JOHN COLASANTI: THE EMISSARY
So there I was sitting pretty in a folding chair in an office high above 42nd across from Al Kaline, who incidentally was a dead ringer for Henny Youngman, minus the borsht-belt barbs. Dressed loud and obnoxious in my retro wide-knit purple sweater with matching purple tie, I’d blown my measly wages on one singular outfit bought exclusively on Pelham Parkway, where shnooks paid for expensive threads; not yesterday’s cob-webs. And based on my enhanced wardrobe and exquisite sense of attire, everyone and their battle-axe mother-in-law knew I was a wop from where else, the Bronx.
Anyway, Alvin Onion Rings had this penetrating stare that intimidated the living shit out of me. As usual he maintained that ‘I don’t got nutin’ for you now, no openings for employment at the moment; but don’t think I’m blowin’ you the fuck off, ’ he went on and on. ‘Just leave your number and don’t worry; I promise I will call you when something comes up.’ But behind those piercing eyeballs I sensed something that barely resembled (dare I say it) compassion; even though I had been blown off repeatedly with that typical monotone which actually meant just fuck off, for now.
Dejected like a degenerate gambler, I returned to the Passaic car dealership and subsequently resumed selling jalopies to the flush, fat, and sloppy. And precisely three weeks went by with no fucking call and not even a slight indication of a potential job prospect, albeit temporary. And to top it off business had suddenly declined at the dealership, with no car sales to the rich and bored, and therefore, no commissions. And worse, my disillusionment stranded me like a non-entity drowning in a sea of ubiquity. I just didn’t want to be there any more, period.
Then without warning, Larry fucking Mills strolls into the dealership one day and makes a beeline for me. ‘Did you talk to my man Al or what,’ he blurts out. I took a deep breath before my usual rapid-fire response. Before I could finish my reply, Larry lunged at me like a prize-fighter in the bout of a lifetime. He grabbed the phone off the fucking hook on my desk and gestured. ‘Pick up the goddamn phone,’ he commanded. ‘Just tell Al the fucking wad you wanna be on his team.’ So right then and there I called, and Al answered like a retired operator for Bell Atlantic. It occurred to me he probably forgot exactly who the fuck I was; a fucking nobody if not for my florescent threads etched in his cerebral cortex. Who else would have the meatballs to show up for a crucial job interview dressed like Red Buttons on a bad apparel day? Al hesitated a moment either because my indelible impression went the way of vaudeville, or maybe he was suffering from digestive spasms. ‘Oh yeah,’ he recalled matter-of-factly. Then there was dead silence, and I heard some muffled expletives. ‘Look, just see me on Tuesday, alright,’ he said impatiently. ‘And by the way…I may have something for you.’
For a moment I fought back tears, or rather droplets of prostration. I gulped hard as I absorbed the impact of that statement. When I finally replied, a stuttering spurted from my throat like Porky Pig being skewered by bee stings after a run in with a bee hive. ‘Fine. I’ll be there,’ I croaked. Like a master of the deal, Larry Mills just winked at me, shook my hand, and walked the fuck out. Later I told my miser boss I suddenly needed next Tuesday off.
For reasons beyond my mortal comprehension, the future was right in front of me. But my movements were inhibited by a gnawing apprehension that induced suspended animation. Suddenly the expanse from the bus terminal to 303 West 42nd Street became my predisposed appointment with destiny. Finally I shook off the delirious tremors and ascended the elevator to Al Kaline’s dank office on the 19th floor, where I knocked politely and entered. ‘Sit the fuck down,’ Al barked, like a Doberman pincher before distemper shots. And soon, somewhat unceremoniously, I was indoctrinated into the twisted pornographic pantheon that had captured me since my formative years; and lo and behold, be fairly compensated for a lifetime of sexual perversion and debauchery, among other things.
