Our personal histories are often composed of a long string of seemingly unexceptional events, but perhaps it is those barely memorable events that define our lives, confer significance to our days and ultimately determine who we are. Please bear with me as I indulge in a little nostalgia and once again expound upon some of my personal history.
Long, long ago in the 1980's, I hadn't been working for the state long when our agency was instructed to beef up our staffing during a routine HUD* audit. Joel, an experienced and knowledgeable professional, was one of the new hires who were eventually brought on as a result of that directive. At the time, I worked in a unit that shared the same stretch of offices and cubicles occupied by the newbies. Since we reported to different managers and had completely different functions, I wasn't very interested in the new employees. Joel told me later that I was a bit cold and standoffish. That didn't surprise me. I'm sure I was polite and businesslike, but, unless an individual gave me cause for interest, I wasn't looking to make new friends. That may sound pompous, but, while working full-time and pursuing my artistic endeavors, I had to be somewhat selective as to where I committed my energies. And, probably even more material, I was wary of making a connection with any individual who would later prove to bore the hell out of me. Once such connections are made it's usually extremely difficult to extract oneself from them.
In spite of my inclinations, I couldn't help but learn more about the new hires. Joel was a true product of the Sixties, having participated in many demonstrations during his college years and holding an encyclopedic knowledge of the various philosophies being advanced during those tumultuous days. He showed me a picture of himself from that era, and he looked the quintessential hippie: long hair, enormous beard, dirty, worn and disheveled clothing. He was my senior by a decade, married and with kids when we first met. He already had years of experience in several avenues of employment, including a few stints working as lighting designer for theater productions (his true vocation but one that sadly did not provide reliable, profitable employment). I was in my late twenties, just out of grad school, single with no desire for a “real” job.
Joel was well-read, informed about art, music, politics and culture, freethinking, self-effacing and ever willing to play the fool. As is still the case today, I took myself too seriously and found Joel's company to be refreshing and liberating. We inevitably became good friends, and, though I'm not sure exactly when this occurred, we at some point established a weekly ritual that we followed for more than a decade.
Anyone who has ever worked a full-time, mind-numbing job knows that Friday is a cause for celebration, a release from the seemingly endless succession of workdays that swallows up most of the hours of our conscious lives. On Friday, there is a brief illusion, embraced quixotically over and over again, that we have escaped our bonds and can foresee an infinite expanse of time to pursue our own inclinations and address our own needs. We deny the recognition that our weekends fly by in a flash and are ever surprised to find ourselves transported magically to Monday morning heading back to the office to start another week of work. These mental games are really critical to our survival.
So when Friday arrived, Joel and I were always primed to relish the moment. At the end of our workday, we took the 6 Train from our Midtown Manhattan office down to the East Village. Back then, there was a massive Tower Records Store in the Silk Building (est'd 1909) at the intersection of Broadway and East 4th, but what interested me most was that around the corner of the same building at Lafayette and East 4th was a Tower Records Annex which offered at steep discounts CDs that hadn't moved at other outlets. The CDs were so cheap that Tower would cut a groove into each jewel case, making resale at another music store impossible. A selection of many genres of music was available there, but, weirdly, the classical music section was by far the largest of all. Fantastic! I loved classical music and, after savoring a half hour or so of pawing through the inventory, I always purchased a couple of CDs. Those journeys downtown really helped me flesh out my classical music library, and to this day I still pull many a “notched” CD from my stacks to enjoy an interlude of listening pleasure as I complete a crossword puzzle, read a book or do some creative writing. (Sadly, nearly two decades ago Tower Records filed for bankruptcy and within two short years the company's assets were completely liquidated.)
After that detour, we would walk further east on 4th Street until we reached our ultimate destination at the corner with Bowery: Phebe's Tavern & Grill. Phebe's had been a neighborhood bar since 1968, and, though it certainly wasn't a dive, it was a place with an earthy vibe and affordable food and drink. Usually when we showed up, an assortment of sedate locals (middle aged workers and elderly retirees) occupied the establishment. They usually sat at the bar, in pairs or alone, and they all seemed to know each other, conversing comfortably among themselves or with the bartender. The music wasn't very loud, mostly Sinatra and his contemporaries. As the evening progressed, the locals would cede the bar to a younger crowd of NYU students, who arrived in large groups and commonly populated the many tables scattered about the place. The selections on the jukebox pivoted to contemporary Rock, and the volume was turned up high. Then Phebe's really started to hum. The floor space was filled with patrons, standing drinks in hand, waiting perhaps for a table to become available or maybe for their shot at the pool table. To approach the bar you had to squeeze through a mob. Waitresses scurried from table to table, filling orders and presenting checks. The continuous ring of the cash register was smothered in the cacophony of bellowing voices, blasting music and the crack of pool balls. To my untrained eye, the establishment appeared to be doing rip-roaring business.
