The Day I Met Tom Waits

A Story by bob skye

From my memoir, I Only Have Nine Lives.

These buildings had survived two World Wars and the Great Depression. They had been bought and sold many times, and had been passed from fathers to sons. Slumlords had partitioned each floor into eight apartments, with one common bathroom per floor. When the newly-established Board of Health condemned these hovels, the landlords simply kicked them out. The properties were sold for pocket change or burned. Others were simply abandoned when the shipyards shut down.

In the early 1980s, the speculators arrived. Dilapidated row houses were bought and sold like playing cards. Scores of buildings were gutted and fitted with new walls and fresh paint, and electricity. Local tradesmen, who had barely eked out a living for years, were suddenly in great demand. Small businesses thrived again

The final sign that gentrification had arrived was the invasion of the yuppies, or the f*****g yuppies, as they soon became known. The native existing tenants resented the f*****g yuppies’ affluence, and their ability to pay the jacked-up rents, which sent rental prices soaring. The more stately buildings, such as the brownstones on Bloomfield or Garden Street, were pampered and restored, and given a new lease on life.

My crew and I had had restored a large brownstone on Garden Street. We had discovered marble hearths underneath thick coats of paint, and solid mahogany wainscoting covered by embossed cardboard. The original wide-plank flooring was hidden beneath several sheets of linoleum. This would be no cookie-cutter overhaul, but a renaissance.

The owners, Sandy and David were thrilled by the work we had done. But we still had a basement apartment to build. While the couple was still admiring their new home, I proposed an idea. I suggested that if they paid for the materials, I would build the basement apartment for free, in exchange for free rent.

Sandy and David, still gazing at their home, agreed immediately.

Shortly afterward, they bought another house, and put the Garden Street property on the market. I should have amended the contract. After some cajoling, they agreed to give me a commission if I found a buyer.

I stuck some bedroom furniture into a corner, and built an apartment around it.

Martha was a bartender at Maxwell’s Tavern, which had been a workingman’s joint until Maxwell House coffee had moved away, screwing hundreds of workers out of their pensions.

I stopped in early one afternoon for a drink, although I’d have never had a drink in my life.

The place was basically a dump, sawdust and cigarette butts on the floor, and a men’s room plastered with for a good time call… graffiti. Martha she pulled a pint of Guinness for me, and I put a ten dollar bill on the bar. She let it sit there as she read a book, and I worked Will Shortz crossword. A crooked, bent-over man in a ratty sport jacket and a brown fedora quietly opened the door. She poured the old man a pilsner of Bud, and returned with another pint for me. This time I nodded toward the back bar and she poured a shot of Jameson’s for me.

The ten spot still had not moved. The bartenders at Maxwell’s served me on the house all night, and inherited the cash I’d left on the bar as a tip. In the evenings I put down a twenty, and at closing time Tom, Declan or Martha palmed it into their tip jar. For an early afternoon drink like this, I usually dropped a ten.

I told Martha about the ongoing saga at Garden Street. We talked about the rising rents. “F*****g yuppies,” She said

I left the ten bucks, and walked carefully back to my half-finished apartment.

Martha sometimes worked as a secretary for John Sayles, a few years before the actor and director became well known. He lived up on Thirteenth Street in a renovated, brick row house. I once repaired Sayles’ window sill, after a carpenter whom I’d recommended had botched up the job. Martha told me that a friend of Sayles was looking to buy an apartment. She promised that she would get more information for me.

Martha gave me the phone number, told me it was Tom Waits, who was even less well-known than John Sayles at the time. He was a cult favorite, with a deep, raspy voice, and a melancholy repertoire. His first album, Closing Time, became an underground hit. I was a huge fan.

I swallowed my timidity and dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered. I asked if I could speak to Tom, and she told me that he was out, and would be home late. She asked if she could take a message, and I gave her my name, explaining why I’d called. She asked if I was a realtor, and I told her in, I’m a close friend of his secretary, Martha. John told Martha that you were looking for an apartment, and she gave the number to me

I described the apartment in detail. I could already the sound hear his piano coming through my ceiling.

Would Saturday be convenient for you?

That would be fine, I said. I gave her the address and directions from the PATH train, wished her a good night and hung up the phone.

Sharon sold antiques. She had a good eye for what people liked and how much they would pay for it. She had no storefront at that time, so I let her hold gate sales in the small courtyard in front of the house. She and her friend James had set up their space by nine A.M. I was at the kitchen counter, smoking a cigarette while I watched the coffee brew.

Outside the Garden Street house. For those readers who have never been East of Newark, a gate sale is the Hoboken equivalent of a garage sale, or a lawn sale. We have yards, but shoppers would have to trample through your entire apartment to get back there. And garages? No way. You have to park in the street with the other 20,000 cars. They parade around the block at night, lurking at corners, looking to be the first one to spot someone unlocking their door, or hear the jingle of keys.

So we have gate sales in the small courtyard in front of the building. The court yard is enclosed by a cast iron fence, and a gate. Hence we have gate sales.

It was a cheery summer afternoon. I pulled a small table and chair from under the stairs, and set it under my sun umbrella. I didn’t want to block the gate or be in Sharon’s way, so I set everything in the far corner of the courtyard, near the three steps down to my apartment. I went to the kitchen to get my crossword puzzle book. I made a marguerita, I put on my straw hat on and tucked the magazine into the band of my shorts. I snatched the marguerita from the counter and went back to my table and chair.

Sharon was exhausted. She and James were ready to box up the unsold items, as soon as the last few idlers left. I was still relaxing when I saw the image of a man appear further up on Garden Street. He drew closer, pausing in front of a building.

He looked like he had not cleaned his hair in ages. He wore a white, button-down shirt and had a wooly brown cardigan tied around his waist. Oh god, I thought. What if he stops here?

I hid my face behind my crossword book, pretending to read. He was passing the building next door. I peeked over the top of my magazine. He had stopped at the gate. He leaned toward James.

Are you Bob Skye? He said in a harsh, raspy voice.

I put my magazine down.

You must be Tom, I said.

I went through my apartment and opened the door from the inside, and invited him in.

He said that the apartment was very nice.

He was really much cleaner than I thought he was earlier. He was tired and overheated by his walk from the PATH station. I have certainly looked worse, and it had nothing to do with the PATH train.

Tom could not have been a humbler, nor a shier man. He spoke softly, as if trying to hide his growly, trademark voice. Maybe he thought his voice was too harsh.

He, and James and I sat on the steps and had a beer. We spoke awhile of Ireland, James was from Ireland, near where Tom met his wife. We spoke of West Clare, a place I could live in for year and years. I might not even miss Hoboken. Theere would be plenty of car parking there.

Tom Waits did not take the apartment, because he and his wife were planning a child, and the apartment was too small. But he said it was nice.

I wish Tom Waits and his family all the best.

I’m sorry that I thought he was a hobo.