We’d warm up by taking the 17A bus and then the subway to
the village and walk around seeing the girls but never talking
to any and then we’d find ourselves over by the whores on 46th
just window shopping we never touched any and then we’d go
back down to the Village and get pizza and look at the hippie
girls dancing to the street musicians hoping for some free love
and then midtown where Studio 54 was like a big neon sign blasting
YOU CAN’T COME IN - NOT FOR YOU even though we wore our $45
Hukapoo shirts unbuttoned to our thick belts showing our gold
chains and we’d stand outside on line with the girls waiting in their
skimpy dresses blowing around getting a peek of some boobs and
ass, lots of legs and take each other’s dare to say This line isn’t going
anywhere – come hang out with us, and at best they’d smile and say
Where you from? and that would end it right there. And they’d get
in but wouldn’t help us get in by saying we were their dates – they
never did, not once. We’d tease and push each other that if we didn’t
hang out with such ugly losers we by ourselves would be in there dancing
and drinking with the celebrities and going home with one those uppity
girls and we’d head back to Washington Square Park, see what freaks
we could see, because you’d see some crazy people dancing and shouting
wild funny stuff, then get a last slice of pizza and ride back home as we
were what the girls called us, Bridge and Tunnel Boys, putting us in our place,
which didn’t kill us too bad because saying that meant they thought
we had a car at least. Snag.