Joel and I would arrive well before the bar got crowded and always had our choice of where to sit. We would pick the same table on the building's shallow wraparound veranda enclosed in glass. This specific table wasn't tucked away behind the brick exterior walls but was exposed through a large entranceway to the hub of activity at the bar. This meant we would still get prompt service while enjoying an expansive view of street traffic. Immediately, we would get a pitcher of beer to start our long evening. Phebe's was one of a small number of bars in NYC that still served beer in pitchers at extremely affordable prices. Soon after, we'd order our dinners: Blackjack Burgers and spiced curly fries. If I recall correctly, the Blackjack Burger was a hamburger rolled in cracked black peppercorns and sauteed in Jack Daniels, a truly heavenly treat. Once we had eaten, we could get down to some serious conversation.
Of course, Joel and I addressed our current circumstances and past histories. That goes without saying. We bitched about work and crowed about our achievements. We often discussed literature. Joel had a particular affection for the works of Charles Dickens, and I also remember his informing me that traditionally tragedy could only impact the highborn since the protagonist had to fall from great heights for his or her undoing to be meaningful. Both Joel and I were amateur wannabe authors, and, if a recently completed story had been presented for consideration, we'd devote an hour or so to it's evaluation. We discussed art, often my own, and I couldn't get over the fact that Joel believed the title applied to a work of art to be of great significance, nearly as important as the work itself. I think he would be dismayed to learn that I thought of the titles of my paintings as simply convenient identifiers, sometimes forgotten over the years and invented anew for a show or catalog. We critiqued the artwork on Phebe's walls, a revolving gallery of the output of NYU students (or so we believed) that was usually pretty accomplished. As the evening progressed and more beer was consumed, we would get caught up in circular arguments, repeatedly going over the same ground and offering no possible resolution.
Usually at some point during our stay, we'd head into an interior alcove to compete on Phebe's well-worn, bar-size pool table. Joel and I weren't great pool players. Sometimes we were pretty good, but a lot of the time we were just plain terrible. I guess you'd say that our performance was “uneven”. We really didn't care about the outcome of our efforts; we just enjoyed the game, facing challengers, interacting with other players and spectators and entertaining the crowd. Joel and I always played as a team, alternating our turns on the table. Some nights, we could own the table for game after game; other nights, we'd be booted off after our first effort.
I recall one quiet afternoon too early for a crowd to have developed, Joel and I had to play against each other – which did happen from time to time. We were watched by one lone, young dude seated on the cushioned bench that lined the alcove. Perhaps because we felt no pressure, it was one of those rare days when we were playing particularly well. At one point, Joel observed that he didn't have a shot. I studied the table and after some consideration informed him that there surely was a doable shot. I laid out for him a ridiculously complex shot that required banking the cue ball off the far rail and initiating a chain reaction involving several balls. Joel guffawed at my suggestion, but I persisted, insisting falsely that it was an easy shot. Joel thrust the cue stick into my hand, daring me to make the shot if it was so easy. I really had no choice, so I examined the table once more and began lining up my shot. I was crouched over concentrating on my aim when Joel slammed a five dollar bill on the side rail exclaiming that it was mine if I made the shot. I let the cue ball fly, and miraculously my plan was effected precisely as I had suggested – more a matter of dumb luck than skill. Joel was thrilled. He happily pressed the bill into my palm, absolutely delighted that I had made that crazy shot. And that was what was wonderful about Joel. The competition didn't matter. The loss of a few bucks meant even less. He was there for the camaraderie, for the pleasure of a shared experience. While we finished that game, two challengers appeared, placing their stack of six quarters on the rail to secure their turn against us. During the ensuing game, Joel and I were just awful, missing absurdly easy shots and sinking the cue ball repeatedly. From one game to the next, our abilities had completely evaporated. As I said earlier, our performance was “uneven”. At the table's periphery, awaiting my next turn, I noticed that that first, lone spectator was leaning into one of our competitors and overheard him warning him not to accept any bets from us... because we were pool sharks. Obviously, this poor guy couldn't reconcile how our skill level had changed so precipitously between two games. Of course, we quickly lost and upon returning to our table had a good laugh thinking that someone had mistaken our incompetence for guile.
