Twenty-Four Years of Mondays

By Nathaniel Papahawk Goldberg

Twenty Four Years of Mondays is a novel that takes place in New Yorks East
Village, the home of Allen Ginsberg, Bob Dylan and a host of others at the end
of the Beat Generation.
The book sketches the life of Gideon Polinsky, his love for the deceased writer
Herman Hesse culminating in a bizarre existence as a hopeless madman caught
up in several lifestyles.
It is a dilemma of the very guts of the creative mind with its madness, its hunger,
its suffering, and building to a crescendo within existence where the end connects
the reader to the horror of possibility.
Gideons lifestyle is extremely diverse, relentlessly packed with a raw, devouring
painful side of life capturing the verve and passion of Greenwich Village in the
early 60s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456894955

Nathaniel Papahawk Goldberg

Papahawk (Nathaniel Goldberg) poet and writer, has taught, published 6 poetry anthologies, written four novels, and has been published in other anthologies such as Senior Musings, Serendipity, Let The Poets Speak, etc. He was founder of Ossining Poetry Workshop. In 2000 he ran a poetry group in Paris at George Whitman’s Shakespeare and Co assisted by the prolific poet, Steven Carolan. Nathaniel has placed third in Sarah Bracey White's Greenbourgh Poetry Competition in 2000, and Runner up in 2001. One of his students, Jena Smith placed second in 2009. Nathaniel was founder of South Street Poets, held in Studio 2 in 2003 in Peekskill. His group eventually published an anthology entitled, South Street Poets within which four of his poems appear.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Nathaniel Papahawk Goldberg.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011904928

ISBN: Hardcover     978-1-4568-9494-8

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4568-9493-1

ISBN: Ebook            978-1-4568-9495-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

96084

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the many poets of Peekskill , especially to the artistic endeavor of Maureen Winzig who designed the cover after a nostalgic trip to my old digs in the East Village; to Andrew Acciaro, my favorite Westchester poet who did so much and asked for so little; to the charming intellectual teacher and writer, Adele Kamp whose stories lifted the hearts of so many at Studio Two; to Scarlett Antonia who not only opened her heart to all artists, but ran Studio Two like the great artistic entrepreneur she is. I dedicate this book to Inga Dube who not only so unselfishly opened the doors of her Peekskill Art Gallery so that so many could display their work, as well as my poetry book, "Musings of a Madman; to Wilfredo Morell who always gave his time and artistic talent to so many.

To all my music friends like John Ford of Ford Pianos, to my son John who taught me so much about the ramifications of jazz; to Arne of The Division St. Grill, And Ruben of Ruben’s Café. To Adriana who broke my heart and patched it with friendship. To all the artists in Peekskill who taught me compassion and a bit of lifting loneliness. But most of all, to Gail Kent, my cousin who forever stood by me, challenging the dark moments with caring and love, and edited my novel. To drummer Billy Kaye who taught me so much about life’s idiosyncrasies in a world of finite division where age has no barrier.

To the Hudson Valley Writers Center who damn near let me teach my kind of compassionate poetry; To Tony, John, Charley and Lonnie, who in some way deflected pain and gave me self confidence. To Nick Athas who gave his film making expertise to so many of us. To Jim, Mark and Tom of the Empowerment Center who proved to be the real deal within my jazz groups. I could go on and on, everyone showed so much love, in a world that really needs it.

I love you guys and gals, you’re all so very cool.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Epilogue

Introduction

What can one say about a side of life that connects and directs anger, frustration, determination to its highest corner of the universe where there is no help, no forgiveness, only a platitude leading to a darker side. Wisdom sleeps here in many angles. The one gift I bestow to the reader is a relief that none of this is happening to them. The pain of degradation lives here in all its colors at a time when the East Village contained the multitude of the reactionary mind; a time for cross over from Beat to Hippy, from fun on the run to the depths of depravity.

I caution you reader; this book is filled with hopelessness and cruelty when life touches beyond the absurd into the realm of total madness.

N.Phk.G.

Chapter One

Monday, at two P.M. On June 30, 1963, I stopped functioning.

