Dreams of Harry Martini a Chelsea Hotel Fiction Online
Harry Martin, clawed his way up from the 1970's anarchy of Greenwich Village, Harry became a comic genius, trained by the last of the Vaudeville Burlesque comic hero's, the legends of renown He pioneered 'Stand Up' comedy clubs in the early 80's and cashed in on his gazillions, then lost it all on a failing PR firm named ‘Handled Messiahs' INC Harry's on the skids, that is until he meets BigMo Bohemia, The Chelsea Hotel
Chapter One
Harry Martin , thought himself, so thoroughly wicked, he was convinced that no one would ever offer him redemption.
Standing upon the 10th floor ledge of the infamous, Chelsea Hotel, Harry appeared vague and bleary. His thick face and torso was obscured by the moon light shadows of the New York skyline.
His legs, feet, and hands were drawn out to their full length; extended in a straight line; as one would stretch a cord or rope. Groping the brick wall behind him, he was alone, and about to perform that most inconceivable of human acts.
Intensely petrified, Harry's, attempts at balancing his feet, while shooing away the pigeon's obstructing his narrow walkway, were a kin to a drunk on a high wire.
He peered downward, into what seemed like an unfathomable chasm. The neon lights of the Hotel Chelsea sign, seen above its striped awning,.the hubbub of people and traffic on west 23rd Street below seemed unconcerned
HARRY: " So, it's finally come to this...I thought it might. But, Damn...I never thought I'd have the guts…. That's right, it took lots a guts to get up here.! So high up now. I hate heights, always have...So scary; this suicide thing gives me the creepy shivers.
Suicide, ah, there's the rub! They"ll pity me, and say; 'Ah, the poor bastard.' But not one of them knows I've studied the whole nut; then suddenly suicide beckons this sovereign gun-slave, delivers my fate and destiny.
I'm about to find out what's behind curtain number one my friend,.and I just bet all my goddamn swag that it ain't a new Hummer.
Harry took the plunge, hurled outward by gusts of wind. His body descended, like a dead bird, fluttering arms outstretched.
As he passed the hotel windows on the floors below, inside he could see those absorbed with their lives, unaware of his dilemma.
Inside the first window is Norton, burlesque impresario and sex addict, strapped in a cage with two exquisite dominatrices brandishing whips.
Window two: stood Suzy, crazed painter in love with Chelsea Hotel Manger, Stanley Bard, painting her body.
Window three: Hiroya, eccentric Asian performance artist, was putting on his wedding gown with wings.
HARRY: I'm flying man, flying! Never felt so alive. Every cut and parcel of me is alive Ah! So exhilarating!...
Harry continues to fall rapidly passing window four: Hawk, Swedish mystical painter, intently working on a canvas.
Window five: Ted & Jim, canine and human masters of the ancient Chinese healing arts, practicing Chi Gong.
Window six: A small girl notices Harry, she is hunkered on the back of a sofa peering out the window, her mother and father with heads and backs turned toward a flickering TV. Harry waved to the child and she waved back. Then he crashed through the Chelsea Hotel awning.
Harry lay face down on the pavement, pools of blood oozing from his lifeless frame. Outside of the hotel, on the brick face, a 2005 National Writers Honor Society plaque of former famous residents such as Dylan Thomas, Arthur C Clark, Mark Twain; the lobby doors, the damaged awning hanging from the hotel, torn from the fall, are visible.
A ghostly figure, cuddled into a fetal position, prominently superimposed is hovering over Harry's ghastly remains. Distraught people are passing by.
Harry's Ghost: You know the living always knock this death thing the hardest. They'll prick their needles and insert their tubes in this muddled flesh, invade my tranquility, but Ill be gone.
Ah Wait! Before I go, I must tell you the tale of my bloodied host, Harry Martin, and that famous young gentleman, DonJonVonavich. You see, it all began that foreboding evening below the Chelsea Hotel..
Harry Martin, was once a greatly desired stand up comic turned publicist to the masters and messiahs, the heroes and the hated.
He lurked in the shadows of Serenity, a yawning, New York hot spot, located down below the notorious Chelsea Hotel. He stood here each and every night like a dark dense nebula of thick dust silhouetted against the wall, unseen amid the throng of splendor and festivity corralled on the dance floor.The year was 2004.
For nearly two years Harry had made it his business to suffer the droning voices, bobbing heads and pounding bass in search of DonJonVonavich, a young man whom he had met here, by chance, two years before.DonJon had promised him his next, and likely last, big opportunity.Clenching that nugget of hope, Harry waited night after dreadful night.
He was a large, broad shouldered, middle aged man wearing a double breasted Milan's Caraceni suit, a Gucci turtle neck sweater and Lock & Co London Brown Pure Beaver Homburg Hat
Pie eyed, his face became quite the common occurrence and always a welcome sight. Remarkably, due only to his cunning charm and good looks, Harry had yet to pay for a single drink.
