Old Time New Yorkers, did any of you know Rich Bartee, the D Train Poet? I hadn’t thought about him much since I learned of his passing, in 2003, but I’m now writing a short piece about him in my memoir, because today he came to mind, pulled up a chair, and stayed until I remembered our many little meetings and conversations.

After an interesting first meeting, we were casual buds for many years when I’d run I’d to him in the Village or Soho. We’d occasionally have a snack or lunch and talk, mostly about his life, or local art/artists, city politics, and community goings on. We knew many of the same people from poetry haunts and music, shared a certain sense of humor and desire for justice.

The first time I met him, he panhandled me in the West Village. After looking him over, I asked if he was hungry and to his great surprise, offered to buy him a meal. I was about ten years his junior, and pretty sheltered, and it was the first time I’d ever made such an offer, but I somehow knew he was not only safe, but like the brothers I’d grown up with who would look out for you when needed.

That conversation at the old Empire Diner, was the first of many over a couple of decades of unplanned meetings, generally between the Village and Soho. I remember my surprise and confusion when he told me he’d been a police officer upstate, among other unexpected paths on his journey. He’d refused to obey what he thought was an immoral order, and paid heavily for his “insubordination.” He also had scars on his skull where he himself had been beaten by police at another time. Perhaps it was his travails that gave him the aura of empathy I felt, and fueled his desire to interact more deeply than with the usual superficialities with others along his path.
He also talked a bit about what sounded like regrets, but I don’t think he would have couched his feelings in those terms. He presented his story as simple facts, occasionally looking to read my reaction, but never seeming to speak performatively.

Even though he was known for his readings on trains, the only time I saw him perform on the train was when he took me for a ride just for that purpose. Although he’d shared poems and other writing with me, watching him on that train full of generally dis/uninterested NYers, was a quick lesson in charisma and art. It was clear that some passengers knew him and smiled, but others were witnesses for the first time and seemed intrigued by what they were seeing and hearing. That says a lot about his charm, because if there is one thing NYers know how to do, it is minding their own business, and ignoring even the most blatant shenanigans.

In all of our meetings, a sense of camaraderie remained. Attractive as he was, the respect he always showed was akin to a brother who perhaps recognized fragility in others and acted with care. He encouraged my writing, assured me that I’d survive after my painful first marriage ended. He was one of those always welcome, familiar faces, back in the 70s- a person in most ways outside of my experience at the time, yet always somehow kin.

I’ve no idea why Rich popped into my mind today and stayed to visit, but here’s to you, my City-streets friend. I hope you’re enjoying yourself on the other side, and having interesting conversations with all the poets, musicians, and other artists from every period in life. I hope you are at peace despite the current political and ethical challenges, and that you know that people still think of you with a smile.