Sweet fleet beat of the street
From the white of the sidewalk
And the conga sound of the
Bonga bonga bongos
Every spring they sprout like toadstools
In the key of heat
Greenwich Village, 1958.
(Passing the school on West 11th, I get nabbed by two ladies from the burbs. And hey, this is Ray. Not Ruby.)
And no, congas are different. Taller, for one thing. Bongos are easier to carry.
Costanzo. He’s well known for playing bongos, by the way, so well known they call him Mr. Bongo. And guess what? He’s not a Beat.
You can hear a lot of good music in the Village, though. If you want. Then again, you can go uptown too. Not midtown, ma’am. I mean Harlem.
If you want to hear drums down here, I’d say the park or something. You can always hit a party, but I can’t tell you when and I’m not bringing tourists. Sorry, it’s just not my bag.
Berets, too, huh? And you also want to score some leotards? Well, fashion’s not my bag either so you’ll have to ask Ruby for that. Or Cyn. She’s got a store around here. West Tenth Street, I think.
Good luck and I hope you find what you’re looking for.
( Lots of giggles before they split)
Okay, bongos. Sheesh.
Young man: History Theatre