The air conditioner at Thorton and Company, one of the larger brokerage houses, was making its usual noises, its air flushing coolness throughout the office, its humdrum sound of air rushing through the ducts, and at precisely two P.M. On the large clock over Steinman’s desk I could not bring my hand down to the margin sheet. The pen seemed to be stuck in mid-air poised forever; the muscles of my left arm were frozen and with all of my determination I tried to bring the pen down to the sheet. It was no use. My arm was paralyzed. It was not a physical disability. I was able to move my arm in a horizontal direction, to wipe the sweat that was forming on my brow even though it was fairly cool in the office. However, I could not make my arm travel downward to the running sheet.

It was an awkward position for a margin clerk to be in. After all, how could I continue working if I couldn’t bring my pen to the paper?

Slowly, meticulously, I rested the pen at the side of the sheet amid several other pens, resting my fists on the edge of the desk, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

It came from me as a sudden release, a gush of uproarious laughter. Laughter that cracked the silence, laughter that shocked the world of Thorton and Company. Every margin clerk stopped his work to look up, to stare at me with common, contemptuous eyes, with a shocked expression as though I had committed the crime of the century. At that point I knew it was all over. I had committed the cardinal sin, a work stoppage. I had clogged the inner veins of Thorton and Company, had stopped the life flow.

I had worked for Thorton and Company as a margin clerk for the past three years. It was a rather tedious job, one that required discipline, a lot of concentration and was all paper work. I found it thoroughly boring, but the pay was fairly substantial, so I continued.

Polinsky, what’s wrong with you? It was Bernard Steinman, my boss. Mr. Steinman, a rather gaunt man always treated me as though I were a poor worker, always wanted more from me, was never satisfied, no matter how much I did. He had a way of making me feel extremely small, extremely useless. Never once did he commend me.

I wanted to talk to you for a minute, if I could. There was a coldness through the office. The others were waiting. They were all listening, all waiting for my blunder.

Mr. Steinman, I said trying to suppress a giggle, trying to hold my composure, to relax the nervous tension within my voice. Mr. Steinman, I can’t write anymore, can’t bring the pen to the paper, can’t finish another margin sheet.

What would you like me to do, Polinsky. I’m not your mother you know. I’m not here to baby you, and you’re not here to be coddled. Now what would you like me to do?

I could feel it again. It was a subtle upheaval of my insides coming to the surface, a rage of uncontrollable laughter, bubbling, tickling, thrusting forward while he stood in front of me glaring.

If you continue, I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go.

But I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t control it. He didn’t understand.

You twenty three year-old twerp. You’re fired! Now get out. He was fuming and I almost felt sorry.

One last laugh and I wobbled out onto the plush red carpet of the lobby. I felt no sorrow, no pain, only exhilaration, an invigorating level that made me dizzy beyond all dizziness, higher than all highs. Thus I began a journey. I found myself without a destination on a subway, hardly even aware that I was riding, that down there between the cars it was dark, dirty and terribly noisy.

What I needed was a good stiff drink.

Somewhere in Manhattan the train stopped long enough for me to part the flexible guards between the cars and step onto the platform. I was hardly aware of anything save the smell of urine that exuded from the platform, the snap of the turnstile and the evacuation to the surface, the hot almost secluded street.

I walked beside tall buildings making me feel so small, so insignificant until I reached a park that I had never seen before. At its center was a bronze statue, the statue of a powerful man seated upon a chair. His head was raised towards the sun, the light of which caught his jaw at a peculiar angle. Even his eyes, deep-socketed crevasses, were lit up. There was a shadow on his flattened nose from his thick eyebrows. It was obvious he had been a man with great foresight, a dreamer, perhaps a man of great wisdom.

As I stared at his face, I had the distinct feeling that I had known him. But that in itself was ridiculous.

Oh, well, I sighed, and as I started walking away someone said something to me. I turned around to see who had spoken, but no one was there except the statue. My rational mind said to me, I only thought I heard someone speak, and once again as I turned to leave I heard it again, only this time the words were clear. He had said,

We must catch the light.

