Meeting Jim Carroll at the Word Festival, Bronx, NY
By Chad Kushins
27 August 2002
Had a pretty wild experience today. Those tickets for Jill and I to see Jim Carroll read didn’t go to complete waste. I took Jeff instead. Now there’s boy who knows when to get lost, but more on that in a moment. We had to take the train into Manhattan, which I’ve grown accustomed to; the bus into the Bronx was an ordeal, though, man. All in all, two hours to see this guy. But dig: We get to the college about an hour early. The plan was to pretend we weren’t drop-outs but actually scouting the school-this usually impresses a few of the girls in these places. It was Jeff’s plan, so I said I’d play along; I actually had my book of poems tucked in my bag for the Man’s approval. The school was nice and all, and the nuns were sparse, which was a decided relief. I still couldn’t believe Jim was gonna read at a Catholic school, but I guess the audience would get his stuff. I know I did, since I, myself, wore the parochial suit and tie to school for 11 years. Anyway–we walked in and I immediately began the search for Jim. The festival was interesting and some impressive rock music was being performed down the hall. My mind was preoccupied, though–the makeshift copy of my own book of poems was burning a hole in my backpack and my weathered copy of The Basketball Diaries was crying to get signed. I slept through the first poet’s reading, and even bolted to the cafeteria with Jeff for some coffee, and then outdoors for a cigarette; Jim was slated to go on in 15 minutes. We headed back inside a few minutes early. We walked straight into the parlor where Jim was on a discussion board to speak on the importance of poetry. And then–!
“Yeaahh, so Leo called ME up an asked me, you know: ‘Jim, man, they want me play Rimbaud, man. It’s either him, or the James Dean bio.’ I go, Leo, maaan, you GOTTA take Rimbaud, man. He’s the COOLEST guy of all time!”
I heard the voice as soon as I walked back in. It was instantly recognizable to me; I had lulled myself to sleep the past night to Jim’s Praying Mantis cd on my walkman, and the hep-cat city drawl made the hairs on my neck stand up.
I looked around. Jim Carroll was standing in a small huddle on the side of the empty room. I had forgotten the man was known as a basketball player: he had to be at least a foot taller than the professors and hangers-on surrounding him. And he was decked-out in full Carroll-garb, no less: black Elvis tee and jeans like on the cover of Catholic Boy. The poetic drape of his lengthy red hair curtained the wrap-around shades he had on. Fuckin cool, man.
I took a seat a few feet away to eaves-drop. Jeff knew it took a hell of a lot to impress me at all, and quickly saw the grin on my face. “Yo, man, go up to ’em.”
I was pretty nervous, plus the room was starting to fill up. I tapped the imprint of my book in my back-pack, figuring I’d wait till the panel was done. It was about an hour in duration, during which Jim left on his sunglasses and put his head down to chill out and seemingly listen intently to his contemporaries speak. He’d pop his head up every once and a while to say something amazingly intelligent, and then put his head down again. I sat there the full hour, studying.
I was kinda glad when the thing ended, though the discussion was pretty entertaining to listen to. (Note: I was particularly impressed with Jimmy Baca.) The crowd started to actually file out, for Christ’s sake! Don’t these people know Jim Carroll’s packing up his things! Anyway, I took my leave of my friend and approached Jim, my cheeks puffed from the deep breath I’d dragged.
“Hey, uh, Mr. Carroll?”
“Hey, man. How are ya?”
Jesus.
“Oh, I’m good. Listen, I’m a really really BIG, uh, fan. Are you doing any signing today?” I whipped out the Diaries.
“I wasn’t gonna do an official thing, man, but I’ll [sign] something now for you. How ’bout the table there?” He pointed across the room and I could see a few of the college’s students seemed a tad impressed, even jealous. I was glad to notice the majority was made of hot girls.
“Ah, the Diaries, ok.” He took the thick black felt pen I’d exposed from my bag and signed. I gave him my Catholic Boy cd, too. He signed.
I started to feel a little guilty; a line was forming at the table, and I imagined Jim wanted a smoke. I knew I did after an hour of intelligence.
