Di Nic’s in Deep South Philly

As published at SubStack, 5/4/24:

[Di Nic’s in South Philly, 3/22/15]

The way we were:

3/22/15, with elaborations in 2024—I came in hoping to see Johnny, the gangster and meth dealer who had been locked up for 29 years. Three weeks earlier, I had said, “Are you Polish?”

Glaring, Johnny seethed, “I ought to kill you!”

Johnny is Sicilian. He has enlarged nuts plus other medical problems. Johnny admires the Irish, “They can outdrink you, outfuck you, outfight you. I wouldn’t fuck with the Irish.”

Today, I met another Johnny. This one’s 67 and sleeps on the living room floor for free at this lady’s house. They hadn’t known each other before.

Is it just pity? What is she getting out of it? If she doesn’t have to feed and clean after Johnny, she’s not losing anything but privacy. Maybe she’s had too much of it. Countless lives are filled with meaningless privacy. In her underwear or naked, she again watches TV alone on her flabby sofa. Its springs she can feel with her bony ass. If her sofa or ass had lungs, it would sigh along with her.  

To not get in her way, Johnny sits in Di Nic’s as much as possible. I bought him beer. After the second mug, Patty the bartender yelled at me.

“Can you believe she fuckin’ yelled at me for buying you beer?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s just acting like a woman. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. My wife was like that.”

Johnny gets $500 a month in social securities. His divorce left him broke. For 30 years, Johnny worked for the phone company. He climbed poles. He was also a caddy, plus this and that.

Patty had two other reasons to be pissed off at me. As she was getting my beer, the cooler door fell on her toes and cracked a nail. It hurt so bad, she was sobbing and, frankly, most people would have gone home, if not sued the bar owner. Patty worked through it because she couldn’t afford to lose the day’s income. As she hobbled back and forth, her right sock turned red from the blood.

Hours later, she finally dabbed some vodka onto her messed up toes and changed socks. A customer had gone home to get some gauze. He had also bought for her three pairs of socks.

When some broad showed excessive concern for Patty’s toes, she snapped, “I’m tougher than you’ll ever be.” Indignant, the broad stormed out, but she’ll be back soon enough, I’m sure.

Lastly, Patty got angry because a customer had played some Sun Ra for me.

“What is this shit?!”

"Sun Ra. We were talking about Sun Ra, so I played some for him.”

Patty shot me murderous eyes. At Di Nic’s, they prefer Billie Joel, Elton John, Jim Croce, Sisters Sledge, Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye, Beatles, Rolling Stones and Cat Stevens, etc.

Among Philadelphians, Sun Ra was even weirder than Father Divine. An alien from Saturn, Sun Ra led the Arkestra. His musicians lived in three houses in Strawberry Mansion. That’s also Coltrane’s neighborhood. I caught just one Arkestra concert, a few years before Sun Ra evaporated from this cosmos.

The man who played Sun Ra for me had a son at Evergreen College. He was delighted I had even heard of the Olympia, Washington college. His kid wanted to become a writer. I told him I had given a poetry reading there, and had twice been featured on its radio station. Evergreen’s most famous alumnus is Rachel Corrie. After she was crushed by an Israeli bulldozer, the US did nothing.

Born in Port Richmond, Patty pretends she’s a Kensington bitch. With its nodding zombies, skanky whores, gun and knife homicides and overdose galore, Kenzo is edgier. With her frizzy hair, tired eyes, dangling cigarette and solid, no nonsense boobies, Patty appears tough yet sexy enough.

Catching me sneaking a shot, Patty commanded, “Take a picture of my ass, and make sure it looks good.” Starvation, trauma, boredom, skin tint or just a clogged sacral chakra, so much goes into how you perceive eyes, lips, sibilants and butt cheeks, with or without jeans. Staring in the mirror, she fixed her bra and said to no one in particular, “I’ve got to make sure my nipples are lined up.”

Jews moved out of South Philly decades ago, then the better off Italians. To replace them, Mexicans, Chinese, Indonesians, Vietnamese, Cambodians and Laos now live in tight rowhouses that were austere enough when new. With their old ways, each wave of immigrants cheers up sidewalks. Sick of suburbs, yuppies and trust funded hipsters have also surged back. In boulangers and wine bars, they lounge along Passyunk below Dickinson.

Stepping outside, I could see the Melrose Diner. Around since 1956, its menu has evolved, so along old timey classics like corned beef hash, creamed chipped beef, Reuben sandwich and butter cream cake, there are stir fried chicken over rice, chicken quesadilla, lamb gyro and frappucino.

Chrome on diners pointed to a future with flying cars, robotic maids and three-day work week. At Melrose, its charming sign with a clock on a coffee cup belongs to that hopeful past.

In 1638, John Wilkins already imagined that, within his lifetime, man could explore space in a winged chariot. Such long distance travel without access to earthly food wouldn’t be a problem. Free from gravity, man wouldn’t need to eat. On the moon, earthlings would likely discover inhabitants. “How happy shall they be,” Wilkins said of the first to reach the moon.  

If there’s YouTube in heaven, Wilkins must check out that Apollo 11 Post Flight Press Conference. Triumphantly returned to earth, Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins were oddly morose.

Falling far short of Saturn, they had reasons to feel like losers, if not phonies. Sun Ra kicks ass.

 

[Maria and Marco in Di Nic’s on 3/30/15]

[Patty in Di Nic’s on 3/22/15]

[Erin at Fatso’s in South Philly on 5/27/18]

[Fatso’s on 6/3/18]