My bright sunny future was evident on my very first day of work. But I had never actually taken a crowded New Jersey Transit bus ride until now, since my new enlistment required a commute to the sprawling island of Manhattan, referred to in the suburbs as ‘the City’. Although it was my first trip, it should have been my last, as a gargantuan lady with a grossly repugnant posterior devoured the seating to the rear of the bus, clearly designed for four passengers, which haplessly rendered me a squished sardine soaked in olive oil. Amidst the sooty air conditioner, the noxious carbon monoxide fumes, the flies, and the filth, and other deplorable conditions, the bus ride to the Port Authority was unbearable; not to mention my near suffocation by the heat generated by the mammoth woman with breasts and buttocks like bushels of exports from a banana republic.
Show World Center, considered the World’s Greatest Showplace, was actually located across 42nd Street from the Port Authority Bus Terminal; a transit hub and homeless shelter of epic proportions. As the elevator ascended 303 West 42nd Street, I appeared flush in the mirror. With a hushed tone I identified myself, as the receptionist bellowed my name into the intercom. Soon I found myself in the office of a fellow who resembled a casting call for a film retrospective on Murder Incorporated. Like a borderline schizophrenic, I greeted him nervously. He just glared at me. Finally he gave me a directive back down to the first floor, to see someone important by the name of Clem De’llessio.
Because I was formerly a car salesman for Christ’s sake, with college credits and distinction of service in the U. S. Army, I suddenly became unaware of which qualifications I possessed for this enlistment for which I was hired. Which left me with a profound sense of disbelief (!).
Clem was from Italian Harlem; a hard-core New Yorker, if you will. We developed an immediate understanding, as if incredibly intertwined within the Tower of Babel, and doled out the obscene unwavering vernacular that would permeate the remainder of our lives. As a veteran shift manager at Show World, Clem was designated the improbable task of whipping an unlikely management trainee (namely myself) into ship shape, and thus began the bond that literally lasted a lifetime. Apparently peep shows were a rite of passage in the underworld; thus concluded my impromptu indoctrination into the quintessential pornographic working environment, the setting of which comprised peep machines, pud pullers, and the unseemly motherless bastards I’d come to love, hate, honor, and respect.
Clem pontificated like the Cardinal of Sin, and me the clueless, converted alter-boy. ‘Whad do we do here, exactly,’ Clem burped. ‘Well, we watch the money, loads of money. And we observe the customers to make sure they don’t do something we wouldn’t do. And above all we take care of business. And of course we take care of fucking problems when they arise,’ he smirked, lighting a cigarette. With that ominous statement, my eyebrows raised. ‘What kind of problems, Clem?’ But upon his unsettling response, the realization sank in: that Clem was indeed a graduate of a similar reform university of the filthy streets as me, and with the battle scars to prove it. Making the rounds of the book store and peep booth arcade, we strolled over to a permanent cashiers station, known inexplicably as ‘the Stick.’ Seated at this throne is Fat Jimmy, also formerly of Italian Harlem, guarding bucket loads of manufactured octagonal masterpieces, known as the Show World token; which of course allowed apportioned viewing of smutty 8 mm films and live shows. Here, Clem espoused, the immortal tokens are dispensed, making a cheap thrill come true. ‘But why is it called the Stick,’ I wondered out loud. ‘Because,’ Clem explained, ‘in the event of a disturbance…’ Then he reached behind the desk and pulled out a Louisville Slugger. ‘This,’ he said with pride, ‘we keep it at our disposal…just in case.’
The three us us bonded instantaneously and forged an illicit sense of belonging, where street respect prevailed. In a flash we were immersed in a confabulation of street jargon, with multiple acclamations to street punks, whores, and racketeers to cringe Mother Teresa. Clem really knew how to chew the fat off Fat Jimmy, his face battered with ballistics, like land mines that exploded a war zone. While rapping about the incredibly close-knit community of Italians on Pleasant Avenue in East Harlem, and with Fat Jimmy spurting blabber like a beached whale with a waterspout, a Spanish fellow enters into the picture; his presence acknowledged by Clem as a loyal Show World employee. A cashier and porter, the man actually appeared intoxicated; his face puffy and eyelids perpetually half-closed, as if eyewitness to atomic radiation experiments. ‘Oh, this is Candy reporting for work,’ says Clem nonchalant. He hesitates momentarily. ‘Candy…are you drunk?’ Candy just shakes his head disgustedly. ‘Hell, no, Clem,’ he insists, somewhat embarrassed. ‘I need my wits about me with this job and all the things going on,’ he explains. ‘Who knows what might happen,’ he goes on, glancing down the corridor of 8mm peep ‘loops’. ‘Because 42nd Street is right the fuck outside. Motherfuckas out there be on some kind of fucked-up shit,’ and all of us just nod in agreement. And then Candy went about his work, vigorously scrubbing the orange and yellow private booths as if Good Housekeeping were conducting periodic inspections. Then it occurred to me that Show World may have been many things, but above all was an equal opportunity employer to those perhaps incapable of assimilating into any society that is conservative and forces us to conform to something we are not.