Imagine it, he was the only patron who'd made his attendance present 730.484398 straight evenings since the opening of Serenity without paying a single tab.
That's a record that even he at time whimsically thought should have earned him a plaque or at the very least, a drink named after himself.
"I'll have another Harry Martini"
He would think amusingly to himself envisioning the gaggles of attractive New York women that frequented Serenity purring his name softly.
"H-A-r-r-r-r-Y M-A-R-r-r-r-r-T-I-N-I."
Upon their lips he fancied, would be the world's most expensive lipstick "Cherry Shine KissAss Gold and Diamonds," created by his good friend, Olivier Echowzermaison the famous French makeup artist who began his career by traveling with the Duchess of Windsor when he was but 13 and went on to do royalty and celebrities.
(The lipstick retails for $62,000 custom designed in France, adorned with 110g of solid 18-carat yellow gold and 199 diamonds. When not in use, the lipstick is housed in a black lacquered wooden case, where it can be properly worshiped on your altar of makeup.) …
"H-A-r-r-r-r-Y M-A-R-r-r-r-r-T-I-N-I."
And why wouldn't they purr and moan his name with such reverently erotized undertones?
After all, Harry had been a man with which to be reckoned. He once had lots of money and plenty of good friends in high places. Harry was the toast of the town then, a man of renown, a giant among men, so to speak.
Harry came up clawing from the alphabet streets of The lower east side tenement, 1967 anarchisticup against the wall mothers. His parents were apart of the seething mass of Jewish immigrants seeped in the Progressive's attraction to labor and socialist movements
New York City was slowly burning, garbage filled the streets, the city slipping into a deep recession and then eventually bankruptcy. Harry found that the way to take refuge from the mayhem and chaos, was with something that came to him quite naturally. Stand Up Comedy!
You see, the whole gazillion dollar industry was still in its infancy and Harry was extremely well liked, a good looking kid and he had the gift of gab, he told a real tall tale.
When he first moved into the Chelsea Hotel, he had a gig at The Ed Sullivan Theater, on Broadway near 57Th Street, a few bit guest slots on TV and Harry started getting a fair following. Before you know it, Old Harry was out doing the circuit. He was on the road head lining skid-lid clubs around the country.
Harry became a comic genius, trained by the last of the Vaudeville Burlesque comic hero's, the legends of renown He pioneered 'Stand Up' comedy clubs in the early 80's and cashed in on his gazillions, then lost it all on a failing PR firm named ‘Handled Messiahs' INC.
Harry Martin , thought himself, so thoroughly wicked, he was convinced that no one would ever offer him redemption.
Standing upon the 10th floor ledge of the infamous, Chelsea Hotel, Harry appeared vague and bleary. His thick face and torso was obscured by the moon light shadows of the New York skyline.
His legs, feet, and hands were drawn out to their full length; extended in a straight line; as one would stretch a cord or rope. Groping the brick wall behind him, he was alone, and about to perform that most inconceivable of human acts.
Intensely petrified, Harry's, attempts at balancing his feet, while shooing away the pigeon's obstructing his narrow walkway, were a kin to a drunk on a high wire.
He peered downward, into what seemed like an unfathomable chasm. The neon lights of the Hotel Chelsea sign, seen above its striped awning,.the hubbub of people and traffic on west 23rd Street below seemed unconcerned
HARRY: " So, it's finally come to this...I thought it might. But, Damn...I never thought I'd have the guts…. That's right, it took lots a guts to get up here.! So high up now. I hate heights, always have...So scary; this suicide thing gives me the creepy shivers.
Suicide, ah, there's the rub! They"ll pity me, and say; 'Ah, the poor bastard.' But not one of them knows I've studied the whole nut; then suddenly suicide beckons this sovereign gun-slave, delivers my fate and destiny.
I'm about to find out what's behind curtain number one my friend,.and I just bet all my goddamn swag that it ain't a new Hummer.
Harry took the plunge, hurled outward by gusts of wind. His body descended, like a dead bird, fluttering arms outstretched.
As he passed the hotel windows on the floors below, inside he could see those absorbed with their lives, unaware of his dilemma.
Inside the first window is Norton, burlesque impresario and sex addict, strapped in a cage with two exquisite dominatrices brandishing whips.
Window two: stood Suzy, crazed painter in love with Chelsea Hotel Manger, Stanley Bard, painting her body.
Window three: Hiroya, eccentric Asian performance artist, was putting on his wedding gown with wings.
HARRY: I'm flying man, flying! Never felt so alive. Every cut and parcel of me is alive Ah! So exhilarating!...
