May 31, 1978 - East Village - Journal

Everybody was watching Clover at the party. Her youth. Her beauty. Her reputation. She had told Anthony that an older man pays her rent. The Texan oilman visits twice a month. He pays for sex. Andy Reese of the Serendipity 3 crowd said that she was a prostitute. The ballet dancer tricked out of Cowboys on 53rd Street. I had figured the North Carolinan for just being catty. Her fucking for money doesn't matter to me. I wish someone would pay me for having sex. I guess Alice does, since I pay no money for the rent

Later

Alice's play is soon. She'll be leaving to gtraduate from an Ohio college and then her father will drive her to West Virginia with no plans to come back to New York other than she can't stay in Appalachia and she does have desire to be here, not necessarily with me, but in the East Village.

At Dojos I spoke to Anthony about his upcoming exhibition of our photo roman with Klaus and Cookie in Bridgehampton. He said, "The prints were all mine it's my show. I'm calling it Clover and Nolan."

Sounds good to me. If you sell any photos, do I get a cut?"

"I'll split it with you, although I don't know why"

"Because I came up with a story and casted Clover and Klaus and everybody else in it."

"I got Cookie."

They were lovers and dope fiends, although Anthony was a day to day junkie. It suits his laconic demeanor.

"I'll give you that." I loved Cookie. The Baltimore native was real unlike most poeple on the punk scene, having starred in John Waters films with Divine.

"Okay we'll split it once I pay for the expenses The prints and everything else and we should give 10% each the Clover, Cookie, and Klaus

"Agreed.

This was Anthony's first show and he was planning a beach party. Punks at the Hamptons.

Later

I got paid for only 2 days this week had Ebasco. I'm barely working at the executive dining room. The executives are starting summer holidays early. The Boston School Committee is sending my last unemployment. $100 check should be in the mail.

Why can't I find a job? Thankfully entertainment and drink are basically free. Kyle, Kim's sister works at Yogurt Delight. Kim at CBGBs. Cyrena at Cornelia Street. To DeMastri at McBell's. Like Henry Miller I don't need money. Just friends. Right now I'm on 6th Avenue dodging the rain at Dazzle on Columbus Avenue, watching the young ballerinas with their tight buns and dance tights coming from a dance class. I don't stare at them or follow them. They have enough of that from every man in New York.

At the Cornelia Street Cafe Kyle doesn't invite me to a champagne party to meet Sean Hausman. "You people are always free loading."

The Red Sox in first___

Post Vietnam America has retreated from the world stage under Carter. China tried to invade Vietnam to save Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. Eritrea and Ethiopia are battling over a desert. Russia and China have exported revolution to Africa, latin America, and Asia. Leftist revolutionaries battle the States of the Free World in Europe. The while word hates the USA and out threats of nuclear war to defeat the workers' paradise.

As for Cuba the USA should normalize relations with the island by offering Havana a major league baseball franchise; the Havana Bananas or Reds. Cincinnati Reds would have to surrender that name for purpose of international peace.

I love food, but have been starving myself. My body is thin. My muscles are taut. I want to eat, but I have no money. More I want sex. Masturbation is not sex. Just release.

MAY 13, 1978 TIMES SQUARE JOURNAL ENTRY

Clover, Anthony, and I are creating a photo-roman based on my story and featuring his photos. Our cast includes Rhonda, Cookie, Klaus as well as Andy Reese playing a hustler gunman. Everyone else from previous test shots; Mark Mitchell, Wendy have been exed from the future shootings. Anthony wants to finish this fast, so he can show the results to a Bridgehampton Gallery. Clover loves the first prints and asks, “Where is Bridgehampton anyway?”

THE RULES OF KLAUS photos by Anthony Scibelli / Story by Peter Nolan Smith

In 1978 Anthony Scibelli and I created a foto-roman of his photos and my story

The story was one of my detective poems and the cast featured the Eighth Wonder of the world, Klaus Nomi, Jon Waters Starlette, Cookie Mueller, Club 57 Impresario Andy Reese, A texas runaway, Clover Nolan, and me along with several other people whose names are locked in the past.

Scibelli's eternal black-and-white photos appeared at MoMA's CLUB 57 show 2017-2018.

MoMA's photo experts had digitally improved each image, which are classic reminders of a time when New York belonged to us and not them. We all know who them are.

18"X14" prints are available as are larger and smaller versions

To purchase the 18"X14" prints, please go to this URL

https://www.ebay.com/itm/THE-RULES-OF-KLAUS-featuring-fotos-of-Klaus-Nomi-and-Cookie-Mueller/164117217701

Thank You

Peter Nolan Smith

THE RULE OF MR. KLAUS by Peter Nolan Smith / Anthony Scibelli

In the early 70s the Twin Towers rose over Lower Manhattan with the promise of a bright future, but by 1975 New York City was declared bankrupt and seven million people lived on the edge of anarchy.

The project's landfill created a desolation along the Hudson. The wind curled around the Twin Towers to blow sand in all directions and the middle class fled the city by the thousands.

