Out of Paradise - Ch. 5 - New York, New York, Or Joey Gutierez Revisited Pt. 2

New York, New York

Out of Paradise - Ch. 5 - New York, New York , Or Joey Gutierez Revisited Pt. 2

"Whoa shit, Avi," Adam, sitting between Avi and I, pissing his pants and holding his hands to the roof of the car to maintain his grip on equilibrium, screams in hysteria as we careen onto the entrance to the Queensboro Bridge fishtailing back and forth on the rain and oil slick tarmac and caroming off the guardrails like a steel ball on steroids in a pinball machine.

The lads in the back suddenly stir from their alcoholic coma and, in unison, go "What the fu...?" as we bump and skid our way to a stop in the middle of the entrance to the Queensboro Bridge.

Dazed and confused we all look around at each other to make sure our body parts are still intact, they are. Avi gets out to inspect the damage, and, miraculously, it’s not as bad as it seemed at the time. A smashed up left rear quarter panel, a left rear door that will squeak and rattle real bad and the left rear bumper resting on the exhaust pipe - but that doesn’t deter us from shrugging it off and making our way, in relative safety, back home to Queens. Avi's uncle has a body shop there.

Fortunately, this is all happening at 3:00 am and fortunately, there were no other cars on the road at the time. After unloading the rest of the crew to their respective locations, Avi and I stumble into his parent’s house, arms draped over each others' shoulders as drunkards do at 4:00 am, stumbling home from a friend's 21st birthday party in Midtown Manhattan. I'm given a spare room to crash in and I do exactly that.

The next morning (or rather later that same morning), I'm aroused by the smell of fresh coffee brewing in the kettle and bagels warming in the oven. I stretch and yawn and kneed my overhung head enough to raise it from my pillow, pull my jeans on and a fresh tee shirt I retrieve from my pack and follow the aroma out to the kitchen. Avi is still sleeping so I introduce myself to his family seated around an oversized breakfast table littered with warm bagels, lox, cream cheese, a large jug of orange juice and a pot of steaming coffee.

There is Haim and Devorah, Avi's father and mother, his brother Elijah and sister Hannah. I'm offered an empty seat and while Avi's mother is setting another place, I'm imagining what Hell I might be enduring just now had I not met up with Joey Gutierez a week or so earlier. Everyone's asking me where I'm from and how I've ended up here. I recount my episode with Joey hitching up from San Diego to L.A., across America and being homeless in Grand Central Station without any cardboard. Upon mentioning Joey's name they get all excited and begin asking all kinds of questions about Joey's current whereabouts, his wellbeing, his exploits and general livelihood. I explain, again, that I only knew him for a matter of a few hours but in their minds I was his best friend and any friend of Joey's was a friend of theirs and with that, I become a bona fide member of the Greater Queens Jewish Community.

Midway through relating my mission to the Matterhorn to Avi's family and a second cup of coffee later, Avi arises from the dead. His disheveled hair, looking like a scared mop on crack, and pale and ghostly appearance accentuated his bloodshot eyes, squinting relentlessly around the table as if peering directly into a sun spot. "You look like drek, bro,” Elijah says.

"Thanks, don't feel much better either," Avi replies and pours himself a cup of coffee.

It's Saturday morning and everyone has the day off, so after finishing his second cup of coffee, Avi asks if I'd like to go into the city and have a look around.

"Sure," I say, and after a good shower and having wired the rear bumper back onto the left rear quarter panel of Avi's '65 Ford Fairlane, we head out to pick up his mates and into the core of the Big Apple itself.

The left rear passenger door is rattling and clanging as we cross back over the Queensboro Bridge. At its opposite end we all point out our position where we caromed off the guardrail earlier that morning and chuckled at its result. Avi isn’t impressed. No trip to New York City is complete without a ramble through Central Park, so, our first stop is to do exactly that. Adam declares he's in dire need of a hot dog and we're off on a quest to locate the first sidewalk hot dog vendor we can find. We order 5 of New York's finest, one for each of us - even Jewish kosher try-to-bes find it hard to resist a genuine New York City sidewalk hot dog.  Here we are, eating our hot dogs and admiring all of the brilliant autumn leaves, almost glowing, glistening red and orange and yellow against the crisp Central Park midday sun - All that and a recuperating hangover - Damn, life doesn't get better than this.

