Twelve O’ Clock High
A gifted musician and writer friend of mine, overdosed from heroin on E. 10th St. many years ago. Every time I visit the East Village, the place serves as a reminder of that loss. The unfortunate event happened when rising economic interests uprooted the central core of this community’s creative foundation.
It would come as no surprise today seeing a headline proclaiming, “Heroin’s back!” Did it ever go away? Given the neighborhood’s infamous countercultural past—a place full of activists, artists, hippies and punks—it makes sense. An environment known for music, fashion, and artwork turned into a real estate hotspot. Rich investors and tech took over. As the East Village experienced significant development and growth, it attempted to preserve an eccentric reputation, many avant-garde aspects disappeared. Another unforeseen result: the rise in drug-related crime and violence.
Brazen vandals even ripped-off the Fillmore East plaque! For some, a sense of paranoia exists on an evening stroll. There’s no escaping the frightening reality of crawling fear. A bike could zip by knocking you to ground. It could be a sudden, chokehold from behind or a chain whipped across the back of your neck. When walking, stay vigilant.
Recently, a broad-daylight shooting occurred in Tompkins Square. A week earlier The New York Times reported “Mean Street in New York is a Haven for Mayhem,” three stabbed, one fatal in June. The mayor’s office sidewalk talked a big crackdown in “born to be bad” territory. Much more than a million dollars’ worth of increased NYPD presence utilizing surveillance cameras is required to deal with problems of this magnitude.
I need to go off on a tangent here standing in front of Cooper Union by the Cube. I’m reminded of the locale’s rebellious past. This was the site of a recent slashing by a deranged individual, now it’s where a titan clash of generational eras comes to head. Punk rock meets Gen Z.
What would Joey, Johnny or DeeDee say to a young teen (who I’ll call Little Sheena) wearing a Ramones t-shirt from Walmart? Doesn’t it seem absurd wearing a t-shirt of a band you’ve never seen; like displaying a badge of honor for something you never did. They’re young and fashion is all about expressing oneself and punk rock’s dead. Still.
It was a glorious moment when the Ramones were “All hopped up and ready to go…” The band never stopped touring. Their first album cover (on Little Sheena’s shirt) is forever etched in my brain. It’s a black and white image of four guys from Queens in jeans standing in front of wall. The Roberta Bayley 1976 photograph originally appeared in Punk magazine. Joey Ramone said, “It kicked off punk rock and started the whole thing—as well as us.”
I swallowed my pride and gave Little Sheena one last look. Humbled, I thought to myself, “I can’t even recall how many times I saw the Ramones. It was a lot. Maybe grab some scissors and fix that shirt.”
Curious to see if you can score in the same place as Wigstock? The answer is yes. Fast Eddie used to cop around Tompkins Square Park. You never know what you’ll encounter. Calm can suddenly turn to chaos. In a peaceful green corner, one minute a group of people are sitting on a blanket enjoying themselves; the next minute, a small woman looks up and screams. “You don’t steal from a child!” There’s a cracking sound. Someone gets whacked in the head with a stick. A knife is pulled. Time to look for another park bench.
Back on Avenue A, it’s sweltering in the shade. A person ran out of a grocery store with an armful of stolen goods in transit, immediately followed by two employees. The team tries a football tackle, packages of chicken parts fly all over the street. The fleeing suspect yells, “You’re not catching me!” They didn’t. Wonder what table that chicken’s on tonight?
High noon at the bodega, you’ll see locals. An old Italian guy orders a Robert DeNiro; roast beef sandwich on an onion roll with lettuce, tomato, provolone, oil and vinegar. Shelby, a 22-year-old goth resident is waiting to buy a Red Bull. She’s getting ready to take on an afternoon of catcalls and eyeballs. Wearing a slinky purple dress guarantees attention, going commando is her thing. Aunt Marge and Uncle Phil meander across 2nd Ave. The seniors ramble on about the vacant lot after the Middle Church fire.
Alphabet City is such a far cry from the days of Life Cafe, and yet decades later, not really. The cardboard “No Radio” signs inside parked cars are long gone, and Iggy no longer resides in the Christodora House. Still, the hard drugs remain ingrained in the area’s DNA. Reports in the park are the red bags are stronger. Loyal mongrel dogs guard a crusty crew. The highs and junkies don’t last long.
Thoughts on intervention strategies for this dilemma have evolved over the years. It’s a tough issue to address. Maybe it’s time to accept the situation for what is. Lay down a stable foundation in health education emphasizing youth support; teach self-control and tolerance at an early age. People do make a place, as the East Village continues to endure. Occasionally, you’ll still hear, “Hey Frankie, move your car, the garbage truck is here. Is he passed out again?”