11:11 am Clinton Hill 12/29/2025

11:11 am Clinton Hill

11:11 am Clinton Hill 12/29/2025

11:11 am Clinton Hill

My friend in Palm Beach, Bobby Butz, has a thing for identical consequential times such as 11:11 or 00:00. Not that one specifically, which is regarded by some as an angel number to a celestial portal. I just see it as a yo-eleven in craps paying out for the rare first roll. Neither Bobby nor I take these manifestations seriously . At least I don't, because 00:00 and 11:11 show up four times in the total seconds of a day or 0.00004629629 per twenty-four hours. 12:12, 1:11.2:22 or 3:33 don't count, but I like 7:14 the number for 714 Lemon Quaaludes in the 1970s. I live alone and have time on my hands, since I saw every TV and movie on the internet on TV during my three year battle with a very serious illness. I was spared 12/23/2025. 12232025 has no significance in numerology. According to Astrology.com the number 1223 indicates that you are surrounded by love, support, and encouragement. That is true and I owe Bobby for having saved me from a beating in Paris in 1985.

Paris was a good refuge for me in the 1980s. I worked at the best clubs and the investigation into the corrupt 20th Precinct was still seeking answers for Viktor Malensky's murder outside the Continental Club on West 25th Street. I knew nothing.

In the City of Light I never had my own apartment. I crashed with friends or lived in hotels writing in illegible poetry in journals. I was drifting, but was welcome everywhere, since I stood at the door of popular nightclubs. My favorite haunt was Le Privilege, an elegant nightclub beneath Le Palace disco catering to an international melange of fashion, cinemas, music, and jet set. The tables were covered with white clothI rarely when upstairs. The crowd was a little rougher than the Bon Chic Bonne Belle et Beau invitees to the subterranean refuge from the hoi polloi. It was so so branché. Le Palace had a different door policy than Le Privilege. The club needed number. Still I liked to wander through the massive disco, ever alert to the possible presence of some voyu or thug I had refused entrance, They were always looking for me too.

One night I can't recall when, although if and when I find this event in my journals, I'll have the exact date. Maybe 11/11 Armstice Day or Ruhe Tag. The end of World War I. I doubt it, anyway I was cruising the disco. I recall standing at the lower level bar. A large man and slender woman were arguing a few feet away. I couldn't hear the exchange of words, but my danger alert was on fire. Not danger for me, but the young woman. The man grabbed her arm. She tried to pull away without any success. This was not a lover's quarrel. It was none of my business and most men would have ignored the confrontation. Not me.

I stepped closer and slapped the man's offending hand. Hard. He was shocked by my interference and shouted in guttural French. I figured the lout from Alsace. The bartender knew me and pulled away the glasses from the bar. The woman circled around me. There was nothing else for it and I struck twice. Left jab and then a roundhouse to the face. Hard. I've never had a knockout punch. I kicked his knee without his falling. The sons of farmers grow up hard in Alsace. They once were German. He smiled without any wondering, if I could counter his punches. I never found out. The videurs or bouncers muscled him from the disco. He shouted something over his shoulder.

"Je te trouve."

I had heard 'I'll find you' before many places. Usually the speaker or shouter in this case. The young woman and her friends thanked me for my assistance. I smiled and said, "C'est rien."

It was nothing.

My knuckles didn't hurt and the barman, Jean-Jean, filled my glass. I don't think he knew my name. He knew my drinks. Gin-tonic. The DJ was playing Grace Jones' DANCE TO THE RYTHYM. I was feeling good and descended to the safety of le Privilege. Marie France was dancing. I walked to join the blonde singer. Not so fast.

Not so safe.

Pacquita, the doorwoman, grabbed my arm.

"You have to get out of here. That man you fought belongs to a local gang. Nickie. A Serb. He's outside the entrance of le Palace with ten friends. The bouncers will not call the police. If they do you will have to talk with them and the flics are friendly with his gang."

Not good. I had dealt with Russians at the Continental. Serbs were another story. I downed the gin-tonic and signaled the barman, Nordine, for another.

Pacquita waved to a mutual friend, Bobby Butz, a handsome blonde fashion stylist. He was living with Claude Montana. They were a good couple. Bobby was no fighter, but he had a BMW in the alley of Cite Bergere. Like me Bobby was treated well by Paris. He shrugged and said, "You are such a bad boy, but in good ways. I'll get my friends and we'll get out of here. We're going to le Sept."

"Anywhere, but here." Le Sept was the perfect rabbit hole. So very gay.

I downed the drink. Claude the manager of le Privilege wished me luck.

"A minute later Bobby, two Swedish model, one my good friend, Christine Bergstrum,, and I piled into his BMW. I sat in the front.

"Let get out of here."

Bobby shifted the car into gear, yet set off at a leisurely pace without any urgency. No one was after him. He turned left of Rue Bergere and proceeded to Rue de Montmatre without any urgency.

"Can we go faster?"

"I've been drinking. This is as fast as I can go. ZDon't worry. I 'm not stopping until we get to where we're going."

"WQhere is that?"

"You'll see.

The BMW's wasn't faster enough to get away. These people wanted to hurt me. Maybe kill me. You can't tell with Serbs. The two Peugots attempted to overtake us on the narrow street leading to Montmatre. Bobby sped up a little and blew the red light at Rue La Fayette. A wider street. The two cars were crammed with thugs. They were out for blood. The girls were screaming. Bobby put on the radio. I don't recall the song. I wished it had been Judas Priest HEAD OUT TO THE HIGHWAY. The BMW deked left and right to prevent my pursuers from passing us, as if this was a low speed F1 race. Top speed 20mph. All the way to Palais Royal. Traffic was light. He could have punch the gas. The BMW was a fast car. He ingored my pleas.

"I know what I'm doing," he said, as if he had been many low-speed chases.

Rue de Rivoli. A wide boulevard. 30 mph. Next up Place de Concorde. No way were weren't going to get stop there. I wanted to jump out and foot it.

"No jumping out. I know what I'm doing."

I thought the worse, but Bobby pulled up in front of the American Embassy and braked the car. Gendarmes approached the BMW. The Peugots disappeared into the night. Bobby was right. I was safe. He slapped my leg and said, :"Now let's go have a drink at le Sept."

"Bien sur."

Seven was always a lucky number.

In dice and Paris.

7 come eleven.