Out of Central Park, we drive down 7th Avenue and Avi points out Carnegie Hall to me on the left. Little did I know at the time that my unborn son would be playing the tuba there in years to come. A couple of blocks further down, Avi tells me the Ed Sullivan Theater is a block over on the right and a few more blocks down from that we're back in Times Square and in the general vicinity of our escapades the night before. We carry on down a few more blocks and just before reaching Madison Square Garden, we make a left and the Empire State Building comes into view. Whoa, what a marvel. There it is, up close and personal, the tallest building in the world. I slink down low in the seat and crane my neck upward in search of the monolith's apex, but it's nowhere to be found - disappearing into the stratosphere like a stairway to heaven (hey, good name for a rock song - What's Jimmy Page's phone number?)

We park the car and after a 102 floor elevator ride, we're standing on the top of the world. I'm gazing out and down on all of the miniature minions hustling and bustling back and forth on the ground below like a microscopic army of ants on military maneuvers and drop a dime into the telescopic viewer for a closer look. I can see for miles and miles (hey, another good name for a rock song - What's Pete Townshend's phone number?) There it is - Midtown Manhattan at midday in mid autumn, amid friends, in midair, midway to the Matterhorn. Damn, life doesn't get better than this.

We descend back to Earth, clamber back into Avi's '65 Ford Fairlane with the left rear quarter panel hanging on a thread and door still ready to drop off its hinges should we hit a marshmallow along the way and carry on past the glitz and glamour of 5th Avenue, Madison Avenue, Park Avenue and down into the more earthly core of Flatbush and Greenwich Village.

"Damn, that's it - That's where Dylan used to hang out," I say in awe as we pass the corner of MacDougal and Minetta Lane - and a block down from that is Bleecker Street -

"Damn, this is the shit legends are made from - within these few square blocks," I'm thinking to myself as my chin gapes in amazement, "What awesome talent has been spawned here." - "Far fucking out!"

We carry on down into The Bowery, past Little Italy and Chinatown - Legendary - No other word to describe it - All the hoods and hustlers, the gangs and gangsters, the mobs and mobsters, the Mafioso and triads that have shaped and formed and molded New York City into the largest and most diverse melting pots the world has ever known - happening right here - right now - before my very eyes - Far fucking out! We zig-zag our way through Chinatown, past Columbus Park, around a couple more zags and there's  Brooklyn Bridge - Whoa, what a marvel, what a piece of architecture - Gotta say, this and the Golden Gate have got to top the all time great bridges list.

Halfway across and off in the distance, seemingly floating in the middle of the Hudson River, holding vigil unto all who pass, the essence of America itself, our Lady of Liberty comes into view, masked against the sky scraping New York City horizon – Whoa, here I am, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge in a rattle trap ’65 Ford Fairlaine with its left rear quarter panel ready to drop off into the East River at a mosquito’s fart to join the likes of Luca Brasi, Phillip Tattaglia, Moe Greene and Jimmy Hoffa with a band of Jewish misfit friends of Joey Gutierez from Queens - Damn, life doesn’t get better than this.

Not much longer and we’re back in little Israel dropping off Adam and Ari and Big Joey at their respective locations and pull into Avi’s driveway with a shake, rattle and roll. Inside and I’m greeted with a message from Ari’s uncle – the travel agent - saying he’s got a ticket lined up for me to Luxembourg on Icelandic Airways leaving Monday for $165.00 one year open return. Far out – That’s me! Monday morning comes and with knapsack slung on my shoulder and Avi waiting at the doorway tossing his car keys up and down in his hand, I thank his parents profusely for their wonderful hospitality and we make our way to JFK International Airport.