But statues don’t speak. I shook my head and walked off looking for a bar, determined to forget what had just occurred at Thorton and Company, determined to drink myself beyond the numbness that I had already felt.

There was a bar at the corner and I entered. The air conditioner made the place extremely cold and I shivered a little. The bar was empty and the Ballantine clock over the bottles read three P.M. As I sat down on a swivel stool, I was overcome by calmness, a gentleness almost lethargic. I ordered bourbon on the rocks and went to the men’s room to wash subway dirt from my hands.

Quickly I washed my hands and looked for a towel. There wasn’t even toilet paper so I wiped my hands on my suit pants and returned to the bar.

The afternoon passed slowly and after several bourbons I was getting drunk, getting sloppy.

At four forty-five, people began entering the bar. I was suddenly in the middle of a mass of drinkers, young men like myself who would take their liquor to endure the rush hour home. As I looked around I also noticed several women. One was leaning on the bar beside me, her arm touching mine obviously.

I glanced at her profile, at the thin cotton dress that was open at the neck to a tiny bit above her breasts. I found it extremely revealing, yet I couldn’t make out her face. She caused me to say,

I just lost my job, you know. If I had someone like you waiting for me, I think it would have been worth it. Anyway, I’m celebrating. So can I buy you a drink? It came out awkward, not at all as I had meant it. She might have thought that I was a fool.

As those thoughts went through my mind she turned towards me and frowned.

I didn’t meant anything. She seemed to be ignoring me. But I couldn’t be sure. So I tried again, only this time I was more careful. Come now. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please let me buy you a drink. You don’t understand.

She moved away to the other side. She was standing next to two other young women. The next girl was quite a bit heavier.

Allow me to buy you a drink. I found myself talking to the heavy one. But she was even less friendly than the original girl. I felt awfully bad, guilty. I wanted to apologize.

Then, from the other end of the bar came a small, dark-haired beauty, a face that caused me to start. I looked at her so intensely that I felt weakened by her. And when she saw me staring she looked directly at me and smiled. Her petite face was thin and the back of her head was small and round, giving her the appearance of a doll.

Buy you a drink? I sputtered almost spilling my bourbon.

But she just smiled at me. I couldn’t be sure if she heard me but I decided it was best not to offer her another drink.

Do you come here often? I was saying not meaning to.

All the time, she replied.

I smiled at her. It was utter relief to find someone to talk to.

You seem so troubled, she said without knowing.

No, I’m really happy. Happier than I’ve ever been. No really, I am very happy. I just lost my job, I don’t care. You see because I’m happy. It doesn’t matter. I’m not troubled. You’re wrong.

I asked her what her name was.

Sonia. It was a pretty name, I told her.

You know it’s refreshing to find someone like you. I was telling her. She seemed so tender, so understanding, so completely at ease.

Oh, I’d like you to meet my husband. Sonia announced.

I shook his hand, but could not look at his face. I had to leave as I felt a clog in my throat. I was suddenly sick.

There was a cab on the corner. It had been waiting for me. As I got in I was overcome by waves of dizziness and nausea.

13 St. Mark’s Place, I muttered and we were off on a sickening ride through Manhattan, down side streets between large buildings. Horns were blaring, buildings were leaning, glass was melting, trees were swaying, traffic lights were bending. We passed stores cluttered with tourists, with the anxious shoppers crowded along Eighth Street as we made a rapid trip towards St. Mark’s Place. Then came the dizziness, the stupor, the far-away feeling that I was observing everything from a distance. I was becoming sick. It was the rocking motion of the cab, the jumble of people, the hazy tumble into the village as we entered St. Mark’s Place. The cab stopped and I paid the driver. I paused in the street wavering like the trees, the lights and the buildings. The fourth flight, the cracked window, the narrow hallway. One more flight. The fifth floor. I stood off balance. My hand was on the doorknob and the door was swaying. I was home.

