An Anti Anti-Gentrification Game
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When I lived in the East Village, NYC, from the mid 80s to early 90s there was a great deal of anti-gentrification sentiment in the neighborhood. "Gentification," as far as I could determine, was a derogatory term attached to the phenomenon of an area that's been targeted by developers for rennovation: buildings are purchased and upgraded, or out-and-out demolished and replaced with new ones, thereby attracting more affluent residents and driving rents higher; as more affluent people move into the neighborhood, businesses spring up to serve them: chic restaurants, designer clothing stores, cyber cafes, supermarkets, pet grooming salons. In other words, "gentification" is a derogatory term attached to an understandable and unavoidable cyclical process of rebuilding rundown areas to serve the needs of greater amounts of people who are benefitting from a strong economy. From my point of view, adopting an anti-gentification stance was a pointless waste of time that wouldn't alter matters one iota: might as well adopt an anti-thunderstorm stance as well, and see whether that yielded any results.

The "approved" attitude for a resident of the East Village in the mid-80s to adopt was that gentification was an evil manifestation of shameless greed that was eroding individuality. Adopting the "approved" attitude assured one of being "progressive," "cutting edge," and "anti-establishment": fly-by-night trendy terminology dreamed up as a means for utterly mediocre and commonplace imbeciles to feel they were something more than mob-mentality governed cattle. It's interesting to note that, more often than not, the people who professed virulent anti-gentifrication sentiments were themselves part of the gentifrication process: artsy politically correct suburbanite poseurs: many of them spouted platitudes concerning individuality from the economically secure position of living off of handouts from mommy and daddy.

I've never cared for "approved" attitudes; I loathe the implication that I'm expected to wear readimade opinions, join a cause, project a predetermined image, be political in any manner whatsoever; I vastly prefer (1) getting my writing done, and (2) amusing myself, often by playing pranks. In other words, far from having anything to do with anti-gentrification posturing, I was going to amuse myself at the expense of those who did.

I lived in a dumpy illegal sublet (I only paid $231.00), worked sporatically (i.e., when I needed money) as a cab driver, and had far less money than most of the people who professed anti-gentrification sentiments. One morning, at about 5:00 AM at Astor Place, a man was selling Bill Blass suits that had been filched from a delivery truck. An idea immediately occurred to me and I tried the suits on: three of them fit like a glove. I paid a total of $45.00 and returned home immensely pleased. A few extra days of driving allowed me to supplement the suits with shirts and ties from Bloomingdales and two pairs of Italian shoes from Orchard Street. In addition, I found a deal on a cashmere topcoat. I was all set: now I could amuse myself by strolling about in the suits, being a walking and breathing symbol of the gentrification so many people made a point of despising. Again, most of these anti-gentrification people were so-called artists from the suburbs who were having their little "anti-establishment" fling, going through their requisite "rebellious free-spirit" phase, before settling down and hightailing it back to where they came from: it was fun to annoy them.

Besides, being pointed out as an enemy "gent" and sneered at when I lived in a dump and drove a cab suited my contradictory nature: I've always been fond of projecting images I have little in common with. Why? For the sheer game of it; because it's a means of livening things up; because it's a way of keeping idiots at bay; because it's freedom from caring what others think.

During this period I made the acquaintance of a Polish girl who worked as a waitress at one of the East Village Polish restaurants; equally as appealing as her comely face and curvy, perfectly proportioned, figure was her mischievous disposition: we hit it off immediately. Minxa (not her real name) was tickled to death by my dress-up-and-infuriate-pretentious-twits game and soon joined me in playing it. She'd put on her "church" clothes: suits from Bergdorf's given to her by her mother, as well as some prim ensembles found in thrift shops. To my mind, the conservatism of these clothes further accentuated Minxa's curves and aura of earthy sexuality by providing a contrast to these qualities. Yes, as far as I'm concerned, a knee-length long-sleeved wool dress, wide at the shoulders and tight at the waist, only serves to make a luscious girl's body simmer underneath it more vividly. An acquired taste, no doubt...

So I'd put on a Bill Blass suit with the topcoat and Minxa would put on a Bergdorf suit with a drab gray ankle-length wool coat and we'd go to an East Village pseudo-trendy artsy place filled with would-be artists and delight to the dumbfounded stares. In particular, we picked on a short-lived cafe-bar thing called the Lizard (not it's real name). The place was decorated with stencils of lizards done in fluorescent paint and lit by blacklights; essentially, it looked like the walls of a suburban teen's bedroom, circa 1975. The "artists" and "designers" of this nonsense were always present (doubtless waiting to be discovered by some well-known gallery owner or critic) and never tired of proudly admitting, in very loud voices, to having created it; and, ha ha, did they ever hate us! Yes, there we'd be: the cab driver and the waitress, dressed very conservatively, sipping our club sodas (another intentionally conservative touch) while seated at opposite sides of a table and not saying a word to one another. We'd pull out magazines such as National Geographic (of which I'm still an avid reader), US News and World Report, and Forbes and read them while the artsy dolts muttered disapproval, darted hostile glances, and sought to make us uneasy with assertions as to how much they hated gents, yuppies, careerists, right-wingers, proper people, whatever stupid label they could think to attach to us. They'd have intentionally loud conversations, generally about getting drunk (apparently this most typical of activities was their idea of being extraordinarily wild), that were laughably transparent attempts to shock us and, the more we continuing reading as if they weren't there, the more upset they'd get. Yes, upset is the word for it, incredible as it may seem: they were such insecure, shallow, fraudulent losers.

