Nights At Rizzoli by Felice Picano

Author:Felice Picano
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: e9781939293688
Publisher: OR Books
Published: 2014-10-26T16:00:00+00:00

Watercolor of Felice Picano by Don Bachardy, June 4, 1988.

The West Village Piers in their picturesque state of collapse: used by gay men in the ’70s for sex.

Scott Facon, friend and some time boy friend of Felice Picano in the late ’70s at the Piers.

Felice Picano in 1974 on the roof of the Ansonia Hotel. Photograph by David Watt.

Postcard with a painting of the Jewel Theatre, a 1970s gay venue, by the late Patrick Angus. Courtesy Felice Picano.

Six

Shall we compare my night life to what my daytime life had become?

The scene is early spring and I’d been at Rizzoli maybe a year and a half when the new girl stood nervously at the foot of the final short flight of stairs up to the narrow balcony from where, at my desk, I could overlook the entire shop. Antonio only came up here to have dinner and read magazines. But I used it almost daily to order books from catalogues that Mr. M. left for me. Often, I was at work an hour earlier than the night manager anyway, in order to do the book ordering and hand it to Mr. M. before he left for the day.

“Yessssss!” I hissed, giving her one final chance to retreat behind the little separating chain before I struck with forked and poisoned tongue.

She told me that she knew I was working and didn’t want to be disturbed (no kidding!), but there was a customer and she was very insistent upon seeing someone, she wasn’t sure of the name, but the staff on the floor all thought it had to be me because it was someone expert in books on photography, and that could only be Carolyn or myself.

I resigned myself to leaving my catalogues. It might be a big sale. These happened infrequently but weren’t to be missed. Like that nice enough silver-haired man with a dramatically-roped-steer belt buckle who’d ambled in after dinner nearby at eleven fifteen p.m. a few weeks before and said he was furnishing the library in a new ranch house he’d built in Idaho, and he could use some art books. Okay, I’d asked, on what artists? He didn’t really know but he wanted “let’s say a half dozen from all the important periods, so I’ve got it all covered.” I’d stared at him thinking, ”Whaaat?” and then gone around the store’s lower, art book shelves, removing books. As I did, I’d explain, “Leonardo of course, Titian and Bernini” and he nodded, or “A great new book on the Post-Impressionists, but you’ll also need one on Cézanne and one on Van Gogh, of course.” I’d left them spread out all over the flat-out, book cover up tables. For him to look over, which he did in the most cursory fashion. When I was done, there were seventy-two volumes scattered about the store. He’d said, “I guess you can send these all up to my suite at the Plaza tomorrow! What’s the damage?”

Carolyn had phoned the next day, before I was anywhere near awake, to find out who had stripped her art shelves overnight.

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