And they all performed their various tasks with an unmistakable sense of pride; purging the film portals of multiple cum-droplets. That a disabled fellow like Candy, employed in a scumatorium and by all counts a decent human being, reassured me of the integrity of the operation that I was relatively unaware of. Clem chimed in. ‘A guy like him…guess what? He gets hired immediately. Not only is he diligent and dedicated, he works different shifts, weekends, even holidays. And he swabs tons of booths…we live for this place!’ Just then another Show World stalwart arrives, as if a throwback to the old westerns on a black and white television. But on all accounts he is a cowboy, like Roy Rogers sporting a ten-gallon Stetson, boots with spurs, and western style rodeo trousers, complete with belt-buckle. Missing is the holstered 6-shooter, and the bucking bronco. ‘Yup, he’s a real attention-getter, if you know what I mean,’ smirks Clem, who introduces us. ‘And here is Shane, fresh off the ranch, probably the Ponderosa, who the fuck knows,’ he cracks. ‘But don’t let the sheriff’s badge fool you; he’s really a bounty-hunter.’ Shane turns to me and with a firm cattle-ranchers handshake, a semi-bond is established. ‘Howdy, pardner,’ he drawls. ‘You happen to know where a cow-poke can get a bag of fresh tokens around here?’ Stumped and taken aback by the living embodiment of Gene Autry, and before I could count my horse-hairs, Shane is on the floor plugging the peep film booths. ‘Octagonal thrills! Get your certified token of affection! Yessir! Better than a Bucking Bronco at the Rodeo!’ I look at Clem incredulously, and he, of course, deadpans. ‘And if anyone asks, he went thataway…’ Now I knew beyond any doubt that the dystopia of dysfunction that is Show World, that I truly belonged;, amongst a menagerie of misfits, misanthropes, and mistaken identities…
Following the purchase of the master lease, Show World Center owner Richard Basciano became the owner of Cine 1 and 2; a 24-hour Spanish-language theater Located on 7th Avenue near 48th Street, and right next door to Adulterama (which Richie bought as well). The twin cinemas screened ‘peliculas’ in Spanish and featured all conceivable genres, with no subtitles. Then Richie ingeniously proposed that I assume the management of Cine 1 and 2, in spite of my lacking the requisite Spanish-language skills; a discrepancy that mattered little to Richie, who simply encouraged my initiative. ‘You can do it, son,’ he urged. ‘You’ll make it a fantastic success. Just learn as you go along, and don’t let a little thing like language skills interfere with your livelihood, son.’ As usual, I dove in head first, although there was some degree of concern behind the rationale of a movie theater in Times Square staying open 24 hours. But then Richie argued: ‘Well, we could close it so we could clean the place up, especially those discarded chicken bones…But then again best just to keep it open, so we don’t get robbed.’
While I was the manager at the Cine 1 and 2, I became casually acquainted with a Greek battle-axe by the name of Chelly Wilson; the proprietress of a slew of hard-core adult theaters (which were the antithesis to the pornographic establishments owned by Richie). But before I later on advanced as the designated emissary between Richie and Chelly, we were introduced previously when Richie acquired 244 West 42nd Street; a property that accommodated Joy 42nd (an adult book store), and the notorious Roxy Burlesk. The Roxy was a theater that screened X-rated films and comprised of seats surrounding a runway, which also consisted of harlots offering themselves on the premises. Originally disguised as a burlesk, the Roxy was actually a whore-house; where a girl would emerge from the dressing room to the stage, and eventually end up naked in the audience. Chelly Wilson herself was actually the owner, but rented the Roxy to another Greek by the name of Gus Kalvvis, who portrayed himself as a pimp. During this period, I managed Richie’s numerous properties, while collecting rental payments from his residential and commercial tenants.
