Springtime in Cincinnati

A light rain fell on the streets of Cincinnati’s Over The Rhine district, a crowded neighborhood of decaying architectural splendor bordering downtown. Attempts to revitalize this designated historic district were interrupted three and a half years earlier by the last major ‘race riots’ to occur in this country. Prostitution and dope-peddling are openly engaged in on the streets. I lunched in a booth at Kaldi’s, an establishment that contained two long rooms: one served as a bar, the other as a coffee-house. Each side was stacked floor-to-ceiling with overflowing bookshelves, crammed with dusty and unwanted old tomes. The rail-thin waitress called me ‘darling.’

At a newsstand I picked up the next day’s Racing Form and drove across the river, where the presence of numerous bars on the crumbling ramshackle hillside row-house streets attested to the erstwhile notoriety of Covington and Newport Kentucky as wide-open towns. I studied the Form over a couple of pints in John’s bar. Then I checked into the Newport Travel Lodge.

The Southgate House, a Victorian mansion turned concert venue, was situated one block away from the motel. Upon entering I was immediately approached by a fellow called Rick who recognized me from photographs that a mutual friend had posted online. He had driven down from Columbus with some other Fallnetters, members of an online Fall fan site. We sat on the porch outside the venue, talking about the Fall and death and other things. His roommate had recently died of an alcohol-exacerbated heart attack. A skinny short-haired girl in a short dress was almost irrationally appreciative of the gesture when I opened a door for her.

The Fall took the stage with Mark E.Smith, following a recent accident, confined to a chair, from which he rose on occasion to fiddle around with the amps. At one point he kicked over table, and during White Lightning, he left the stage to have a smoke. The sound was dreadful. It was probably the worst Fall performance I’ve ever seen, and it was great. The road manager, Roy, with whom I was acquainted, informed me that M.E.S. had been “acting up” all day, getting drunk on tequila in the van and running everybody’s nerves ragged. They were only ten days into the tour and they were already worn out.

“D’you want to have a shot with me?” I was standing around on the balcony when a generously proportioned woman named Julia engaged me in conversation. We repaired to the bar and it wasn’t long before she was placing my hand on her ample thigh. She regaled me with a story concerning her recent visit to California where she rendezvoused by the Salton Sea with a man that she met on the internet. When she got there, following a heated online affair, he wasn’t having any of it, and this was still greatly troubling her. A friend of hers showed up and took some of the pressure off. Julia kept batting her eyes at me. “I think you’re hot,” she said. “I want to dig my tongue into your dimples.”

I was rescued by the appearance of Roy, the road manager, who marched me downstairs to meet M.E.S., who was slumped on a sofa in the grimy subterranean backstage area. When I ask him how he’s doing he struggles to his feet and starts singing the chorus to “Southern boy, you’ve got your feet in L.A.,” which he’s been tormenting Roy with throughout the tour. After some further perfectly charming but incoherent conversation, his wife and keyboard player escorts him out of the venue. The night winds down in the upstairs bar, shooting pool with the other band members, all affable lads, and various Fallnet stragglers.

I couldn’t face another afternoon at Keeneland racecourse in such a hungover state. Instead, I drove north and somehow found myself in Dayton, Ohio. I parked downtown and went to the library, where I checked the phone book for old hotels. There were none. I drank two cans of beer in a crowded and somewhat menacing bar called Binger’s and wandered around the industrial section, savoring the wide, empty, windy streets, the flat white deadness engraved upon my mind by early Pere Ubu records. Walking towards me came the most beautiful woman in Dayton, judging by the way she carried herself. As she was about to pass, the wind blew her long black hair across her face, obscuring her features, and she crossed the street.

Some old and broken people sat outside the old Biltmore Hotel, now a retirement home of sorts. I walked in and a superintendent kicked me out. I continued to walk around downtown and the surrounding residential district of tree-lined streets and gracious dwellings. “You had Thai food before?” asked the Caucasian waiter in an upscale Thai restaurant. I played pinball in another bar and left town, driving south again.

The night clerk grunted in a vaguely compliant way as I checked back in to the Newport Travel Lodge. I lay on the bed for a while, then I drove into downtown Cincinnati. The rail-thin waitress in Kaldi’s coffee bar winked at me.

There was a diverse crowd and lively atmosphere at a coffee house called Sitwell’s in the Clifton neighborhood, where it was refreshing to eavesdrop upon a spirited discussion about philosophy between an earnest longhaired kid and a fascinating older gentleman at the next table, upon which rested a dog-eared volume of Kant. The musical selections of Memphis Minnie and Hank Williams were also refreshing. A blonde at the counter turned around and stared at me. She was wearing shorts and knee socks. I noticed her talking to the waitress, in reference to me, judging by the body language. She cast me another look, a warmly favorable appraisal it seemed, from the other side of the window as she was leaving. I sat at a table reading newspapers. Then I walked down the street and passed the Skyline Chili parlor. The blonde was in there, with a large man, and they were motioning at me. I backed away, out of their sight, and walked up and down the street, considering the situation. Then I returned to the motel.

Sitwell’s was not as vibrant during the day. I sat at the same table as the night before. The blonde walked in, still wearing shorts and knee socks, saw me, and walked out again. The longhaired kid was sitting on a stoop outside, still reading Kant. I took a final downtown stroll and had a last beer at Kaldi’s, where the frisson-triggering rail-thin waitress ignored me.