Suddenly Seymore: Teenage Doctors, Marie’s Crisis, and a Really, Really Big Freakin Bike – The Big Apple

Leg one of the trip was a stop over in NYC because Aaron’s younger brother Bretton and his boyfriend Sergio live there.

The night we got in, after what seemed like an eternal cab ride from JFK to West Harlem, we arrived at their doorstep dragging 4 months worth of luggage behind us. Their place was nice, spacious and tres chic.

What I soon discovered was that we were actually staying at the hip pad of a celebrity who is Sergio’s roommate but is only there part-time. While discretion prevents me from dropping names, let’s just say he played an inordinately young Doctor on an early 90’s sitcom and I DIDN’T rummage through his drawer and smell his underwear.

Upon our arrival, we shared a cocktail with our gracious hosts at their place and then went down the famous White Horse Tavern. While we did not follow in the footsteps of Dylan Thomas who, consequently, drank himself to death there, we did kick back and enjoy a few cold ones as the realization that the trip had finally gotten underway, sank in.

To supplement the much needed libations, we decided to order some food. Scanning the array of pub food, I settled on a Tuna Melt which sounded mediocre at best. O’ how mistaken was I. I turned out to be the best freakin Tuna Melt I’ve ever had in my life. I know that doesn’t sound like much of a standard to set but at the moment…it was only my self and my Tuna Melt floating in a vast and silent, blissful void.

Just when the decision was made to call it a night, Sergio suddenly announced that we should go around the corner and drop into “this one place.” This one place turned out to be a joint called “Maries Crisis” and was, in fact, one of the highlights of my few days in New York.

“Maries Crisis” was a tiny, dark basement piano “sing-a-long” bar where lonely souls go to sing their troubles away. We came in inched our way past the small crowd around the piano and went to the bar to order our drinks. Before they came, Sergio and myself had already joined the group in singing along to whatever the pianist was playing. Drinks in hand, we took the table in the corner under the stairs which offered us a good view of the place.

Seated at the counter around the piano was an odd hodgepodge of men and one woman all, thankfully, with pretty decent voices. Standing out amidst all of them was a cheerfully plump fellow in a red turtle neck who harmonized each song with a falsetto so crisp and high-pitched that Maria Callas, herself, would covet. It was strange and out of place but the guy had a set of pipes and was doted over by the other men around the piano like a princess. He was, you could say, the “belle of the ball.” So, when Sergio, at the end of a song threw out a high note that was crisp, tuned and well projected, the plump man shot a withering glare that would thwart many with weaker constitution… but not our Sergio. The glare was met with raised eyebrows, pursed lips, an audible sucking of teeth and a head wobble that, in modern colloquial body languages means “bring it” or something of the sort and proceeded to sing very loudly and very well to each song.

With the start each song and for every song thereafter, the plump man no longer harmonized with his falsetto but rather drowned out the rest of the singers with vocals that sent vibrations through our glasses of whiskey and, on occasion, shot vocal torpedo’s in our direction which sent a breeze blowing through our hair. It was very clear that this was his party and meant to keep it that way. By that time, however, Sergio and Bretton had gotten distracted by one thing or another and paid him no mind.

Though piano bars tend to not make it on my top 10 list of places to go, I liked Marie’s Crisis. It was a microcosm of very specific elements of the human condition. It is the only place, that I have ever been and will ever be where a group of people singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” didn’t make the bile rise up into my throat but actually made sense. Many of them, you could tell, spent night after night here to act out a shadow of their failed dreams of Broadway stardom or to pass away the lonely hours between work and sleep. The holidays were approaching and here at Marie’s Crisis, solace from the fear of spending them alone was found. It was truly a place of lonely souls, sad hearts and cheerful music and it was glorious.

A Bunch of Men in Tight Panties...How Could we go Wrong?

The following night began with plans to see a well known drag performer who was in town to perform for one night only and, after a day of shopping and wandering around from one meal to another, we were excited. Naturally, we stop off at a karaoke joint so that Sergio can “loosen up” by belting out a few tunes and the rest of us, by putting down a few whiskeys. The place was empty except for one fella at the bar who was an obvious regular. We roll in, grab a table, and hit the bar while Sergio beings thumbing through the gigantic book of song selections with purpose.

Looking slyly from side to side, Sergio bites his lip as he fills out his first selection and strides, confidently up to the DJ and hands her his slip of paper. Being that there is no queue, the music abruptly stops and into the microphone she announces, “all right, Sergio, you are up.” Sergio, mike already in hand, takes the stage and begins to step in time the intro of his selection which ended up being “Brandy” by Looking Glass. As we all chuckle at his flare for the dramatic and clap for his singing, I glance over at the bar just in time to see narrowed eyes a flash of resentment, from the fella at the bar, at the recognition that competition had just taken the stage. He slams down the rest of the drink and begins to furiously search the pages of the song selection book for what is certain to be his trump card. What? Again?

Now whiskey or some internal protection mechanism prevents me from recalling exactly what song he chose as his musical retort, but to add his own dramatic flare, he began his song by sitting and singing at a corner table in the bar then standing up at, what was most likely, a calculated and rehearsed moment, and striding slowly and with purpose toward the stage as his song, which he was butchering, reached its crescendo.

Sergio oblivious to all of this, covered his slip of paper with one hand while he wrote down his song selection with the other while the rest of us watched what was unfolding on stage.

