment.
The music, the laughing faces. The room went out of focus and I felt panic rising in my chest.
I tried to shout that everyone needed to stop, but couldn’t.
Cold fingers had been thrust into my mouth, forcing my tongue up against my front teeth, filling my mouth like a lump that made it impossible for me to say a single word.
“My friend is having a seizure,” Zac shouted to the waiter. Joshua was holding my head, restraining my spasms.
Then I passed out.
-----
Peter the Priest was holding Charles by the shoulders as he lay on the pew in the otherwise empty church. Peter was calling 911. Charlie was having a seizure.
Soon I saw the neon sign of the i-Bar. A piece of cardboard announced: Ladies Night. The edges of the sign were decorated with vintage photographs of women wearing lingerie.
Before Zac could push the door, it opened outward and we were inspected by a big burly fellow with black, brilliantined hair. A green silk tie was around his bare neck. He wore a coat adorned with a bunch of pig’s teeth.
Nearby a guitar made a tinkling sound as if a rat were running along the strings.
After getting sourly looked over, the bouncer stepped aside.
Against the walls, the tables were full of locals: whores from the Tenderloin, their breasts scarcely concealed behind stained cheap clothes, and beside them their pimps; various workers with hairy hands and clumsy fingers; out-of-work waiters, and pock-marked clerks.
As we slid into a table, Zac and Joshua immediately started wiping down the surface with napkins. I picked up a spoon laying on the top and found it chained in place.
As if they had simply materialized before my eyes, two figures sat on the stage. One was an old man with the long white beard of a prophet. He wore a black silk skull-cap such as musicians wear to hide their bald heads. He was blind, and his glassy, milky-blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling as his skinny claw-like fingers tore at the strings of his electric guitar. Beside him sat a bloated female in a greasy green taffeta dress. She was pushing the buttons of a small synthesizer sitting on a wobbly stand. A wild jumble of notes came lurching out of the instrument like they had been left over from the last time she had used the device. Then, exhausted, it settled into a feeble repetition of notes.
The old man snapped his fingers in the air a few times, then opened his mouth so wide that we could see the blackened stumps of his teeth. Slowly, amid all sorts of strange gutturals, a wild bass voice forced its way up from his chest:
“Thaaa Oii-lee old eeeeggg waaas bluuuue—”
“Trallala,” screeched the female, immediately flapping her spittle-flecked lips shut, as if she had said too much.
“Wiid ah red peeg leeg, Thoughhht pooorky piiig waaz his dollor.”
— “Trallala.” — “Bluuues awl kinds a' bluues, all kinds of sta-hars,” — “Trallala, trallala.”
Couples stepped onto the floor and danced abstractly.
“Trallala-trallala.”
“Sta-hars both re-hed and bluuue,” the old man’s bawling had turned into a howl.
Then the tune became muddled and gradually adapted itself to music popularized by some trendy skipping beat. For a moment I thought I knew the song.
“I’m sure Bobuck has never heard about Dr. Hulbert and his Residence,” Joshua cheerfully stated as he held aloft a spoon with a chain attaching it to the table. Then he gave a surreptitious wink to the old puppeteer that I was not supposed to see. I well understood what they were up to; it was the same as earlier on in my room. They wanted to cheer me up. The idea was that Zac should tell me some story, any old story.
I felt myself growing colder and colder, just as when I had when seeing the wooden puppet head lying on Zac’s lap.
Zac began his story:
-----
The story of Dr. Hulbert and his Residence
“Hulbert’s face was covered in warts and he was bow-legged. Even as a boy all his time was spent at his studies, dry-as-dust studies that he hated. He made a little money by giving private lessons, and from that he had to support his sick mother. I think he rarely saw flowers or trees. You know how little sunshine reaches these streets.
He graduated with distinction, as was expected, and in time became a celebrated lawyer. He was so famous that everybody, even judges, would come to him if there was something they didn’t know. And all the time he still lived in a wretched little basement apartment next to the Methodist church.
The years passed, and Dr. Hulbert’s reputation as a leading light of the legal profession spread throughout the city. To everyone’s surprise, he announced that he had become engaged to a beautiful young woman who lived over on Conte Avenue. It really seemed that Dr. Hulbert had found happiness. The marriage remained childless though, at times, he seemed to treat his young wife like she was his child. He showered her with expensive gifts that she didn’t need.
He did not forget those less fortunate than himself, he took in a poor student. Presumably, he was motivated by the memory of his own suffering. However, the earth we live on is full of surprises. Dr. Hulbert’s act of charity backfired.
The student did not have warts nor bowed legs. Unfortunately for Dr. Hulbert, it was just the opposite. He had perfect skin and teeth, and his blue eyes sparkled with inviting warmth. Dr. Hulbert came home unexpectedly with a bouquet of roses as a surprise birthday present for his wife only to find that the handsome young man was giving her what she really wanted for her birthday, if you know what I mean.
