“Wise men fish here.”
This non sequitor graced a sign above Gotham Books of West 47th Street.
New York’s Diamond Alley.
I slaved on that street 13 years slinging ice to fiancées, mistresses, and drug dealers. Izzy SheyGutz. In goyim we trust. 5 days a week. Pastrami sandwiches and italian suits. 7 days during the Xmas holidays after which I would flee NYC for Asia.
Bullshitting a Wall Street lawyer into spending two months salary took its toll. Bullshit on bullshit on bullshit on a piece of toast served with a smile. My partner Richie Winick was the best. “Sell them what you want.”
Selling diamonds was like a David Mamet script on blow.
Gotham Books was a refuge from that Manhattan storm.
I loved books.
My mother instilled that love at an early age.
She was an insomniac. I am too. Books bridged the hours between dusk and dawn. MY mother was a devout Catholic, yet feared nothing from the written word for her second son. Shackleton’s DUE SOUTH, Heller’s CATCH-22, and countless other more adult novels opening a world beyond the narrow confines of a suburb south of Boston.
Throughout my travels I have gravitated to books to further my vision, but the Gotham Book store was the center of my universe. During my lunch break I would wander across the street to peruse the books, read out my short stories, or entertain the workers with tales from the Orient. Skip the book detective found novels and non-fiction out of print. Patrick dennis’ LE BELLE POITRINE and GENIUS ME along with the author’s biography. he ended up as the butler to McDonald’s creator.
Michelle would hold books behind the counter until payday, which on 47th Street was every day. Other bibliophiles flocked to the basement shop in pursuit of knowledge and most thought they knew something about something.
“Anyone who has all the answers has heard all the questions.”
The workers appreciated my self-deprecating humor and we discussed dives of NYC with a gusto fevered by the thirst for an after-work beverage.
When I left NYC in 2003 I bid them farewell. “I’ll be back.”
Visitors to Gotham were many
Arthur Miller, John Updike, Tennessee Williams, Ezra Pound, J. D. Salinger, Katharine Hepburn and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis were clients. Its fame was enough, for Gotham had lost their lease on 47th street and wise men had to fish at a reincarnation on East 46th Street.
The new store wasn’t the same, although the owners continued the policy of never paying their rent, so that last year the landlords foreclosed on the business to pay off its debts.
Last week Michelle emailed the news.
The landlord had bought the entire collection of books for $400,000.
Even the porno hidden behind the shelves.
Tears were shed as another part of old New York succumbs to the city of the rich. Hey, Peter Nolan Smith doesn’t live on East 10th Street and CBGBs is gone too.
Finally the city that never sleeps doesn’t read itself to bed when you can watch TV or surf porno, although I still have a few paperbacks from the Gotham which would burn in hell with Jerry Falwell.
THE ITCH is a stroke book which I have reread more than the Bible.
Certain passage linger in the mind.
“Sherri wanted more.”
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