I would often visit with my neighbor in the apartment below me. Jon was about my age, he had educator parents, and he grew up in Wisconsin. He was an English major, always reading books, always trying to write them, always lamenting the struggles of daily life.
Jon and I had many long conversations about the characters that abounded in our lives, in our neighborhood, in our very own building. Jon's neighbor was a huge Puerto Rican guy who sold weed on the side. On the side of what I don't know, but he was harmless and, therefore, an amusing character. There was the time my roommate walked onto the back balcony one night to find the large gentleman going to town with his lady friend. An anecdote that, when told in proper detail, will leave you in stitches. Nowhere was there a greater concentration of characters than at the Band Box, which Jon and I both frequented the mornings after self-destructive nights of indulgence. Head hurting, mouth burning, noxious and nauseas I would tremble down the block to get some morning grease.
The people at the Band Box had an uncanny ability to make you feel normal, make you feel on track, even when it was apparent that the wheels had left contact with the rails a long time ago. There was the movie nut, and I emphasize nut, who talk about the obscure as if you almost cared a tenth as much as he did. He talked about gore flicks, psycho flicks, whatever was crazy and fucked up. Apparently his collection was staggering. Engaging him in conversation was staggering in and of itself. It would be one of those conversations in which you would have plenty of time to hate yourself for starting. It would be one of those in which you would tune out 5 minutes in, and find yourself nodding along in agreement for another 25. Joel. His name was Joel. He would talk about Heavy Metal too, if you wanted him to. Despite all, Joel was good people, just a little unhinged.
Now if Joel was unhinged, I guess that would make Paula off her rocker. Paula, the six-foot tall redhead that would come in wearing the slinky clothes and heavy makeup. Hold your breath boys; Paula was a transgender veteran of unknown age. The age of Paula is significant since she would talk one day of being a Vietnam vet, and the next day talk about how she fucked MacArthur in WWII. Paula hosted a cable access show entitled "Rainbow Veterans of America," which was mostly dedicated to conspiracy, sexuality and the military...you want to see it now, don't you?
Tony must've been old as dust. His face was weathered but still vibrant. He looked like a character out of a Cohen brother’s film. His face carried the last century of black history in its deep folds. His voice sounded like every poor farmer, every soul singer, every preacher and every politician rolled into one low pitched growl. When Tony talked, everybody listened. The crazies listened, the thugs listened, and those that fell in between listened. He would make the whole place laugh, leave them silent, and weigh into a debate like a sledge hammer all in one morning.
There was an elderly millionaire, who every morning visited the Band Box under the auspices of running errands. His family didn’t want him spending time with such riff raff as ourselves, but every day he would show up for the people, not the food. That’s the magnetism that draws the regulars, the nuts, and the firebrands. So it was, and so much more.
For the next part, I’ll pick the brain of the Irishman who was the server, and also my roommate at the time, for better and far more poetic details. Suffice to say, the Band Box isn’t the same as it was. Though many would say it is better now, particularly the health inspector, the way it was will always need to be preserved.
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