Thus I frequently interacted and eventually befriended Chelly, who originally immigrated from the Jewish ghetto Solonika, in Greece. Chelly’s career began with her selling chestnuts and Coca-Cola at the South Street Seaport, where she became well-versed in six languages. Later on she married a projectionist (who eventually went blind), but bestowed upon her a priceless tutelage in the business of motion pictures. As opposed to Richie, the self-taught Chelly remained the end result of a radically unorthodox modus operandi apropos the film industry, and was not to be underestimated. Eventually she would grow to become an integral exhibitor of films in Times Square.
‘You won’t catch the fish if you don’t put a worm on the hook and throw the hook in the water. ’ Chelly Wilson, translated from the Italian.
Early on she seized upon an innate ability (and flair for daring exploitation) when she rented out the crude Cameo theatre on 8th Avenue. With the premier of hard-core gay pornographic films imported from Greece, opening day witnessed a throbbing line of randy homosexuals stretched down the block and around the corner. Indeed, the cunning Chely was the first to screen such films; suddenly the Cameo, under the guise of gay porn was filled to capacity and produced staggering financial returns. Subsequently, the triumph and popularity of her gay porn allowed her to expand and purchase a pair of buildings in close proximity; both with seedy theatres on 8th Avenue. As all of her theaters were named for Greek deities; she erected the Eros, which featured the latest gay, sadomasochistic, and extreme fetish flicks, and then the Eros 2, later christened the Venus for straight (heterosexual) porn. The Eros withered box office was operated by Phil Tedero, and situated to the right of the doorway up to Chely’s opulent apartment atop the theatre.
As her prosperity significantly increased, Chely later on purchased the property of the old Madison Square Garden located on 50th Street and 8th Avenue. There she constructed the Tivoli from the ground up; a palatial theatre with Greek architectural columns where imported films were shown, and a source of her Hellenic pride. Later the theatre became designated the Adonis, for premiered hard-core gay porn. She adeptly divided the format into a double-screen theatre, half-straight and half-gay, so that when the box office sold one ticket, no one really knew which theatre the patron upon entrance disappeared into; therefore respectfully protecting his anonymity (obviously most of her clientele were of the gay persuasion), which of course was to everyone’s ultimate advantage.
As the revenue from her adult theatres continuously flowed like the River Styx, Chelly herself lived high atop the Eros in a lavishly decorated apartment in stark contrast to the theatre’s interior. When she first invited me over for dinner, she greeted me on the ground floor near the Eros box office. She was seated on a cushioned chair attached to a rail, on a steep narrow staircase. I realized then that Chelly had a problem with her knees; that of which propelled her to ‘ascend’ the stairs to her apartment. Operated by a hand-held device, the electronic lift chair allowed her to rise up the rail, lifting her to the second floor landing, while ‘talking to you, inviting you in.’ But then you would have to await her arrival at the very top of the stairs, before climbing the flight to her residence. Upon entrance to her domain, I viewed to the left an impressive dining room with a massive wooden table surrounded by huge archaic chairs, as if hordes of Vikings feasted out of them. In fact her entire apartment was decorated in velvet curtains, satin drapes, with Oriental rugs more appropriate to a Shakespearean play than the incongruity of seedy apartments on 8th Avenue. Antiques imported from Greece adorned her opulent living room; with tables of gold leaf and glass, ceramic plates, various object d’art, and Ouzo bottles quite unique in themselves (filled with the Greek version of Anazette), and of course garishly extravagant Italian furniture.