“There you go, man.” He handed it back.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the sloppy proof of my book I’d just self-published. The fuckin’ publisher was taking forever with it, so I’d had to run to a copy-max to get this thing put together for Jim. “Jim, thanks, man. I actually wrote a book, myself, and I’d like to swap with ya.” I’d signed it the night before: “to jim, all the best, chad.”
“Heeey, thanks, man. Good luck.” He folded it and shoved it into his bag. I left.
Now, normally, I’d be disappointed about only a few seconds with my hero , but I wasn’t at all. The guy was too cool. I walked outside and found Jeff smoking a cigarette from my pack and talking to some cute big-breasted girl. I approached where they were sitting on the steps.
“Well?” he asked.
“Dude, Jim and I are like this!” I locked the indexes of both hands. He laughed.
“Cool, man.” He looked past me to the entrance door. “Prove it.”
JIM!
The Man walked out into the sunlight with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He tucked his hair behind his ears. I watched him cross to some benches on the other side of the court. He had a map of the campus in his hands, and was obviously trying to figure out his location. I knew he was going to do his poetry reading in twenty minutes, so I had to be swift.
BIG-BREASTED CUTIE: “Aw, sweetie, go talk to him.”
Jeff nodded to me in agreement. I think he just wanted to talk to the girl, however. I granted him his unspoken wish and walked to Jim.
“Need a light, man?”
He looked at me in recognition. “Ha, no, man. I’m good.”
I lit my Pall-Mall, and took notice of his brand of choice: Marlboro Lights. I hated those things. A girl I’d loved used to smoke them, and I’d since grown sick at the sight. But, hey, if Jim dig’s ’em . . .
“Hey, Jim, man, you ever read here before?”
“Nah… first time. You go here?”
“Nope. I’m from Long Island.” I chuckled. “I’m gonna miss the Tyson fight cause I wanted to catch your reading.”
He laughed. “Thanks.” He dragged the smoke. I puffed mine nervously and soon needed another one. I couldn’t believe how cool this guy carried himself. I’d met self-proclaimed artists before, but now I was smoking with a TRUE artist. A “poet” in every sense of the word. He looked around the sky and gardens as we talked. He seemed to be loving just “living.” It was cool to watch.
I carried on the conversation with him till he had to read. He told me about the Pulitzer misunderstanding (For those interested, he WASN’T nominated, he says), his band, Lou Reed and the Velvets, and about self-publishing his own first book when he was a little younger than me. He gave some advice on the topic when I brought up my offering to him again.
“Hey, Jim, you [know] what my favorite album of yours is?”
“What’s that?”
“The Runaway EP.”
He laughed loud. “Man, I allllwaaays forget that one.”
I chuckled again. “Hey, Jim, I dig it. But, why’d you pick that tune?”
He gave me the full attention at this. “I LOVE Del Shannon, man,” said Jim. “I was on stage and the band was warming up . . . and I just started the tune, man.” He was talking to me exactly like in his cameo in The Basketball Diaries movie. I dug it and hung on every word. He dragged the cigarette. “I COULDN’T believe when I hit the falsetto. You know, that ‘Wahh-Wahh-wahhh-wonnnnnder’?”
Now, keep in mind, I had played that song of his about seven times in my car yesterday, so him crooning it in front of me was rather religious. I looked over at Jeff who’s seen this, and we smiled at each-other.
“Oh, man,” Jim said, looking at his watch. “I gotta go read.”
I shook his hand and walked him to the door. “Listen, Jim, my book’s a little out of order, so just notice the common themes!”
Jim smiled, stubbing out his cigarette. “I’ll keep thaaat in mind, maaan.”
Jesus.
The reading was awesome, by the way. Jim read a few pieces from Fear of Dreaming and Void of Course and OWNED the stage. My friend and I sat in the front row. I was feeling more and more optimistic about the future, thinkin g about how I wanted to be poet even more now–just so, perhaps, a fan could feel this good after meeting me. I knew I owed Jim for that. That night, the day was complete when I made it home in time for the Tyson fight, after all. I celebrated his defeat at the local diner, the very location where I’d written my book . . . and read all of Jim’s.
I ordered a coffee. Somewhere, Mike Tyson was washing blood off his face. I sat back and lit a cigarette, opening my note-book to the next blank page. I remembered something then. Jim had kept my pen.
I laughed.
I was fine. I was feeling quite pure.