On this Day, April 16, 1996, the 5 Oaks Closed its Doors.
Of the piano bars in the Village, it was pretty upscale.
They served dinners and suppers for the theatre crowd. I guess it was what some might call a supper club, though that term seems outdated, even then. I don’t remember the first time I went to the 5 Oaks. I guess it was with Jim Browne in the late 70’s. A $3.00 cab could get us there from Murry Hill, or we could walk from Julius’ or The Village Greene.
It had been a decade since I had been there last.
The entrance was easy to miss. It was on Grove just off Bleecker. A door with a simple canopy overhead. A sharp right turn down the stairs. On the right, a tiny bar, on the left the dining room. Between the two was Geoffrey, the maitre d’ and across from him in the center of the dining room was Marie Blake, the reason anyone ever went there — her and the boys and girls that followed her. She had been there for decades and had played and sang every song from every show during those decades. Her signature piece was Miss Otis Regrets, but my favorite was Down in the Depths (on the 90th Floor).
As she sang through her prodigious songbook, would-be Broadway Babies would drop in.
Marie would accompany them and help them showcase their talents. She loved that part of her work: having kids around, helping them on their way. I can still see some of their bright shining faces, forever smiling and so excited just to be there, singing, in a place where someone knew your name and maybe someone famous might hear you sing. They were kids in a playground, hopping from one club to another, belting out a new song, getting a chance to sing past the first 16 bars.
Marie loved that part of her work. In the morning, on the way home in the Bronx, she would stop at the local high school to give piano lessons.
It must have been before 1986, when I stopped reading the newspapers, Marie had a heart attack and open heart surgery.
During recovery, some of her talented young pianists would hold the fort. One, Patrick, would stay on after she returned. He seemed out of place (reserved, even awkward), a Juilliard student making a buck and paying his dues. He was young (ok, my age, but I was young then, too), slender, ivory skin, ebony hair hanging in a Prince Valiant, big horn rimmed glasses, soft hands with long fingers.
He invited me to sit at the family table. Don’t get excited, it was the worst table in the house tucked under a brick arch with an outstanding view of the kitchen. And don’t get too comfortable, Geoffrey would take the table back if there were paying customers. But it was special; close to the action with an excellent view of the show, Marie playing and bantering with the audience.
It wasn’t like Patrick and I were dating. He worked in a piano bar and I worked in a hotel. Our schedules would never be in synch, but he was sweet, nice, funny, talented, and smart. Most importantly, he didn’t go ballistic when I told him I was infected. He was infected, too. I once started a fight in a bar by disclosing to a guy I just met. He thought better of hitting me when he realized my blood might kill him. But I digress.
One night after work we walked over to Grey’s Papaya on 6th Avenue for hot dogs. It was early in the morning and he invited me back to his place in the east Village. It was a wonderful day… and night. Just what both of us needed. It had been a long time since I had held or been held by a man. I guess it was the same for him, too.
I completely dispensed with the Wednesday Rule, and called him on Tuesday afternoon. I was leaving a message on his answering machine, when a woman’s voice came on the line. It was his mother.
Patrick died last night. Don’t ever call here again.
This was not the last time this would happen.
There was Michael: our third date was his funeral. There was another, he had beautiful eyes, but that’s all I can remember. You reach a time when you just stop, you stop asking people out, stop asking how they were, stop reading the paper. It was 1986. Marie would go on for another decade. I was burned out.