As I looked in the mirror over the sink, I was stunned. There before me was another face, not my own, but a familiar face. The face of the statue, for an instant only, and then it was my face looking back. But in that instant I had the feeling that I knew whose face it was. That it might have been the face of Herman Hesse. That my favorite author had somehow embedded himself inside the glass or perhaps it was only my drunken state. At any rate, I new who the statue was, that somewhere out there was a man who wanted me to the follow him. It came upon me, this sudden realization, this awareness, this peculiar occurrence, so extremely off-kilter that I found myself laughing again. Soon the laughter turned into the cries. A sad moment and I thought of my mother, who had died when I was four years old, when everything stopped, when my life twisted into disfigurations, ugliness, and anger for deserting me at such a young age.

Chapter Two

All I remember is that shortly after my mother died, my father sent me to a Dr. Adelman, a child psychiatrist. His office was a sterile chamber on Park Avenue, with dozens of books spanning the walls, plush, green carpeting on the floor and an over-sized desk behind which Dr. Adelman sat in his large leather chair. He was such a small man for such a large chair.

Dr. Adelman was bald and wore horn-rimmed glasses. How I detested that man from the first time I met him. He began to speak in a clinical voice as though he understood me, wanted to be my friend, insisted that I play with several toy soldiers which, no matter how hard I tried, I could not stand them upon the carpeting, as it was too thick. Out of sheer frustration I began throwing them about the room while Dr. Adelman sat silently, observing me from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. I wanted him to say something, to try and stop me. I wanted to affect him in some way, get him angry. But he was an unemotional object, a doll fastened to his over-sized chair.

It was then that I noticed a silver penknife laying at the corner of his desk, a shiny, warm silver penknife with a long silver chain, a penknife that could cut.

Each time my father took me to Dr. Adelman’s, the silver penknife was always in the same position on his desk, alluring, glittering almost sensuously. It always seemed to draw me to it. It was so potent, so powerful, something that I felt I must touch, something free from another world, a forbidden world.

My father never allowed me to play with his knives, always considered them dangerous, no matter how small. Thus my appetite for knives was never quelled. They remained untouchable, beautiful objects that I could only stare at.

On the fourth visit, while Dr. Adelman was talking to my father in the outer office, I reached out and touched the knife’s smooth surface. It was warm. I began rubbing it gently until it slipped off the desk and onto the floor. As I bent to pick it up, Dr. Adelman came back into the room, and while I flushed with embarrassment, I stuffed the knife and chain into my pocket.

Gideon, Dr. Adelman said. I knew I was caught and felt a sudden intense hatred for him a well as for myself, Gideon, he said again and I forced my hand deep into my pocket and was about to give the penknife back. "Your father tells me that after every visit you’ve been urinating in your pants. Something must be upsetting you. Next time you come, we’ll have to discuss it.

The relief made me laugh and I released the pressure of my hand against the knife. But Adelman just smiled at me stupidly and shook my hand.

As my father and I left the office I began to whistle.

My you’re in a good mood. Dr. Adelman must be doing you some good, my father said wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I didn’t answer him but put my hand back into my pocket and squeezed the knife affectionately. Little Gideon was not big Gideon.

As we rode back to Chappaqua I kept letting the chain sliver between my fingers, feeling it rise and drop against my inside pocket. I didn’t talk much but kept my thoughts on the knife, that forbidden object that was so close to my father as I sat next to him in the front seat. I kept wondering what he would say if he ever found out. I kept thinking about the awkwardness of such a situation. I could even conceive a dreadful thrashing with his belt, or even worse, being beaten to death.

That night at the dinner table my father kept asking me what was the matter, why wasn’t I eating my chicken, did I feel sick. Yes, that was it, I felt sick. Thus I excused myself from the table and ran up the stairs to my room, anxious to play with the knife, anxious to feel the power of big Gideon once again. But when I got to my room the knife was gone. It was no longer in my pocket. I felt a sudden rush of dizziness, a thumping in my temples of blood rushing to my head as I thrust my hand deep into my pocket again and again, not believing that it wasn’t there. This was some sort of trick, an illusion. Or perhaps I was being punished by God who had taken the knife from me and hidden it. Or perhaps it had fallen from my pocket and lay on the front seat of my father’s car in the garage.

I crept down the back stairway praying that my father wouldn’t hear me trying to think of a way in which to open the door to the garage without him hearing it open. The knife was probably