On the occasions when I would appear, she was always ready. She would be seated reading, and then put her book down on the table when she saw you. Chelly knew everyone she had dealings with. She would just look at a person, engage in a conversation, and then arrive at a conclusion. Richie himself had remarked that she was cunning, almost devious, and utilized anything at her disposal to get her way. Apparently she ran most of her businesses into the ground, without putting any money into them. Whenever she made a decision, it was a calculated risk (Richie himself wouldn’t dare take those kind of risks). But she never saw anything fail. Eventually the bond of trust between us increased significantly and we became closer in our understanding. Although a bedraggled old cunt, she treated me almost like family in a sense, and expressed kindness to me when others didn’t see anything worthwhile in me in regards to my potential (at the time). ‘Johnny…’ she murmured with that crusty accent, like burnt baklava. ‘I want to give you something to do everyday. I want you to make mo-ney. Mo-ney, Johnny, mo-ney. Lots of mo-ney.’ A typical dinner engagement at Chelly’s apartment consisted off an incomparable array of classic Greek culinary delights, prepared by her hand-picked chefs in her well-equipped kitchen. Such dishes included Spanakopita, Dolmades, Athenian chicken, Pastitsie, and Souvlaki, with a multitude of sausages, not to mention the sumptuous deserts; enough to trigger chronic diabetes. Then in the course of the evening, ‘Mikey’ appeared, a plump Greek woman with a thick Greek inflection, like Feta cheese. As Chelly’s trusted ‘lieutenant’, she presided over the many dinner engagements at her apartment atop the Eros. The two of them were obviously very close, like sisters. But on several occasions Mikey had brought up two shopping bags stuffed with overflowed cash, which were the day’s receipts from Chelly’s sordid adult theaters, combined with that of the Red Garter, a restaurant she owned on Restaurant Row, 47th Street, for which Chelly remained on the Board of Directors.
As part as my function as the emissary of Richard Basciano, owner of Show World Center, I was required to eventually look in on Chelly’s abysmal theatres to possibly gain insight as to her sordid operations. One day after an impromptu meeting with Chelly at her exquisite apartment, she asked me point blank: ‘Johnny, have you ever seen my theaters?’ Shaking my head, now I couldn’t refuse. ‘Don’t worry,’ she replied. ‘Phil will let you in.’ Later on I went about to conduct a tour of the Eros premises. Upon entrance from the street through the twin doors, an intense blast of heat blindsided me, likely generated by a frenetic adult crowd, combined with a nauseating dampness. A pervasive stench of rancid urine mixed with the odorous fumes of amyl nitrates lingered everywhere; as if the entire theatre an obscene latrine. Immediately I realized that the clientele were a far cry from the customers that frequented Show World. At first glance I knew unmistakably the inhabitants were all gay men, possibly deviants, with very scary perversions prevalent, as if homoerectus had inherited the Earth. Shrouded in perpetual darkness, the audience appeared partially fixated on a piss-stained movie screen projecting a Greek choir of gay coitus, with screams of perpetual ecstasy. Gay men were standing all over; some clothed, some naked, some with exposed buttocks, others sporting Roman regalia reminiscent of the Arena. All with hardened dicks as if about to march in a depraved parade. Others were seated on cushioned theatre seats with rusty springs that jutted out; with the occupant ogled by the sycophant seated next to him. Like flypaper, my shoes were stuck to the floor full of sticky globules of cum. Suffice to say, the immoral Eros was a haven of unprecedented high-risk sexual activity with men licking, sucking, and fist-fucking, with anal penetrations up the wazoo; all illuminated by the glare of Greek phallus projections. Salacious salivating homo’s conducting an exchange program of bodily fluids, while stroking their cocks and slurping their balls, as if fellatio were an Italian gelato. Exhibitionists providing a penetrating insight into homoerotic rites, with threesomes fucking like an anal choo-choo train. Sperm squirting like lawn sprinklers, men trading fuck buddies like licentious musical chairs. Suffocated by the sodomy and fenced in by wall-to-wall faggots, I sought refuge and went towards the bathroom; but what appeared to be an escapee from a penitentiary blocked the entrance, shaking his solidified tool menacingly. Suddenly visions of my derriere resembling a basketball hoop flashed before me; I backed off and ran the fuck out: ‘AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!’ Phil, still ensconced in the box office with a shit-eating grin (as if he swallowed the feces whole) sees me mortified as I bolted for the exit door, fled the theatre, and stumbled out into the street.
