Walter, the Village Guide

Walter was an unctious
young man about
forty-five years old
who seemed dirty
even though he
was clean. I guess,
You knew that when
you looked at Walter
his underwear was soiled.
His outer garments were
shabby and worn.
He made a failing attempt
to dress with flare and pinache.
He wore an authentic French
beret stolen from a distracted
young man here on a
student visa. Jacques spent
more time with "Pris" than
he did his studies. She was
recently from the Midwest ,
here to conquer New York.
A beautiful girl who was
conquered by France.
Enough digression,
Pris is another story.
The stolen beret was
squarely set on his head,
coming down to one
inch above the eyebrows.
A six foot knit scarf
rakishly tossed
around his flabby neck,
supported by a herring bone
top coat missing a
bottom button, made up his
usual tacky outfit.
Sometimes he had a long
cigarette holder clenched
between yellow tartar encrusted
teeth, or a pipe that he never
smoked which relieved his oral
tension and indicated an
introspective side of Walter,
unbeknownst to himself.
Coolsville man.
Walter's round chubby face
and chronically flushed
cheeks were set off by black
horn rimmed double thick
glasses which emphasized
his owlish personna, his
bulging eyes, dark darting
orbs, curious but lifeless.
Their erratic behavior spoke
of fear. Yes, Walter was
spineless. Not an ounce
of courage in
his whole
body.
He maintained his "weeble
wobble" pear shaped form
by conning meals at
the shelter. He'd put on
his worst garments before
going there to eat.
Walter lived by his wits
which explained why
he didn't live so well.
He was willing to
settle for less.
Walter wasn't too smart
except he had animal cunning
in his genes, the ability to
foresee danger and be
cautious if he wanted
to survive. Intuition was
listened to by Walter.
Those of you who have
never had the need to
depend on primal instincts
will never know the power
provided by them.
You might think of Walter
as a loser. It wouldn't be
that hard to do.
By what standard would you
judge him? Yours or his?
He loves being a walking
tour guide. For one to two
hours everyday he is
the MAN.
His groups hung on his every
word.They were impressed with him
as he was with himself. He felt
that he was a man of
"some importance." At least
he tried to believe it.
People listened to him,
praised him,and thanked him.
He was ecstatic!
Walter worked for himself.
The tourist bureau would
have been very upset if
they knew of his existence.
He approached tourists on
the street and dickered with
them for an authentic tour
of the "real" Greenwich Village.
Walter was very good at this
because he was an expert
liar.
People followed him like
he was the Pied Piper.
On average the tours lasted
two hours and seemed inexpensive.
But each individual paid the
changing hourly rate which made
up for his generosity. On the
tour he pointed out buildings
where famous people, supposedly,
lived. "Look, that balcony on
the tenth floor, you can see
Robert Redford watering
his plants! That's his apartment
so it must be him." A buzz of
excitement ran through the bunch
who really wanted to believe.
He was always telling tall stories.
Walter was the Liar King.
The big stain on the sidewalk
in front of the San Remo he said
was where the local mafia boss
was gunned down. Actually ,
it was the result of a case
of beer bottles smashed
in transit.
He would stop in front of
a coffee house and tell them
it was an exclusive Lesbian club that they
couldn't go in because of the
volatile nature of the tarnished "swans."
He hinted that the beautiful young
ladies would not be safe from
the "lezzies "who would "hit" on
them and fight over who was
going to get the virgin.
The tourists pressed their suburban
noses against the plate glass
window expressing disbelief
about the attractive girls inside
who had gone "wrong."
They all felt a tingling fear and
an exciting thrill as they speculated on
what it would be like to be loved
by an intriguing woman.
We all know that men are always
fantasizing about lesbians. They
are taking part in a bachanal
of lust in their warped minds.
Most men are childish and naive
about lesbians.
Walter saw some inoffensive
"bohemes" relaxing on their buildings
stairs and quickly hurried his charges
across the street, explaining with
a conspiratorial tone that they were
dangerous drug dealers. You
could see they were getting together
for no good. They all gawked at the
innocent "drug dealers" and were
relieved that Walter had once more
averted danger.
The last stop was always Washington Square
Park. Walter pointed out the "famous"
folk guitar players who were singing,
very badly, around the fountain.
There is the noted Russian guitarist,
by way of Hempstead Long Island,
Ira Hershberg.
He offered to get their signatures
through a pre-arranged deal
with the artists, said signatures
already on slips of paper in his
top coat pockets.
After the charade of of doing
business he would return and
offer the signatures for a dollar
a piece, claiming that was what he
paid for them.
While the group was breaking up
he flashed the dirty pictures to
the men.
He had everything from lesbians
to "horny" animals, at five dollars
a picture. Walter told them this was
a momento they couldn't pass up as
they saw some of those very same
porno stars in the coffee houses
and on the streets of the village .
Business was brisk !
Everybody left exclaiming this was
the "high point" of their trip to
New York City.
They will always remember dangerous
and exciting Greenwich Village for
the rest of their lives.
Thanks to Walter, the "Bastard Ambassador."