We are in McSorley’s Bar on East 7th Street off Third Ave just north of the Bowery. Helping me hoist a few drafts and enjoy pickled eggs and beef jerky to ward off the September chill are Gabby Hayes and Biff Loman among others. To avoid what he thinks might be autograph hounds, Gabby has severely chomped his whiskers down to stubble and, rather than wear his trademark Pony Express style hat, is sporting a Mets baseball cap turned backwards. He is not his usual, chipper self as two months ago he had his prostate removed. Still, I feel the night out with the boys will do him a world of good.
My other drinking buddy is Willy Loman’s favorite son, Biff. Some years back I volunteered at a Brooklyn shelter during Thanksgiving where I bumped into him. Through the years he’s never come to terms with his dad’s self-induced, fatal car crash. In and out of mental hospitals, halfway homes and shelters, he was recently released from Bellevue after a suicide attempt (like father like son they always say), his wrists still wrapped in gauze and adhesive tape, a subtle reminder of his ongoing desperation.
My mission at McSorley’s tonight is two-fold. Yes, I want to lift Gabby and Biff’s spirits, but, more importantly, an intervention is planned. By vocation I am a theatrical agent/PR/marketing person. Five years ago I took on Huck Finn as a client; one of the worst decisions of my life. My judgment was clouded by the prospect of big bucks. I signed him to a great deal working the riverboat cruise ships that spend a week floating down the Mississippi recapturing a bygone era. All he had to do was show up, press the flesh, pose for photos and make nice. But could he get any place on time! And when he did make it on board, could he keep his hands off the female passengers and staff! We were lucky they only fired him, as they had grounds for countless lawsuits.
That minor brush with fame changed him completely. As my grandparents used to say, “If we could buy you for what you’re worth and sell you for what you think you’re worth, we’d be millionaires ten times over.” I blame myself. I overdid the sales pitch of how we could make a killing selling the American innocence image. Women giving him their room keys and panties didn’t help. Whatever the cause, Huck turned prima donna on me. He was a star; everyone else had to walk ten paces behind him. If he had any talent or a decent work ethic I could have put up with it, but I was continually covering for his excesses.
Still, undaunted, I beat the bushes for jobs and linked him up with a touring company of Roger Miller’s classic musical Big River. Huck can’t act or sing worth a damn, but they agreed to have him introduce the play and mingle with the audience at intermission--two hours work for cash money and a small living allowance tossed into the bargain. Of course Huck’s being on time was the least of my worries. He began consorting with theater groupies, using his semi-celebrity status to bed any number of chicks, over-indulged in booze and discovered recreational drugs found around the club scene. Huck’s Big River gig at the Boston’s Colonial Theater went down the drain after three weeks.
There were a series of ceremonial business openings after that—Circuit City, Wendy’s, a few used car dealerships, etc.--chump change really and his behavior caused me professional embarrassment and a great deal of anxiety. In a word, he was spinning out of control. As a last resort, two months ago I contacted the Disney people, and, after much begging, they agreed to a trial run for Huck down in their Orlando theme park. The deal included a motel room, meal allowance and an escalating pay scale depending on his performance. It was his last chance.
Since then I’ve tried for weeks to set up a serious discussion of this career move, and he finally agreed to the McSorley’s meet tonight. I don’t expect, when confronted, he will jump at the idea of going into rehab which is a major aspect of the Disney contract, so, besides Gabby and Biff, I added some muscle in the form of Queequeg and Chingachgook. I don’t mean to be politically incorrect regarding Indians and firewater, but, when we sat down, they both ordered Mai Tai cocktails. Chingachgook chugged two in quick succession and quickly became a heap of snoring, rather gamey deer hide. Queequeg has fared better. He isn’t drunk but in a trance of sorts, staring at the pink parasol and black swizzle stick as if they were a pagan idols. If the going gets rough, I doubt I can count on them.
Our table conversation is strained at best. When we first entered there was some tension between Gabby and Chingachgook, largely due to what the latter feels is the racist nature of some films Gabby has been in. Biff, an introvert by nature, is even more reticent when he’s on his meds, Halodol this week which has the side effect of facial tics. But Gabby, bless his aging heart, is very good at bringing out people. He tells stories about his days with Roy Rogers, Gene Autry and “Duke” Wayne. He loves puns and gives us all a laugh, even breaking up stone-faced Queequeg, by playing around with Huck’s name—Hack, Heck, Hick, Hock and Houk. The last one reminding him of a Yankee manager which got us all reminiscing about the old days of the game, the Brooklyn Dodger greats bringing Biff out of his shell.