Exasperated, I went back upstairs to report to Chelly. ‘Johnny…how did you like the theater?’ she croaked, with a sadistic gleam in her eye. Loosening the collar on my button-down shirt, I hesitated in my poor response; probably unwilling to cause offense or pass judgment with unnecessary disparagements. ‘Um, well the place was crowded, Chelly. Jam-packed, in fact, with… That’s some crowd you have in there, er …’ my voice trailed off into oblivion. Chelly just nodded; she seemed satisfied. Then I realized that Chely didn’t care at all what was going on in her vice-ridden theaters. She just didn’t want to know. ‘Yes, well then I will let you visit the Venus and the Adonis tonight if you like,’ she replied. With enough male debauchery for one night, let alone a lifetime, I politely declined and returned to Show World; a welcome refuge from harrowing adulterations far beyond the scope of my straitlaced imagination.
Following the initial debut of the Roxy theatre, with this incarnation screening mainstream movies minus the whores, suddenly I received a call from Steve DiInzillo, the president of the Local 306 Projectionists Union. He emphasized the imperative of initiating a dialog involving a delicate union matter. Later on he explained ‘our contract with you doesn’t include video projection,’ which translated meant that in the event that our theaters made the decision to ‘flip’ to that format (from 35 mm films), we wouldn’t be in a position to attach a union contract to those theaters; unless of course Steve provided me with that contract. Since we (the Roxy) were actually the first licensed exhibitor to project the new video format in the entire country, at once I contacted Richie and arranged an unofficial meeting to be attended by Richie, myself, Steve, and his underlings. Suffice to say, Richie brilliantly negotiated a solution; but I will never forget the sight of them clutching their hands during the conversation, with obviously a tremendous bond of trust and respect between two venerable gentlemen of the generations. ‘I believe in live and let live,’ Richie said. ‘Therefore, we will give you the contract. However, you will need to make John, Ralphie, and Tommy certified projectionists in your union.’ From that point on I became a union projectionist, without even touching a button on a film projector (!).
Once the conniving Chelly got wind of this, right away she switched to video projection; preemptive of a call from Steve DiInzillo. Chelly stubbornly refused to join the union, period. Without delay, Richie directed me to arrange a meeting with Chelly, Steve, and myself, and of course Richie would also be in attendance. Once the meeting was underway, Chelly vehemently objected to the purpose of Steve’s proposals. However, she was never unionized with a 35 mm projector. But she didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want to unionize because then it would have been her obligation to pay her share towards the union itself as an employer. Steve explained to her ‘that everybody that owned a movie theatre had to switch to video, and if they all switched to video without our involvement, there would be no fucking union.’ So it fell on the shoulders of Richie and myself to attempt to convince her that the arrangement Steve presented would ultimately be in her best interest as well.
Chelly really didn’t firmly grasp what was going on. Without warning she exploded and threw a tantrum, accusing Richie of trying to monopolize her adult businesses. ‘You want my theaters. You want all of them,’ she growled. ‘Go ahead. Take my theaters, Richie. Take all of them. Take everything from me. LEAVE ME NOTHING!’ Richie actually didn’t have any interest in any of her theaters; none whatsoever, in fact. Steve, of course, was really put off by the offensive, but Richie was the catalyst. He interceded and tried to rationalize with her, but to no avail. ‘Chelly, please listen… it’s not like that at all. We’re all in this together.’ Richie implored. ‘What’s the matter with you; can’t you see that they’ll picket and close down your theaters? Steve here is actually offering you a far better deal than he even offered me.’ Then I chimed in. ‘Chelly, please, it would really be better for all of us if you joined us in solidarity.’ Later on she began to realize, but still refused to capitulate; however, Steve lit that match. ‘You don’t have a choice here, Chelly. Video projection just came out, but it’s totally illegal to exhibit a motion picture and charge a fee for it. But we didn’t have a contract that covered that, and you know I can’t allow that to happen; there would be no fucking union.’ And then following an intense deliberation, she finally capitulated, and we were all relieved when Chelly unceremoniously joined the union (!).