The rich cared nothing for the poor and every morning wealthy passengers flew on faster-than-sound Concordes from JFK to Paris and London. Sean Coll heard the daily take-off in his East Village apartment. The Rolls-Royce engines were that loud.

Sean lived with a blonde catalogue model in his tenement apartment. For some reason he thought she loved him. Like most men he confused lust with love. Lisa liked playing hard to get and she knew that role well. Days photographers shot her with cameras. At night she dated a tennis player and came home at dawn. Lisa liked playing hard to get and she knew that role well. At night Lisa dated a tennis player. She came home at dawn. Sean never asked any questions, because the answers were too obvious.

When people wanted things, they called Sean.

Sometimes it was a girl. Plenty of fun girls roamed New York. They did things for money, because everything had a price.

The clients were usually were happy with his work.

Other times people got cute.

Cute got people hurt. In the end playing nice was in people's best interest.

Sean came from Boston. He had a reputation. It wasn't a good one either.

At a party Tony, a photographer, introduced Mr. Klaus. Sean was not in best form. Lisa had not come home for two days. "I might have some work for you," the German businessman explained. "But I have one # 1 rule. You do what I say."

Lisa had not come home for two days and Sean had not been in his best form.

"I might have some work for you." Mr. Klaus said with a German accent. "But I have one rule. You do what I say." "I don't have a problem with that. You know my price?" "Yes." "Then call me, when you need me, but not tonight."

A day later Mr. Klaus asked Sean to meet a woman named Clover at the New Lost Bar in Times Square. Tony came over with a wad of twenties. Sean gave him a finder's fee and asked, "You trust this Klaus?" "I trust no one."

Sean showed up on time. Clover arrived ten minutes late. The blonde teenager was no woman, but she was no girl either and she explained, "I was a mistress to a Texas oil baron at 13. Does that make me bad?"

"No, but it doesn't make you good. Let's have a drink." Sean ordered a gin-tonic. Clover had a martini. The bartenders at the New Lost Bar never checked any girls for ID.

"Do some of this." She handed him a vial. "Mr. Klaus wants you to." "Do you always do what he says?" She smiled with a laugh. "When it comes to Mr. Klaus, yes." Clover danced on the bar table or at least Sean thought it was Clover. In truth it didn't matter, because Lisa had been erased from his mind.

By the time they left the New Lost Sean was feeling no pain and Times Square looked like a pinball machine with Clover as the flippers and him as the ball.

Somehow they ended up in the subway.

Sean asked the conductor for help. "You don't need any help, if you got her." New Yorkers were experts at minding their own business.

The next stop was Mr. Klaus' penthouse. "Willkommen, time for some changes." Sean didn't like Mr. Klaus's welcome, but he was in no condition to refuse the scientist anything.

Sean was in no condition to refuse him.

Clover had her way with him.

Afterwards Mr. Klaus asked, "Do you feel different?" "No." It was a lie. "Gut, I have a job for you. It might require violence." "I wouldn't be here, if it didn't." "An ex-associate has something of mine." "What?"

"A ball on a box in a refrigerator." "And you only want the ball?" "Ja." "What does the ball do?" "Does it really matter?" "No." "Clover really likes you." Where is she?" "She is upstairs. You will see her later."

Mr. Klaus drove him to a luxurious townhouse on the Upper East Side. The street was quiet. The rich could afford order even in a city of chaos. "That's Cookie's house. I'll take care of her." "And me?"

"There's a man with a gun." "Does he know who to use it." "No." "Then he is just a man. Kill him." "That costs more." Sean was many things, but not a killer.

"Maybe, but things will go bad for Clover." Klaus showed a photo. It was Tony's style.

He had others. Klaus was worse than Clover's Texas oil baron. "Bring me the ball." "I will." Sean didn't say how.

The man with the gun was a young boy. Sean strangled him to unconsciousness. He was too young to die and too pretty too.

The steel ball seemed like a steel ball.

Sean held it in his hand. He saw things. One was that he could break Mr. Klaus' rule.

On the stairs Mr. Klaus had a blonde bound by a rope. Cookie. She looked tough. Sean nodded to her.

Cookie yanked on the rope. Mr. Klaus tumbled down the stairs. He didn't stop until the bottom. Sean left with the ball. He was his own man again.

Sean found Clover in a bag. He called a taxi and wrote on her thigh before freeing her. "I thought you'd never come back." "You were wrong." "What did you write?" "A poem. You can read it later."

Sean took her to his place. Lisa was gone. She had taken everything, except for the TV and a set of weights. "Nice apartment."

Clover picked up a dumbbell. "I want to be strong like you." It was a good idea. New York was a tough town for the weak.

Sean turned on the TV. Clover read the words on her thigh. "I like your poem." "I wrote it for you." Her smile told him that she would be a good roommate.

He had the ball and he had Clover.