Once the baseball topic was exhausted, Biff trots out some psychological opinions concerning Huck as we wait for his royal highness to show up. “You know, he never knew his mother, and his father was a raving alcoholic. He was taken in by asexual aunts who were probably religious fanatics. He didn’t have the guts for suicide so he faked his death. The happiest moments of his life were on Jackson’s Island, drifting on a raft with his surrogate dad, Jim. Then there was the trauma of a steamboat running him over. Is it any wonder he’s irresponsible and into illegal substances that can deny reality? And I thought my life was tough growing up with a dime a dozen, blowhard salesman, and adulterer as a role model.”
Just as Biff gets a bit too agitated by his own personal demons, Huck struts through the door. It is going on nine and, if it weren’t for Gabby’s patience, I would have split long ago. If you envisioned Huckleberry Finn as a symbol, an icon of Middle America then you’d be in for a shock. He’s discovered hair extensions, body piercing and tattoos. One of the troubles I had with him on the riverboat tour groups was dressing the part.
“Wearing bib overalls, a straw hat and going barefoot is for faggots,” was his comment as he insisted on expressing his personal identity, doing his own thing. This “thing” often took the form of a Phish tee shirt, low slung jeans with plenty of boxer shorts on display and a proclivity for arcane handshakes which the folks direct from Branson, Missouri found off-putting.
Much to my chagrin Huck has an entourage which trails him into McSorley’s. He barely nods to our table as he makes his way to the bar. Biff nudges me almost to the point of knocking me over, “That’s Paris Hilton hanging onto his right arm! She’s in all the tabloids.”
None of my crew knows who she is so I try to explain exactly what she is famous for, not an easy task. There are four other young women in Huck’s group, all of whom have the same basic “Paris” look to them. Riding herd on this post-pubescent, haute-coiffured crew are two rough-looking dudes who may have learned their bodyguarding skills with Mossad. Huck continues to ignore our table as he snuggles and gropes Paris for my benefit. She, in turn, giggles at whatever clever remarks he makes, probably at our table’s expense.
After a few minutes of this behavior, Gabby gets up and grabs his jacket. I panic. “You’re not going to desert me now are you?”
“Yer durn tootin’ I am.” Gabby has full dentures which tend to spray any conversational partner within range, more so when he gets excited.
“But I need your advice. Should I go over there or sit here and wait him out?”
“Dad gum it. He’s been hornswaglin’ you since you yoked up with him and you’re too mule stubborn to see it. And they ain’t no ladies he’s calf-roped either. Listen to the mouth on them. I’ll give you the same advice I gave Randy Scott in Return of the Bad Men way back in 19 and 48 when we were facing one of the bloodiest gangs in all of Oklahoma led by an angel-faced gun gal name of Cheyenne. ‘There’s no nice way to get rid of a nest of rattlers. You either go in with six guns blazing or hightail it out of town.’”
Before I can respond to Gabby, Huck condescends to saunter over, playfully using Paris as his shield, goosing her every few steps.
“Quite a menagerie you got here; knocking back the buttermilk and sarsaparilla until it’s time for Murder She Wrote?”
“Huck, could we please take a booth in the back and talk privately?” I knew it was a lost cause even before I said it. One look at his eyes told me he’d begun partying much earlier in the day.
“First off, I don’t need you to have a career. I’m going to direct music videos, aren’t I babe?” He looks at Paris who goes all goo goo-eyed as he does a little hip hop shuffle which ends with a credible Michael Jackson era Moonwalk. “Any business discussions can be aired in front of my posse, although I think you’ll have to explain to gramps here that the term has a slightly different meaning than back in his day. Ever see anything like this on Dale Evans, old timer?”
He nods and on cue a vacant looking blonde steps forward, pulls her camisole up, revealing breasts bedecked with shiny nipple rings shaped like barbells. Biff gasps. Queequeg and Chingachgook are now wide awake, and Huck turns his venom on them. “How now, Big Chiefs, you like’m Tiffany’s grand tetons? Smoke’m crack pipe? Wantem be pro wrestler tag team on Monday Night Raw?”
