Back in the 1990s, there was a homeless guy in Tribeca who sold books out on the street. Whatever was bouncing around inside my head, Dale would have a book about. It didn't matter how obscure or esoteric the subject.
The City proposed a ban on kite flying in the park by the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Vernon and I were talking about protesting the ban by flying white kites, but where to get the kites? Dale had "Kites and Kite Flying," with detailed instructions on making kites from stuff you probably had in the house. Then, I was talking to a high school buddy about the presence of the Mafia in our hometown when we were growing up: Dale had "The North Avenue Irregulars," written by a minister in our town who organized a bunch of housewives to fight them off (Disney made a terrible movie based on it). Neither of us had ever heard of this book, but there it was. Another friend was telling me about "Confessions of a Dangerous Mind," which I had never heard of. Dale had a first edition, signed by Chuck Barris, with an inscription saying that "the guys who made Wall Street" were going to be making a movie based on it.
This happened many, many times. I had never seen any of these books in any bookstore. I always bought them for whatever price Dale asked. As I trundled off down Church St., my nose buried in my new acquisition, I would hear Dale giggling and cackling behind me.
I loathe to shop, with the exception of used books. Books are personal, I sleep with mine, I write and draw in them, I always have one in my bag or pocket. I carry my head around in one book, and then I find another. I read myself a new brain!
Honestly, I don't know what to make of Dale. I didn't know then, and I don't know now. I guess that's why I didn't give much of a description of him.
It certainly seemed that the man had mental health issues. I mean, he lived on the streets... Or did he? I really didn't know. And that laughter that I ended with was very real. He didn't seem to be laughing at me or at having suckered me or anything like that. It was uproarious and disruptive, with no apparent prompt. If you caught him in the morning, he would seem more engaged. By late afternoon, especially if there was a bottle around, it got pretty sketchy. And the laughter got louder.
And if he was a "book selling soothsayer," wouldn't that suggest that there was some connection between him and the books? I never got the sense that he read them or knew much about them.
And where did he get them? I have no idea. I am a person who has spent a lot of time looking at the stuff that people sell on the street, books in particular. His books were not like other people's books. These were not trade paperbacks by Steven King, or academic discards-- Kant and Freud. They were usually cloaked in mystery in some way, and they were... weird! Here's another example of a book that I got from Dale: https://nicktyrone.com/greatest-obscure-novel-ever-written-fuck-yes-wing-fu-fing/
And here's another strange thing: I never saw anyone but me looking at those books. I never saw anyone else buy one of his books. I'm sure it must have happened, but I never saw it.
He and I were very friendly, but I wouldn't say we were friends. I first encountered him years earlier when he would set up his books on the loading dock at Area. I don't know if he remembered me from then, but I remembered him. When I would see him on Church St., I would throw him a few bucks from time to time, although I could tell that he didn't like to ask. Where was he from? How did he end up on the streets? Did he have people? And what did *he* think of his trade? Was it a vocation? A calling? A hustle? I never asked him.
I miss reading. 2026 goal read more fiction and philosophy.
and how!
Back in the 1990s, there was a homeless guy in Tribeca who sold books out on the street. Whatever was bouncing around inside my head, Dale would have a book about. It didn't matter how obscure or esoteric the subject.
The City proposed a ban on kite flying in the park by the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Vernon and I were talking about protesting the ban by flying white kites, but where to get the kites? Dale had "Kites and Kite Flying," with detailed instructions on making kites from stuff you probably had in the house. Then, I was talking to a high school buddy about the presence of the Mafia in our hometown when we were growing up: Dale had "The North Avenue Irregulars," written by a minister in our town who organized a bunch of housewives to fight them off (Disney made a terrible movie based on it). Neither of us had ever heard of this book, but there it was. Another friend was telling me about "Confessions of a Dangerous Mind," which I had never heard of. Dale had a first edition, signed by Chuck Barris, with an inscription saying that "the guys who made Wall Street" were going to be making a movie based on it.
This happened many, many times. I had never seen any of these books in any bookstore. I always bought them for whatever price Dale asked. As I trundled off down Church St., my nose buried in my new acquisition, I would hear Dale giggling and cackling behind me.
I loathe to shop, with the exception of used books. Books are personal, I sleep with mine, I write and draw in them, I always have one in my bag or pocket. I carry my head around in one book, and then I find another. I read myself a new brain!
Yep yep yep - I know you did. I can see that.
You painted an image- was Dale a book selling soothsayer?
Honestly, I don't know what to make of Dale. I didn't know then, and I don't know now. I guess that's why I didn't give much of a description of him.
It certainly seemed that the man had mental health issues. I mean, he lived on the streets... Or did he? I really didn't know. And that laughter that I ended with was very real. He didn't seem to be laughing at me or at having suckered me or anything like that. It was uproarious and disruptive, with no apparent prompt. If you caught him in the morning, he would seem more engaged. By late afternoon, especially if there was a bottle around, it got pretty sketchy. And the laughter got louder.
And if he was a "book selling soothsayer," wouldn't that suggest that there was some connection between him and the books? I never got the sense that he read them or knew much about them.
And where did he get them? I have no idea. I am a person who has spent a lot of time looking at the stuff that people sell on the street, books in particular. His books were not like other people's books. These were not trade paperbacks by Steven King, or academic discards-- Kant and Freud. They were usually cloaked in mystery in some way, and they were... weird! Here's another example of a book that I got from Dale: https://nicktyrone.com/greatest-obscure-novel-ever-written-fuck-yes-wing-fu-fing/
And here's another strange thing: I never saw anyone but me looking at those books. I never saw anyone else buy one of his books. I'm sure it must have happened, but I never saw it.
He and I were very friendly, but I wouldn't say we were friends. I first encountered him years earlier when he would set up his books on the loading dock at Area. I don't know if he remembered me from then, but I remembered him. When I would see him on Church St., I would throw him a few bucks from time to time, although I could tell that he didn't like to ask. Where was he from? How did he end up on the streets? Did he have people? And what did *he* think of his trade? Was it a vocation? A calling? A hustle? I never asked him.
Just another New York story.