Harry continues to fall rapidly passing window four: Hawk, Swedish mystical painter, intently working on a canvas.
Window five: Ted & Jim, canine and human masters of the ancient Chinese healing arts, practicing Chi Gong.
Window six: A small girl notices Harry, she is hunkered on the back of a sofa peering out the window, her mother and father with heads and backs turned toward a flickering TV. Harry waved to the child and she waved back. Then he crashed through the Chelsea Hotel awning.
Harry lay face down on the pavement, pools of blood oozing from his lifeless frame. Outside of the hotel, on the brick face, a 2005 National Writers Honor Society plaque of former famous residents such as Dylan Thomas, Arthur C Clark, Mark Twain; the lobby doors, the damaged awning hanging from the hotel, torn from the fall, are visible.
A ghostly figure, cuddled into a fetal position, prominently superimposed is hovering over Harry's ghastly remains. Distraught people are passing by.
Harry's Ghost: You know the living always knock this death thing the hardest. They'll prick their needles and insert their tubes in this muddled flesh, invade my tranquility, but Ill be gone.
Ah Wait! Before I go, I must tell you the tale of my bloodied host, Harry Martin, and that famous young gentleman, DonJonVonavich. You see, it all began that foreboding evening below the Chelsea Hotel..
Harry Martin, was once a greatly desired stand up comic turned publicist to the masters and messiahs, the heroes and the hated.
He lurked in the shadows of Serenity, a yawning, New York hot spot, located down below the notorious Chelsea Hotel. He stood here each and every night like a dark dense nebula of thick dust silhouetted against the wall, unseen amid the throng of splendor and festivity corralled on the dance floor.The year was 2004.
For nearly two years Harry had made it his business to suffer the droning voices, bobbing heads and pounding bass in search of DonJonVonavich, a young man whom he had met here, by chance, two years before.DonJon had promised him his next, and likely last, big opportunity.Clenching that nugget of hope, Harry waited night after dreadful night.
He was a large, broad shouldered, middle aged man wearing a double breasted Milan's Caraceni suit, a Gucci turtle neck sweater and Lock & Co London Brown Pure Beaver Homburg Hat
Pie eyed, his face became quite the common occurrence and always a welcome sight. Remarkably, due only to his cunning charm and good looks, Harry had yet to pay for a single drink.
Imagine it, he was the only patron who'd made his attendance present 730.484398 straight evenings since the opening of Serenity without paying a single tab.
That's a record that even he at time whimsically thought should have earned him a plaque or at the very least, a drink named after himself.
"I'll have another Harry Martini"
He would think amusingly to himself envisioning the gaggles of attractive New York women that frequented Serenity purring his name softly.
"H-A-r-r-r-r-Y M-A-R-r-r-r-r-T-I-N-I."
Upon their lips he fancied, would be the world's most expensive lipstick "Cherry Shine KissAss Gold and Diamonds," created by his good friend, Olivier Echowzermaison the famous French makeup artist who began his career by traveling with the Duchess of Windsor when he was but 13 and went on to do royalty and celebrities.
(The lipstick retails for $62,000 custom designed in France, adorned with 110g of solid 18-carat yellow gold and 199 diamonds. When not in use, the lipstick is housed in a black lacquered wooden case, where it can be properly worshiped on your altar of makeup.) …
"H-A-r-r-r-r-Y M-A-R-r-r-r-r-T-I-N-I."
And why wouldn't they purr and moan his name with such reverently erotized undertones?
After all, Harry had been a man with which to be reckoned. He once had lots of money and plenty of good friends in high places. Harry was the toast of the town then, a man of renown, a giant among men, so to speak.
Harry came up clawing from the alphabet streets of The lower east side tenement, 1967 anarchisticup against the wall mothers. His parents were apart of the seething mass of Jewish immigrants seeped in the Progressive's attraction to labor and socialist movements
New York City was slowly burning, garbage filled the streets, the city slipping into a deep recession and then eventually bankruptcy. Harry found that the way to take refuge from the mayhem and chaos, was with something that came to him quite naturally. Stand Up Comedy!
You see, the whole gazillion dollar industry was still in its infancy and Harry was extremely well liked, a good looking kid and he had the gift of gab, he told a real tall tale.
When he first moved into the Chelsea Hotel, he had a gig at The Ed Sullivan Theater, on Broadway near 57Th Street, a few bit guest slots on TV and Harry started getting a fair following. Before you know it, Old Harry was out doing the circuit. He was on the road head lining skid-lid clubs around the country.
Harry became a comic genius, trained by the last of the Vaudeville Burlesque comic hero's, the legends of renown He pioneered 'Stand Up' comedy clubs in the early 80's and cashed in on his gazillions, then lost it all on a failing PR firm named ‘Handled Messiahs' INC.
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