SEE THAT GUY at the end of the bar, telling the same story about auditioning for The Ramones for the umpteenth tourist? Meticulously counting out the drinks until his Sky and Seven buyback, glued to his stool, pupils black with the drink? That’s my man!
Back then the moniker for the 45-square-block area south of 14th Street and east of First Avenue sent shivers down middle-class spines, conjuring up images of drug zombies and muggers. During the last decade, the term fell into disuse as wealthy new arrivals arrived, along with college bars and bistros. When the term finally ceased to register any fear, the rich claimed the Alphabets for themselves. In its 2007 Best 'Hoods issue, Time Out awarded Alphabet City the dubious honor of being the "#1 Best Hood."
Despite the turnaround, Lopez says he preferred the lonely streets and coke bodegas to the loud "frat boy" parties that have invaded his neighborhood. "On Thursday, Friday and Saturday, it's really bad," he says, before breaking into an almost-apologetic smile. "I prefer the old way. I felt safer."
Lopez's crack about frat boys, however, masks darker fears. "Was I concerned that someone got killed?" he asks rhetorically, then shrugs. "Yeah. But I can’t say I was really surprised. There are shootings around here all the time."
Arihood paints a perfect storm of social, economic and political factors, which combine to insure that successive waves of incoming NYU students, and upper-middle class tenants, remain ignorant of how bad things are in the 'hood — thereby continuing to splurge on tuition and "million-dollar condos."
East Village residents of all ages, races and classes worry that bullets are flying with increasing frequency these days.
Many have lived east of First Avenue for 10 years or more, so they know what a gunshot sounds like. Some claim that the crime statistics released from the local Ninth Precinct do not adequately tally all the shootouts. Others express fear that the uptick in violence will serve as an excuse for police to curb the civil rights of the locals.
Lucille Bignon, who rocks a 1960s-era soul-girl look, complete with beehive hairdo, said: “Everyone here is crazy, you don’t know when they’re going to snap,” Her eyes widening beneath heavily shadowed black lids, she added, “It’s a weird portal to Hell.” A regular sitting on a barstool countered that, “there are no frat boys, so its heaven.”
In what was once the center of the gentrification goldrush — the section between the Bowery and Essex Streets north of Delancey — most of the businesses left from the boom are nightspots catering to less-sophisticated outer-borough and beyond patrons. Fat Baby, Mason-Dixon and R Bar, along with restaurants that serve over-priced drinks, like Stanton Social or Spitzer’s Corner, dominate. Residents recently suffered the final affront when Zagat ranked the Lower East Side the city’s “hottest nightlife neighborhood,” replacing its more upmarket rival, the Meatpacking District, already renowned for its annoying nightlife clientele.
Susan Stetzer, the district manager for Community Board 3 and a long-term resident of the Lower East Side, says that the area is now an “entertainment center” for the bridge-and tunnel set. “Residents have given up if they still live there,” says Stetzer. She and other residents complain that the streets, shorn of businesses, are empty during the day because the tenants couldn’t pay rents inflated by the influx of nightlife money. Then, at night, it’s wall-to-wall yokels from the suburbs, which, according to Stetzer, “is really depressing.” She’s an advocate of vanishing mom-and-pop shops and dive bars, and says no one who lives in the LES goes to the clubs and lounges. “If they do, they don’t tell me,” she says. Others claim it’s impossible to find a quiet place to have a conversation and a drink.
Last Saturday night on Avenue A, post-college boozers were spilling out onto the sidewalk from a jam-packed Niagara. Watching drunken couples falling over each other in an attempt to snag a cab, I wondered, if the recession is so deep, why aren’t these people on Greyhound buses back to Rochester?
I email Hell to tell him that he keeps coming up in my conversations around the dusky old town. What’s the deal man, are you up in your rent-controlled apartment with just your memories and Rimbaud? Have you withdrawn from the street and all humanlike zones? He politely replies that he doesn’t want to be bothered. It reads, in part: “Sorry to be a disappointment, I can’t work up much fresh to say on the subject.” When the cultural embodiment of the East Village can’t work up a single quote about his neighborhood, it’s in a lot of trouble.
