The Review: Bruce Springsteen - High Hopes
Bruce Springsteen - High Hopes
We poured ourselves a large Jack Daniels, slumped on the couch, and popped the television on to watch some hockey. We were in the basement games room of the International Student Centre Youth Hostel on West 88th St, Manhattan. It was late afternoon and Ben and I had spent the past 2 days walking anywhere and everywhere over New York, so we deserved this drink.
We’d just spent most of the day down in SoHo, shopping around, gazing in astonishment at the outrageously high percentage of girls that look like they just walked straight out of a fashion shoot. In opposition to what one of my friends thinks, where there is only one perfect ten that exists in his world, this must have been the place where all the tens came to hang out, look beautiful and just strut around with shopping bags drinking iced lattes and smoothies. This was also the period of time where Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston decided to move to NYC and buy a loft in SoHo, so the thought of running in to them was definitely a point of discussion. The scenario we saw being played out was that we’d meet them, play it cool, become friends and win her over to the point where she’d ditch Brad and we would head back to her loft with her and star in a XXX parody of Friends called “Lets Be More Than Friends.”
On a promise from my dad, who said it I ever made it to New York, he’d shout me a pair of boots from America’s oldest shoe company, The Frye Company. I picked myself some Harness 8R boots in Crazy Horse Leather with brass rings and leather straps. A classic motorbike boot, which I was definitely going to wear on my sweet, sweet hog, tearing down the highway, into the sunset never to be heard of again. Still waiting to get that bike, just as I’m still waiting on actually being legally able to ride it on the road, now nearly 10 years on; at least I kept up the Morrie tradition of forever procrastinating.
The Jack Daniels followed the high pace of the ice hockey game and before we knew it we had finished the bottle. It hadn’t done anything; it must’ve been a dud bottle, possibly filled with iced tea because we felt no buzz. I decided we needed to have a few beers to see if that would give us a bit of a head start before our venture to a Time Square nightlife experience.
I headed down to the shop to grab some beers while Benny went for a shake and a shower. Despite walking all over the lower east side for the day, it wasn’t that I didn’t need a shower, nor avoided them perse but at this point in my life they weren’t high on the priority list, beers were, so I was off to the store.
It was still light even though it was about 7pm as I was strolling down to the corner store, when I spied the gypsy like old man who was staying at the hostel, sitting in the shadows of the street trees. I say old but he would’ve only been mid 30’s, weathered skin from a combination of hard nights and all day sun, with a few important teeth missing, one of his front ones, a canine and that first molar gone on the opposite side at the canine. He had a faded cap that covered his balding longish hair pulled back into a ponytail and always accompanied by his guitar. Posted up on the steps up to some unknown’s entrance and by the look on his face, like a dog getting rubbed on the belly, he was enjoying himself a tasty spliff, when he called me up.
“hey man, I saw you guys having a few drinks over some heated table tennis, what’s your plan for the evening?” he wispily said through little drags that you see seasoned stoners do.
“Just trying to catch a buzz before we head down to see what Time Square nightlife is about” I said, realising I’d inadvertently and unwittingly implied that I wanted a piece of his twist.
“oh, cool, I’m just about to head down there my self after I finish this off” motioning the joint towards me, which I waved away. “I’m going to busk up some money so I can afford to stay tomorrow night. I don’t have enough cash to stay at the hostel tonight so I’ll be busking til the morning”
“yeah, we’ll keep an eye out for you man, chuck ya a couple of singles, haha” I laughed as I continued on my way to the corner store.
I got back to the hostel and Benny was all set, Swedish edition dunks and all, which he purchased that day down in SoHo. The funny thing about that purchase is that he was only allowed to put one shoe on at a time. If he wanted to try the left one on, he had to take the right one off and the lady had to hold it. We laughed and Ben asked why?
“We only like customers to try on one shoe at a time because we’ve had people who, once they have both shoes on, just leg it out the door”
We looked at each other and then at the bloke manning the door, 6 foot 6’, probably weighed more than both Ben and me after a big lunch and had another laugh. The guy would’ve been able to just grab you by the face with one hand, launch you back in to the store and onto your seat so you were able to take the shoes off and pay for them.
Of course I wore my Frye boots because I wanted to look bad ass, no matter how much they probably need a wearing in period of a few hours a day for a month rather than a big night on the town, probably tearing up some dance floors like a mad dog.
We drunk our shitty beers, Busch light probably because we’re arseholes that like the cheapest crap available, and made our way to the subway and down to Broadway.
We must’ve got of at a stop or two early and Mr Daniels and the beers joined the party because upon photo recollection we got a shot in front of The Letterman Show studio, which is in between 54th and 53rd street on Broadway, then walked our way down to the famous intersection.
When we got there it was dark, so every thing was blazing, it was a visual overload. More than an overload, it was a visual orgy between every single light globe and colour you’ve ever seen with your eyes in your accumulative time on the earth all trying to have sex with your eye sockets at the same time.