After all, what crime did Minxa and I commit? We'd enter, find a table, order club sodas, quietly read, and that's it, always being very polite; but the amount of resentment that this behavior inspired was beyond belief! -- and, of course, immensely funny! These artsy twits who considered themselves to be leading such "cutting edge" (whatever that means) lives were no different than the easily amazed residents of an isolated, God-fearing, stranger-distrusting town.

Minxa and I annoyed the patrons of the Lizard in this manner for maybe a month, often dropping in twice a week (it was something of an aphrodisiac for us, actually: we'd often go straight from the Lizard to bed, laughing all the way). They really were nothing but a pathetic clique of failures who had nothing better to do than endlessly stare and speculate about and attempt to intimidate some people who dressed differently than they did and completely ignored them. And, believe it or not, I didn't have any plan in mind for intensifying this game -- I wasn't knowingly setting up the artsy clowns for a surprise; but, as it turned out, I ended up giving them a surprise, and this is how:

At the cab garage on Sundays cars were available at 1:00 PM for those who worked the night shift (as opposed to the usual 5:00 PM) and many of us took advantage of this so as to drive during peak hours for our entire shift (12 hours) and make more money than usual without too much exertion, there being far less traffic. One Sunday a number of us who lived in the East Village or nearby decided to work this early shift and go drinking afterwards. After driving our twelve hours and turning our cars in we shared a couple cabs back to the East Village; and, lo and behold, my driving buddies and I were standing on a street corner that was close to the Lizard. The Lizard, of course, was excessively boring and we were headed for a place that was much more fun. But an idea occurred to me: I told them the regulars at the Lizard had been rude to my girlfriend; I asked them if they'd do me the favor of having a quick beer there and being a bit difficult. They were only too happy to render me this service; after all, the night was still young...

Now, most of my driving buddies were interested in little but nookie and the trading of cab stories and some were authentically tough and fond of brawling (our shared point of interest being the nookie and trading of cab stories part, as I'm neither what would be termed tough nor fond of -- or any good at -- brawling) and weren't the sort of people anyone in their right mind would want to tangle with. I enter the Lizard with them and look the complete opposite of how the regulars are accustomed to seeing me: faded jeans and leather jacket. We find two tables, roughly shove them together, and are loudly trading war stories: assorted lunatics met; girls who flashed us or, perhaps, did a bit more; cons that were attempted against us; pranks played; retaliation tales; good deeds done; far-flung neighborhoods we went to. My friends are yelling things such as: "Can we get some beer here, now!" -- "What's this dumbass lizard shit on the walls?" -- "Can you turn these fucking lights off?" -- "Hey, what's that logo crap you're wearing?" -- "Are you pretending to be artistes?"

Ha ha! I almost felt sorry for the artsy twits, so mouth-agape and fearful were they! I was very tempted to meet their stares with a poisonous smile and openly gloat, but successfully resisted such weakness: such would've been a reference to my previous visits and perhaps given the game away; it would've also revealed I was aware of their existence. Far better to carry on with my friends without paying the artsy twits any mind and allow them to imagine the worst. We didn't stay long: a beer apiece and we were making for the door, laughing and shouting all the way; my pal Bob -- who'd played trumpet in the orchestra at the Wagner festival in Bayreuth, Germany, and was presently putting together a swing band -- slammed both hands on the bar and yelled, "This place sucks, you pussies!" by way of a parting flourish.

When Minxa and I returned to the Lizard later in the week, dressed in our usual conservative manner, the uncomfortable fidgeting of the artsy clowns was almost pronounced enough to be a palpable substance one could reach out and touch; from the corner of my eye I observed their apprehensive expressions, and it was difficult to suppress a laugh. Yes, gone was all trace of the contempt to which they'd heretofore treated us; the moment we sat down, the waiter appeared and respectfully took our order without any inclination to snicker; whenever I pretend-innocently glanced about the place with my well-practised vacant look and encountered the eyes of one of these worthies, the said eyes would immediately glance away and quiver with bafflement and worry. As before, we did nothing but silently read our magazines and sip our club sodas; Minxa was tickled to death at the degree of cautious respect we were being accorded -- our reversal of effect upon the place -- and wilder than usual, which is saying a lot, when we returned to my apartment for fun and games.

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