Many times as our outing drew to a close, we made the mistake of ordering one pitcher too many. We'd be utterly sated, filled to the gills with suds, but for some unknown reason felt compelled to top off our tanks. Our conversational skills deteriorated, and our observations became very basic and primitive. It was usually at about this hour that Joel would rise from his seat, stumble over to the jukebox and put Lynyrd Skynyrd's “Freebird” into the lineup; and when that song came on, Joel became electrified, singing along passionately with the band. There were a few occasions when Joel nodded off while we consumed that last pitcher. This didn't disturb me; I just sipped my beer, listened to the music and studied his features. At that time, I, still in the flower of my youth, was bewildered that he could pull off this stunt in a noisy bar. But now my perspective has changed. Today, I can sit down, completely sober, to watch some TV show to which I've looked forward for some time and drift off unawares in a matter of minutes. I awake with the credits playing, wondering what the hell happened. Regardless of our condition and the lateness of the hour, Joel and I would siphon off every last drop of beer in that superfluous pitcher, pay our tab and exit to the street to part company as we headed off to different subway stations.
Of course, my narrative imposes some distortion on this history. Joel and I didn't visit Phebe's every week without exception. There were times when we simply didn't go out at the conclusion of the workweek, and we often frequented other establishments located around Manhattan. Also, we were sometimes joined by a variety of coworkers on our outings. But, truly, our unaccompanied journeys down to Phebe's represented, by far, the norm.
I hold many fond memories of our sojourns down to Phebe's, but one stands out in particular. During one of our Friday workdays, it had begun snowing heavily; in fact, the weathermen were forecasting the onset of a blizzard, an unusual occurrence in NYC. By lunchtime, the snow was really piling up. Eventually, our Agency's management team, in sympathy with those workers who faced long and unpredictable commutes, closed up shop early, and Joel and I decided to ignore the storm and instead pursue our customary Friday routine – merely a few hours earlier than usual. When we arrived at Phebe's, we chose to sit at the veranda's corner table which provided views of both East 4th and Bowery. It was a pleasure to occupy a warm, windowed interior space and watch the storm develop. At first, the city was still bustling, taxis careening on the snow-covered streets, plows struggling to keep the roads passable and pedestrians rushing home from work (gingerly scaling the curbside drifts in their fancy duds and totally inappropriate footwear). It seemed to us that we were witnessing a captivating performance presented solely for our entertainment. As the evening progressed, the snow accumulated faster and faster, traffic dwindled to almost nothing and fewer passersby braved the elements. If you happen to capture Manhattan before the almost immediate rush to dig out, the city blanketed in snow is absolutely beautiful and I can't recall ever seeing it look more magical. And then something happened which never happens in the city, day or night. It was perfectly quiet. No traffic noise. No honking horns. No sirens blaring. No construction din. If it weren't for the falling snow, I could have believed I was looking at a still photo of the Big Apple. Joel and I remained at the bar as long as was arguably prudent but finally had to succumb to reason and head home.
Naturally, with time all things must change. I got married and started a family. Ultimately, my wife and I decided to leave the city, moving up to the northern burbs. The Village, which had formerly been located along both Joel's and my commutes home, was no longer the convenient destination it once was for me. My focus was shifting to my family and my expanding professional responsibilities, and even those few hours of escapist release we had indulged in no longer held the same appeal for me as they once had. Still, Joel and I persisted in our routine – just not as consistently as before. Many times change occurs almost imperceptibly, but by the late 90's I had come to understand vaguely that the Phebe's era was drawing to a close. It was definitely an odd feeling, recognizing the waning of a pursuit that had been so vital to my mental welfare for so long, and I determined then that I wanted to memorialize in some way that period of my life and, of course, chose to do so through art.