People were everywhere, I saw the big guy that worked at the Foot Locker, who from across the floor, in between sorting out shoes for 5 people, spied me walk through the door and boomed “Hey Yo Spicoli, Sipicoli’s here, Yo Spicoli!!!” louder than the music and all the people rabble then slapped the both of us the biggest high fives when he heard we were Australian, obviously working a night shift. I saw the dude, Young G, who slang me his terrible trance reggae rap album, personally signed it for me “Yo boy, whacha name?”
“Jim hey? You know what? I’m gonna call ya Jimmy Jimmy” he yelled as he illegibly scribbled what I assume was “Jimmy Jimmy” and then “YG”, to which I then offered him my big pocketful of silver change.
“Yo I don’t take that silver, cracker!!”
So for an album he proposed to me as free I had to give the jerk a $5 as not to get another slur against my good self.
Only this time, tonight when I saw him, he was slinging someone else’s album and calling himself by some other name.
The visual debauchery was too much and we needed to seek refuge in a bar of some sort.
We ordered the standard, a beer and a shot, and knocked the whiskey back just as these two French girls approached the bar. It was a quiet bar compared to the hustle out side and because they posted up next to us we heard them try and order. They had little to no English other than beer, shot and pointing, but once they ordered we struck up a conversation, or at least tried to, with my broken French I could remember from year 10 and Benny’s boyish good looks. Wee bonded, we definitely bonded through the puzzled looks and blank stared, we bonded, over whiskey sours. Whiskey sours had happened to somehow become our shot of choice for our time in Canada after a uniquely bazaar experience with some ladies first night out in Vancouver at the start of the trip; of which I may never be able to tell.
So the whiskey sours got us put in our place and the girls somehow explained to u that they were going to a warehouse rave a few blocks from here and we should definitely go with them. Sure we love raves, my boots weren’t even hurting after walking 7 blocks from Letterman’s to the Square, and lets just get sweaty to some strobe lights.
We took off down Broadway then headed east for a couple of blocks, Ben was ahead by a couple of lengths as I was finding my boots to become an issue. With the whiskey making a decision for me and assuming that it let Ben know that I made this decision, I sat down in a shop front doorway and took of my boots to inspect the damage and adjust my socks. The blisters had started, bastards, they’re going to get as torn up as the dance floor is, I thought to myself as I pulled the boots back on. I stood up, no Benny, no girls. I hadn’t taken that long, I thought, and I did tell Ben what I was doing, all be it telepathically, so what’s happened?!?
What had happened was I was lost in Lower Manhattan two blocks from Time Square, that’s what happened. That was a slap of sobriety in the face. I stood there for a second before taking of in the general direction that we were heading yelling out Ben at the top of my lungs for a couple of blocks before I realised I looked crazy; screaming, hobbling and lurching due to my boots, only to realise no one actually noticed. Ben was gone, the girls were gone and just to keep in tie with my irrational thinking, I was going to punch Ben’s face in because in my mind he only had booty on the brain and couldn’t care less where I was. In fact the only thing I noticed was that I was still lost, no phone, next to no cash, I wanted to smash my best friend right in the kisser and in my mind only one-way home. Walk.
I managed my way back to the Time Square intersection, at the culmination of Broadway, 7th Avenue and west 46th and 47th street. Now using my drunken memory I deduced that when we approached Times Square we walked towards the fork splitting, so that meant I had to walk away from that direction until I hit central park, simple right? Little did I know that Broadway and 7th avenue crossed over like an “X” so there were two forks in the road. I put my head down and powered towards what I thought was north and didn’t look up for a few blocks, nothing looked familiar, so I headed down to the next intersection. Ohh shit, west 37th street, that’s not right; the numbers need to go up; I need west 88th street. So I turn on my blistered heels and headed back in the right direction. As I hobbled back into Time Square I saw the same intersection but I knew I was heading in the opposite direction. My mind was blown. I kept heading up 7th avenue past the intersection and the booze mixed up with my exploded brain was not noticing anything familiar as I got towards west 52nd street, so I headed back to see if I could find out where the fuck I was. I knew the numbers were heading in the right direction but my brain wasn’t, so back to Time Square it was.
I went back and forth 3 or four times in between the two splits in the road, wracking my brain. It didn’t help that it was past midnight and then this guy dressed in his suit carrying a briefcase in full stride on the phone talking business. Are you fucking serious?!?!?! I’m completely wasted in Lower Manhattan and this dude is making business calls and on his way to a meeting in the early, early morning. As I leered at this crazy businessman bustle past me I spied the gypsy bloke from the hostel posted up, busking his heart out. He spotted me floundering up the street and flipped his head motioning me to come over. I think he liked me and not that he shouldn’t but I think rather than liking me for the fact that I’m a good person, he liked me because I didn’t smoke any of his stinky gypsy joint when he felt obliged to offer.
“Man, I’ve seen you go back and forth a few times, brother, where’s your buddy?”
“I don’t know what happened. We were walking to a rave with these French girls and the next thing I know I’m standing all alone with two boots full of blisters, so now I’m trying to walk back to the hostel but I’ve got no fucking idea which is the right way to head.”