And both were good things in 1978, because like the sand by the river New York had no rules # 1 for the good, the bad, and the in-between. Fotos by Anthony Scibelli and Peter Nolan Smith Story and Art Direction by Peter Nolan Smith

Times Square 1978

Times Square 1978

No tourists

Clover is the only slightly vertical image in this foto. Of course eyes are drawn to a seventeen yo Texas runaway. I'm a no one in an English suit. Times Square at the height of the Sexual revolution. I like the stride of the man behind her right shoulder. He has a destination and it's not the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

Foto by Anthony Scibelli

MAY 18 1978 TIMES SQUARE JOURNAL ENTRY

Yesterday Clover and I acted out mini-dramas on 42nd Street. Both of us dressed in the nines. Her skirt cut high to her thigh. We weren’t from the sneakers and jeans brigades. The pedestrians wondered who we were; a young blonde runaway and her protector. Anthony Scibelli snapped shots of us. He seemed very pleased with the results, even without printing the shots. We went into a peep show and the cashier allowed us to engage in various suggestive poses. The XXX shop's customers voyeured with honest intent. One man rubbed his groin. Clover shut the door on everyone, including Anthony. We made out and groped each other.

Afterwards the three of us walked over to piers. As we posed in the soft afternoon light before the derelict USS Pennsylvania, dancing over the barnacled dock, we drank Jack Daniels. My stomach reacted badly, still recovering from the previous evening's drunk. The shoot stopped when Anthony dropped his Minolta.

He headed home uptown to Harlem, hoping to fix his camera's shutter.

We wandered back through Times Square.

No one paid attention to us now.

“I’m from San Francisco. I used to crowds like this.” Clover said and then added, You haven't been coming to Tim's lately.”

“Yeah, he thinks I stole money from him.”

“Andy Reese told him that, but it was probably Andy, who was the thief. He has a drug problem. You might be a thief, but you don’t seem the type to steal from friends.”

“Thanks,” I explained that I had gotten rid of gas-guzzlers from Boston for people who would file an insurance claim for a stolen car. The owners had gave me the keys and $300 to vanish them in New York. They reported the disappearance a day later. I had done it three times thanks for a lawyer's friend ands had helped also James Spicer with the ATM scam, which entailed opening accounts on dead people’s IDs and putting $300 in the back. The ATM machines had a 45-60 minutes lag before registering the withdrawal. You could hit three. Four, if you were lucky. Once I left James’ apartment in Park Slope, I had been honest,

We entered Bryant Park. The shadows stretched across the lawn. Clover was a little drunk. We sat on a bench and finished the Jack.

“Could I kiss you?” she asked leaning close. Her breasts pressed against my arm. Her neck smelled of youth.

She wore red lipstick and after a long session none remained on her bruised lips. Some of mine. I thought fucking her would be nice, but when we arrived at her St. Mark's Place apartment, she said, “Not tonight, but I was curious to find out how you kissed. Nice.”

Nice, yes, nice.

Postcards From Clover Nolan 1979

In September on 1979 Clover Nolan, the sixteen year-old fille fatale from the dusty cotton fields of East Texas, announced her impending departure from New York and America. The blonde artist never explained her fascination with Mittel Europa and left never to be seen by her friends, although that winter I received two postcards from Clover, which I recently found in a stash of correspondences in Andrew Kozak's closet.

The first one was from Mikolow. I asked Tony, a waiter at Velseka Restaurant, if he knew the town. "Mikolow is in Lower Silesia, nice old place, but surrounded by filthy coal mines and when I say filthy I mean brudny." I got the idea and ordered an everything bagel with coffee and reread Clover's words. Her handwriting was a little childish as expected from someone who had run away to San Francisco at fourteen to escape from a local oil baron three times her age.

Hello Boy! Well what do you know? It's cold and snowing here. I mean who would have expected the Russian Front to be cold. Not me and I got a rude surprise. But it's nice too. Kind of magical, if that doesn't sound too hokey. "She's in Poland and all she can talk about is the weather. What else? I and my art are doing just fine. I'm going to travel alot when I get out. I now speak Polish. I miss my home, my friends, you included. Kisses Clover.

Reading the line 'I'm going to travel alot when I get out.' I envisioned Clover in a woman's prison. How had she got a visa to Poland. The State Police regarded all westerners as spies and I didn't tell any of her friends about my suspicions.

I was glad to find a second postcard from Berlin in my mailbox a month later. Her penmanship had improved over the young girl writing from Mikolow. The date on the postmark was 11/3/79. I hid both from Alice.

Peter_____Ah Berlin! I feel home at last. You know I've always considered myself a German, but the amazing thing that even now, with the culture and language difference I still consider myself one. This amuses them to no end, but they like it too_____I think the language is beautiful, so full and sensuous and chewy___Yum yum. Not hard, but strong___nice yes! I love it. By the way I had sex with you. Man looks exactly like you will be in fifteen years. Same face down to the pores and scars...very twilight zone___I can't tell you how exact was the likeness ...You were (will be) pretty good. Clover. And that was all she wrote. Mystery without any answers. I've been to Berlin. I've seen the Wall. 1982.

No sign of Clover, but she wasn't the first woman I lost in Europe.

Nor the last.