I’ve had enough of his smart mouth and speak up. “Queequeg comes from a royal family in the South Pacific and Chingachgook is a trusted, noble Mohican Indian. Either one is worth ten of anybody in this room.”
He isn’t even listening, intent on being the center of witty attention for his giggling audience, “Nice tats, Queerkeg.”
The second these words come out of Huck’s mouth Gabby sputters “consarn’it” and goes for him. He never gets closer than two feet before the hairier of the ex-Mossad bodyguards drops him to the floor like a sack of flour with one swing of his forearm. Huck then sees a chance to play hero in front of Paris and takes a poke at Biff who immediately falls to the floor, curls up in the fetal position and begins to whimper. Huck spots a soft tissue opening and digs a Doc Martin high top into the kidney area. Biff stops whimpering. Then, like a lightning bolt, Queequeg springs into action, catches the hairiest bodyguard in a headlock with one arm and bulldogs Huck using the other. When Hairier starts to help Hairiest, I jump in but someone grabs me from behind and yanks me away. I thought it was one of the girls, but they are busy cheering on the action. I think that maybe I’m being restrained by someone from the bar, but then the telltale smell of bear grease hits me, and I know it’s Chingachgook. He has me around the waist, guiding me out the front door. The last thing I spy is Queequeg who, having butted the heads of Huck and Hairier into unconsciousness, is now sitting atop a flopping Hairiest while Paris and her cronies dance a victory lap around the carnage and their new harpooner, folk hero. Biff and Gabby lay lifeless nearby and clearly beyond my help so it’s every man for himself.
Chingachgook and I hit the street none too soon as sirens and blue flashing lights are driving up and fighting for parking space with the SUV’s of the paparazzi. We sprint east on 7th for a few blocks, then Chingachgook stops dead in his tracks. He sniffs the air, grabs my arm and reverses direction. “Hudson River this way,” and off we speed, crouching low, keeping close to the buildings’ shadows and slinking past McSorley’s where an ambulance has just pulled up.
I am winded and dragged along by my guide. We reach Pier 32 and sprint by the gate house and guard. There is a shout; I see a gun being drawn. Chingachgook turns and in one motion draws an arrow, takes steady aim and lets it fly. There is soft thud, a moan and the guard’s forearm is pinned to the side of the shack. We run on. “Me us’em Iroquois arrow, big blame go on them.” He chuckles quietly to himself. Evidently there has been bad blood between those two tribes.
At the base of Pier 32 he reaches behind one of the pilings and finds a rope. He gives it a tug and a birch bark canoe swings into view. We slip into it; he takes the rear while I’m up front, and we begin paddling for all we are worth. If there is such a thing as peeling out in a canoe we do it. We luck out in that the tide is with us so we don’t have to expend much energy. We kept a steady pace keeping close to the river bank for several miles until we pass under the George Washington Bridge. The current then becomes more difficult, and my hands are blistering. But it is quieter now as we work our way north, and I have a chance to think. That first day I met Huck he’d spoken about how much he wanted to change his life, lighting out for the new territory was how he put it. I’d helped him as best I could, but now I saw that any new territory, by his definition or mine, wasn’t worth a tinker’s damn. If that was what he wanted he could have it. Let him try out for American Idol, participate in a reality show and dye his hair seven shades of purple. He could make his video with Paris, Britney, Mary-Kate and Ashley, put his profile on MY Space.com and devote his life to ordering lattes and carrying around someone’s miniature poodle. I wanted none of him or his partying lifestyle. In fact I wanted the old territory. I longed a return to the days of yesteryear, and just as I came to that conclusion, Chingachgook shook me out of my trance, “We go Albany. Portage to Susquehanna River, find Otsego Lake. Good hunting. Plenty fish. Get ready for winter. Find you good squaw to lay with, keep’em belly warm.”
My back is aching, my shoulder and stomach muscles are on fire, but his words make me dig the paddle deeper into the water. It might take a day or two and reduce my hands to bloody stumps, but it will be worth it. Lake Glimmerglass. Even the name is magic.