So one evening I brought my camera along with me to Phebe's and took a series of photographs of Joel - naturally seated at our usual table on the veranda. I hadn't forewarned Joel of my intentions, so I was pleasantly surprised to see that he had worn his very “mod” black leather vest, an article of clothing that truly harkened back to his 60's past. Joel is flanked on one side by a glass and on the other by a pitcher of beer. A couple occupies the table behind him, and in the windows can be seen a display piece (an electric guitar meant to inform potential customers that this joint was rockin') and a Sam Adams advertisement that I believe had been taped to the glass unchanged for years. From my photos, I constructed a drawing and then adapted the image to a linoleum cut. Because I wanted my print to be larger than any standard linoleum block available, I used two 8” by 10” blocks for my cut. I'm pretty happy with this print; for me, it effectively resurrects that time, now a quarter century in the past.
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| Gerard Wickham - Joel at Phebe's - 1997 |
As I had foreseen, our visits to Phebe's eventually petered out. With time, Joel and I no longer worked in the same unit (or even on the same floor) at the office and our paths rarely crossed. Additionally my primary interest at the end of the day became catching the first of two express trains up north that would shorten the duration of my long trip home and permit me a span of uninterrupted sleep on MetroNorth's “Quiet Car”. I guess the trajectories of our lives were moving in different directions.
Joel and I hadn't been to Phebe's in years when one evening we decided to stop in at the bar for old times' sake. Immediately upon entering the place, it was clear to us that things had changed. It could have been the result of new ownership or management, but, whatever the explanation, Phebe's had been upgraded. The aura was now upscale and trendy, the interior space completely remodeled. The hard linoleum tiled floors, occasionally chipped or cracked, were gone. The rickety tables that wobbled frightfully whenever you shifted in your seat had been replaced. The crowd was different... affluent and polite. A glance at the menu revealed that their prices had experienced an upgrade too, and, perhaps most egregious of all, pitchers of beer were no longer offered. Sadly, the beaten-up pool table had been removed. We really shouldn't have been too surprised; the entire East Village had been undergoing a slow transformation for years.
Time passes surprisingly quickly. Joel and I are both retired now. We live about two hours apart, and the COVID pandemic hit shortly after my leaving work; so we haven't gotten together in over five years. I have to admit that the trip down to NYC, a trip I made every workday for decades, now seems complex and daunting. I suppose my perspective has undergone an overhaul. We do occasionally communicate by email and have both recognized that even that unnatural, high-tech medium allows us to quickly fall into the same old, candid patois that defined our discussions during the Phebe's era. I really can't say what the future holds.
I guess you may expect me to draw some conclusion from these recollections, or perhaps that's a responsibility I simply impose on myself. I might say “carpe diem” (sieze the day), thinking that Joel and I had stumbled through sheer luck upon a little Eden, a situation, a place, a time which optimized our gratification, offering us solace, entertainment, respite, stimulation, companionship and escape – like somehow the stars had inexplicably aligned to create a unique, transitory world in the East Village a few decades ago. But that doesn't ring true for me. I found on the internet an old photo of an earlier iteration of Phebe's, perhaps taken in the late 60's. The bar, then called “Phebe's Place”, is simply a nondescript, white cube with a pair of corner doors, one small window, no veranda and two wall-mounted air conditioners. The place definitely looks a little seedy. But I bet a generation of hippies, freaks and aging locals loved it. The jukebox played the new rock music (still in its infancy), the conversations were about Vietnam, Richard Nixon, civil rights and demonstrations, and the drinks were crazy cheap. I can imagine that those early frequenters of Phebe's Place would remember fondly the original, primitive version of the bar and despise the enhancements that characterized the location during Joel's and my tenure there.
And I also believe that today NYU students, at least those with well-heeled parents, are regulars at the new and improved Phebe's. They stop by after an early morning class for brunch, a mimosa and a bit of civilized conversation before heading back to the dorms. They've never heard of Tower Records and can't even conceive of entering into a brick and mortar store to purchase tangible music media. Years from now they may have their own sentimental memories of Phebe's and the brief span of time they experienced the East Village.
So I suppose what I'm saying is that there is no such thing as the ideal niche perfectly suited to meet one's individual desires. If Joel and I hadn't stumbled across Phebe's back in the 80's, we simply would have found another location equally satisfactory to our needs. I mean there really are an infinite number of bars, taverns and pubs in Manhattan. Our experiences wouldn't have been the same but surely very similar. On the other hand I am thankful that Joel and I did choose to spend those evenings down in the Village, pursuing a routine that included shopping at Tower, carousing at Phebe's and, most importantly, sharing a shred of camaraderie and good cheer.
As always, I encourage readers to comment here. If you would prefer to comment privately, you can email me at gerardwickham@gmail.com.
*US Department of Housing and Urban Development