That very same evening he was here at i-Bar dead-drunk on cheap beer. i-Bar became his home for what was left of his pitiful life. Dr. Hulbert had lost interest in the challenges of living.
Gradually the local scum gathered round him, until finally a strange community of losers formed what even today is still known as the “Residence.” Dr. Hulbert’s comprehensive knowledge of the law shielded those in whom the police took too close an interest. He knew hundreds of ploys to render the legal system helpless.
For their part, these outcasts, the dregs of human society, faithfully contributed everything they scammed to a common pot, from which they supported themselves. It was this iron discipline that led to them being called the “Residence.”
Every year on the 1 of December, the anniversary of the day of Dr. Hulbert’s misfortune, a strange celebration was held here at i-Bar. The beggars and vagrants, pimps and whores, drunks and thieves would all gather. They would be as quiet as if it were a church service. Dr. Hulbert would stand on the stage and tell the story of his life: how he had suffered, and worked his way up to being a respected lawyer. And every year when he reached the point where he entered his wife’s room with a bunch of roses, he would collapse, sobbing, onto the table. And on occasions some street urchin would go up to him, and place a half-withered flower in his hand.
It was genuinely touching. While his audience was too tough for tears, they stayed quiet and stared at their shoes.
One morning old Dr. Hulbert was found dead on a bench. His funeral was something I’ll never forget. Behind the hearse, the interminable file of the “Residence” marched; barefoot, filthy, ragged and torn. They loved him more than anyone imagined. He loved them as well.
On his grave in the cemetery is a white stone with Jesus on the cross between the two robbers. No one knows who had it put there, but I think it was his former wife. I heard she became a successful lawyer as well.
He did leave a will which provides a free bowl of soup every day for each member of the “Residence” at i-Bar. That’s why the spoons are chained to the table. The depressions hollowed into the wooden tabletops are the soup-bowls. At noon every day, a waitress comes along with a huge metal pump and squirts them full of soup.
That is why we wipe the table with napkins when we sit down.”
-----
I saw Zac moving his hands to demonstrate the soup pump and it made me smile since he looked more like he was masturbating than pumping soup.
I was drifting away. Perhaps I had had too much to drink.
The feeling of the room changed. Something was happening. People stopped dancing, the bouncer shouted out something that had startled them. The musicians continued, but the music started losing a sense of rhythm.
A uniformed police officer appeared in the doorway. He spread his arms out so that no one could leave. Behind him was a plainclothes detective.
“So, we’re dancing? Having a little fun, are we? I’m closing the place down for health violations.” The cop barked out the words, like a military command.
The synthesizer made a tinny squawk and died away with a whistle.
Out of a dark corner, an elegant figure in black stood and made his way slowly across the dance floor.
The officer seemed spellbound by the black patent-leather shoes confidently strolling towards him.
Bypassing the police officer, the young man spoke directly to the detective. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
The elegant gentleman was well known to the detective. He was known by everyone. Standing before the detective was one of Hollywood’s most popular actors, Leonardo DiCaprio. The crowd listened breathlessly for what would come next.
The actor, working the moment for maximum drama, casually said, “The ladies and gentlemen whom you see gathered here, he extended his arm and slowly passed it over the attentive crowd, are all guests of mine. Today is my birthday.” The actor's smile was unnervingly soothing. The detective muttered a few embarrassed words about only doing his duty and turned to leave the bar. The other officer followed a moment later after taking a selfie with the congenial actor.
The wild music started up again. “Trallala, trallala.”
We had finished our beers and decided to leave. Zac called to the waitress, his words swallowed up in the general noise. A chant started, “Rolf, Ralf,” and people craned their necks to see the dance-floor.
An effeminate young man in pink leotard and tights, with long blond hair down to his shoulders, his face in full make-up and his eyes cast down in provocative false modesty, was clinging, lovesick, to the chest of the actor who was always delighted at being the center of attention.
The synthesizer started oozing a sickly satirical waltz as the couple spun around the dance floor; the actor laughing loudly and the young man lost in the moment.
The music, the laughing faces. The room went out of focus and I felt panic rising in my chest.
I tried to shout that everyone needed to stop, but couldn’t.
Cold fingers had been thrust into my mouth, forcing my tongue up against my front teeth, filling my mouth like a lump that made it impossible for me to say a single word.
“My friend is having a seizure,” Zac shouted to the waiter. Joshua was holding my head, restraining my spasms.
Then I passed out.
-----
Peter the Priest was holding Charles by the shoulders as he lay on the pew in the otherwise empty church. Peter was calling 911. Charlie was having a seizure.