BEATNIK

Imagine if you will: a hole in the wall with checkered flooring, lined with tables and chairs, short and mismatched, an odd assortment of books, bizarre nudes, and naked records hung from the plaster by nails.

The crowd—mostly vampires—sip ginger beers and tea from clay mugs, conversing against the backdrop of a few neon signs in the window.

The counter culture in full effect.

Shorthaired women with wire-frame glasses, curled up in the arms up scarfed, often bearded men, reading poems and playing chess.

A remarkably hip midget delivers a tray of food to one of the tables. He’s wearing an apron, tattoos and a gold-hoop through one ear. His forearms are the size Christmas hams. He tilts his head, sliding the tray amid the drinks and empty glasses, and grins.

Jazz warbles from the speakers and into the night—bongos and a weeping sax—cascading into the alleyway, a moody apparition.

I fist-bump a dreadlocked brother. He taps his chest, grins, takes a pull on his cigarette.

Across the way, a hovel sunk into brick, empty in the dirty yellow light of a low-wattage bulb; some kind of Arab Bakery, Middle Eastern delicacies glistening in a lonely pastry cabinet.

A fan whirls on the ceiling.