The Price Of A T-Shirt In Manhattan.

The sound of cheap laughter flowed across the bar of Harry’s Hula Hut.

The half-suppressed sneers, hilarity and piss taking at the English

Lad who said he could earn one of the shirts on the wall,

Only resolved my focus further to own the shirt that had entranced me

Since I first step foot in the door with Geoff and Carlos as they fought back

The crowds in search of the women they had chatted up

Earlier in the day.

I had spent my afternoon taking it easy, a visit to the Marvel Offices,

Somewhere I had wanted to see since I had first picked up a copy

Of The Fantastic Four from the comic shop in Birmingham City Centre

Where my next door neighbour worked whilst away from University.

I poked my head round the door, muscles quivering with excitement

At the thought of being in the same room as legends and ghosts.

Steve Ditko, Stan Lee, Jack Kirby and Bill Everett,

Names

That seemed to be steeped in a history I could never be part of

Because I grew up so far from the tiny, bee-like office. Nuff Said!

Whilst I was salivating at the thought of meeting a ghost,

Geoff and Carlos had met girls that one would go on to marry and

The other would desert his ideals three months before hand.

We waded in through the doors, the air pungent with the thick smoke,

Heady atmosphere mixed with over excited and unnecessary testosterone

And the fragrant taste of women’s perfume which kicked violently at the back of the throat

If you got too close.

Their day had obviously gone so much better than mine;

As the woman behind the desk had informed me that visits

Were not allowed unless agreed months in advance

They had never received my letter.

I found my way into Central Park

And opened up the book that I had found in a drug store a couple of days before

And breathed in the New York air, a short distance from Strawberry Field

And thought I could stay here forever.

They chatted to the girls, the Hispanic youthful glee

Of one of the perfume wearers making me smile and she shyly

Introduced me to her friend Olademis.

Harry’s was humming with words, banter, laughter,

The odd shout and grumble, swearing with elegance

That thrilled and my mind raced at the thought of the man who pointed

Me back in the right direction as I found myself in Harlem

After taking the wrong train, his cheerful demeanour belittling

Me as I realised I thought he was going to kill me for

Treading on his turf.

“Back that way English boy, you don’t belong here”,

He may as well have been pointing back across the sea

To the place I had come from.

It wasn’t my first visit to Harry’s but it was the first time

I had seen the shirt, Harry’s Hula Hut on the Isle of Manhattan

Its colourful cartoon like emblem emblazoned with the image of a man

With black horn-rimmed glasses half hanging

Off his nose and his grass skirt raised just above the knee

As if the suggestion of music that overpowered the street outside

Was not the only indication of a good time

To be had.

How much do you reckon for the shirt I enquired to Carlos and Olademis

Who had come to the bar with me.

Carlos, ever mindful of trying to keep me out of harm,

Shook his head, Thirty dollars I think English but free if you down a gallon

Of beer.

Thirty Dollars I didn’t have but a gallon of their beer in an hour, the word

Easy sprang to mind as Olademis spoke her piece.

I will sub you if you can do it, she spoke with an air of authority of one

Who understood. Carlos who never drank, shook his head once more

And his manner told me not to take her up on her offer

For surely, his manner said, I would regret it.

What do you get out of it I asked with a reserve that back home would have been a signal

To be wary.

You buy me a drink tomorrow and we go to Liberty Island was the quick response.

I couldn’t lose

Carlos, his eyes pleading at me, finally got served, several

cocktails, a glass of what looked like lemonade but on my first night

In the city I had been taken on a quick sight-seeing tour

And what I saw as the man got his partner out and did

His business in a grate, seemed to be the same damned awful colour

As what I saw being poured into the glass, overflowing onto the floor.

English, drink? Offering me a cocktail

Which I never would have been able to stomach, never would.

I want that shirt mate I answered

And before Carlos or I could say another words, Olademis

Put down enough money for drinks.

An easy challenge, accepted, defeated, none the worse for wear

Except for Carlos becoming more and more despairing at my winning attempt

But Olademis was smitten and I would pay, Carlos was right.

I keep that T-Shirt as a reminder

Full of holes and in other clothes would have long since bitten the dust

The trash the unwilling recipient. I keep that T-Shirt

Because it reminds me of her, the one I turned down

The one who I left standing at a party wondering

Where I had gone

And to feel ashamed.

 

Ian D. Hall  2013