“Well, that’s the way, man about 40 blocks though, I wouldn’t be walking at this hour”
“Are you sure? I recon that’s the wrong way, man.”
Wow, what am I doing? I’m lost in New York City, this guy is being nice to me, and helping me head the right way home and here I am with the gall to question the man about whether he’s got his facts straight!
“Yep, I’m sure, check the streets as you go man, I’m not tricking ya, haha”
“cool man, I trust ya, is it cool if I just hang for a bit, just rest up before the big walk……. Hey do you know any Tom Petty?”
“Yeah, maybe, whats he sing?”
“ahh learning to fly, ahhh free fallin’, you know free fallin’? CAAUUUSSS IIMM FRREEEEIIEIE, FREEEEIEEIEE FFFFAAAAAALLLIINNN!!!! How about a duet for the people?”
Seems the Tennessee whiskey was still flowing through my veins. He knew the song, but not the chords so I showed them to him and right then and there we had an impromptu busking duet in the middle of Time Square. The song fell apart by the second verse after the first chorus but I was satisfied that I displayed my vocal ability to the masses, dropped a $5 in his case and started my way up Broadway and 7th.
Walking up 7th Avenue away from all the lights, the amount of people slowly dissipated as I made my way to the edge of Central Park. I was hot blooded already after deciding it was Ben’s fault I was lost, so my hands were already balled up in fists, but I clenched them a little tighter as I picked up my pace and barrelled in to the darkness of central park. I powered my way along the bike/walking path next to Central Drive I put all my concentration into my eyesight and hearing, hoping some sort of heightened skill sense would come up. It was eerily quiet, as I walked a long, looking at any shadow or dark lump. I approached one lump, turning out to be a bench; as my eyes adjusted and I got closer I saw it had the stereotypical homeless person asleep with the newspaper blanket. This shit doesn’t just happen in movies I thought to myself as I gripped my fists, throwing a few shadow punches around and over my shoulder. I wanted to show any punks that if they wanted to mess with me, they’d get a bunch of fives for their trouble. I continued on Central Drive cutting through West Drive past the lake, noticing that all of the benches had the shadowy lump of a homeless person on them, not all with newspaper, some had blankets, sleeping bags, I saw one covered in plastic bags. The sleeping bums were the least of my worries, by this point I’d realised that walking home through Central Park at 2am is a pretty fucking stupid idea. Surprising that. What got me throwing my air punches on regular were the rustling noises and murmuring voices in the big bushy trees, creepy troll noises when I crossed bridges. I must have looked like a huge kook, walking at top pace, but with blisters that gave me a lurching sort of swagger, just randomly throwing a flurry of punches over my shoulder, just in case some one was stealthily about to attack me from behind. AARRAGGH!! Swish, swish, swish, triple combo. HHAAA-YAA!! Swish, swish, a double over the shoulder, as I strode through the moonlit darkness I threw some kicks in for good measure. These were also practice punches for Ben when I confronted him basking in his post babe boudoir glory.
I made it across 85th street and onto some open grassy field; I was home free, only 3 more blocks to go and then the ruckus! I was excited; I hadn’t punched anyone in the face before, let alone my good friend. I’m a lover not a fighter. Well, I’m the sort of guy that gets in to positions where I’m unwarily about to get my head socked in, thinking I’m being hilarious and manage to some how charm my way out of it so this was going to be a new experience for me. I was out of the park, throat not slit, wallet not stolen and all my orifices unviolated, this was a great moment as I loosened my clenched fists, not to mention my clenched butthole.
As I was walking in the moonlight along West 88th street back towards the hostel I realised I had no way of getting into the building Ben had the key. I had already slept out the front of our dorm room in Vancouver; there was no way I was going to sleep on the street steps of the hostel. I got to the hostel and sat on the steps, just assuming I’d have to sit there until the sun came up and the girl running the place came out for her morning coffee. What a nightmare, I don’t know what made me do it but I thought maybe on just some strange miracle that someone might be on a toilet trip and walk past the door just as I knock on it.
*Tap Tap* I rapped on the door and turned to sit down on the steps again.
The key turned on the other side. I heard the handle turn and the door scrape open. It was Benny!!
“Jimmy!! Where the fuck did you go? One minute you were there with me and the Frenchies, then the next you’ve disappeared”
“I sat down to take my boots off for a sec then everyone was gone, so I thought you’d ditched me for the babes and I went back to Time Square and wandered around lost for an hour before walking home through the park.”
“Dude, that’s fucked, that’s over 40 blocks and sketchy!! Once I realised you were missing, I wasn’t going to have fun with the French girls as a rave, so I went back to Time Square to look for you, then caught a cab, I just got back about 10 minutes ago”
“New York I love you but you’re bringing me down” – LCD Soundsystem
All my fighting anger washed away. I walked through the door with relief that I had a bed to sleep in instead of slate steps and I could take these damn boots off. These boots were not made for walking, at least not straight out of the box.