The songs ends and, being the well-bred gracious people that we are, offered encouragement to the mans delusions by mustering up a few half-assed claps. The bartender did the same but, if you think about it, he tip probably depended on it. He took this as a cue to come over and introduce himself as Sergio went up to hand in his song selection. As they passed, his eyes again narrowed and flashed but his smile never broke. His name was Paul or Phil or something and he was overly interested in getting all of us to participate in the festivities. My cynical side still believes that his desire for us to do so was so that a buffer existed between the two extremes that were represented by Sergio and by himself: talent and lack thereof.

The music starts and, defeated, PhilPaul retreats to his corner of the bar and Sergio begins to belt out “Kentucky Rain” by Elvis and nails it. He does it in such a way that, at a certain part of the song that must have been “vocally technical,” or something, PhilPaul slams his fist on the bar and shouts in the same manner that one would if one were watching a boxing match and the favored contender was just knocked out by a lucky punch from the underdog. It was vocal but non-verbal expression of both defeat and respect and all of it was completely baffling.

In the musical chess game that was unfolding before us, the checkmate came when the DJ announced “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a duet! Will Sergio and Bretton please come up.” Sergio and Bretton take the stage an begin to belt out “Suddenly Seymour” from the musical “Little Shop of Horrors,” with Bretton singing the part of Seymour and Sergio singing the part of Audrey.

Jumping onto the musical bandwagon, PhilPaul takes the stage and attempts a retort by singing “Why God” from Miss Saigon which is at once a horrible song and a difficult one written for a Broadway singer with Broadway talent. Needless the say, ole’ PhilPaul’s lungs couldn’t hack it and we all suffered greatly. Fortunately for us, it was time for us to head to the show and, fortunately for my companions, PhilPaul and the bar staff, it was just before I worked up the courage to attempt “Gimme Gimme Gimme” by Abba.

We exit the bar and as we head down the block and around the corner, I could still hear PhilPaul’s desperate effort to complete worst rendition of Miss Saigon that I have ever heard in my life.

We hopped on the subway, jazzed and ready to go, only to be denied when we arrived and found that the performance had been cancelled. Miffed, we stood around dumbly for a moment our two while off, to our immediate left, some movie promotion was taking place amidst a flurry of limos and flashbulbs. The paparazzi were obviously buzzing about someone famous though I would be hard-pressed to tell you who was actually in front of the cameras.

Bretton made the decision to keep with the musical theme and we went to a gay night club where it happened to be “musical night.” Not knowing what that meant, agreed and followed along and, upon arriving, found ourselves amidst a teeming mass of NYC’s most fabulous. I, in my torn Chick Taylors, dirty jeans, and Aaron in his Carhartt pants and Bad Brains T-Shirt and both in ratty hoodies, stuck out like sore, dirty thumbs.

Musical Night was just that: a massive sing-a-long to scenes from musicals being projected on gigantic screens all over the place. It was loud, it was rowdy, and Babs and Liza were shown every other song. The only thing that was cheered for louder than when Babs or Liza came on, was when they played that scene from “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” with the football team stripping in the locker room and singing in the shower. It certainly a crowd pleaser.

We managed to catch four seats at the bar and ordered some drinks from the hard-bodied bartender in nothing but Brazilian soccer team underwear briefs. He knew Bretton and Sergio well and made sure our bowl was full of pretzels while I made sure to cram the pretzels in my cakehole in such a manner that half of them ended up on my hoodie. Its not like I was worried about getting a date or anything. Although there was conversation, I drifted off, entranced by the flat screen and pondering the fact that I knew most the words to these songs. As if to bring it all back around, the screen flashes over to Rick Moranis and ….whoever played Audrey who­­ begin to belt out “Suddenly Seymour from the Little Shop of Horrors movie, at which point, we all nodded in silent agreement that it was time to go.

New York was not just a fun stopover, there was also a little bit of work thrown into the mix. You see, with India’s economy exploding at a mind-blowing rate, we have also found a potential market for exporting some specialty bikes that are not available in India for some insanely wealthy Indians who are willing to pay the 200% duty on.

This particular bike being a Honda Valkrie NRX 1800 "Rune"; an 1800cc, 6 cylinder behemoth of a bike (and probably the least practical bike for the streets of Delhi). Our exporter is based in NY so we figured it would solve many logistical issues to just buy the bike in NYC and have it crated up and delivered right to the Exporter who would ship it.

We had tracked one down in Long Island City from a cat who, in a manner not unlike Tony Soprano, says to us, he says “yeah yeah…I gaaht yah bike. Gimme like a week or somethin.”

Flash forward and we are in New York and, after several confirmation calls and an arrangement for a deposit had taken place, we call for directions to get there and to give the heads up that we were on our way, only to be told, in a brisk manner “That sales representative was misinformed. We don’t have that bike.” **click** So…..that was strange…but then again, tracking down and arranging for the sale, payment, proper crating, shipping and export of a fairly rare bike and very expensive will be easy to do from 12 time zones away, right? Wrong, Jerks.

Time was up and it was time to go. We were lucky enough to be able to hang in NYC with strapping fellas like Bretton and Sergio. Those cats were up for anything at any time. If we wanted to chill, we chilled and if we wanted to hit the town, we did it with joi de vivre and had a damn good time either way.

After a great time in New York, it was time to get the show on the road. We said our goodbyes to Bretton and Sergio and thanked them for being such wonderful hosts and pack, yet again, as they left for work. It was Wednesday afternoon.