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| Copyright Tony Sarg |
How much do you remember from any particular week in your life? For some odd reason, I recall a great deal about a week in 1970 during which I visited my sister, Sue, in Greenwich Village. I remember so many episodes from that week that I often tell them as individual stories to people. One of many stories usually suffices in a conversation of life experiences, but taken altogether they comprise a compendium of uncommon days for me. No week in my life was ever so dramatic, threatening and exhilarating.
So Where Do I Stay?
The first thing I remember about visiting my sister, Sue, in late August, 1970, is that it was uncommonly hot and humid, even by New York City standards. Historical weather data shows that all but one day in that month was above average in temperature. It was a few weeks before I was to start my senior year at University of Illinois, and I really wanted to see her while I could. For some reason I decided at the last moment to take my brand-new Martin 12-string guitar, because you could easily carry a guitar onto airplanes then. That decision turned out to be quite fortuitous.
At the age of 19, Sue had already lived in New York City for about a year and had three main sources of income. When she was short of cash, she'd drive a taxicab for a day or two. Cabbies didn't have to maintain schedules; they just had to be registered to drive and would "check out" taxis whenever they wanted. Taxis were always available, and Sue liked not having a schedule. As a second source of income, she would go to various Greenwich Village chess studios and "hustle" speed chess. It was a nice source of money for her--a few bucks on a 5-minute game; few men wanted to admit they'd been outplayed by a pretty, blond teenage girl and were never going to beat her. She didn't tell them that she could play ten games at a time while blindfolded. During the evenings, Sue would often take one of her two guitars to the Cafe Feenjon on MacDougal Street and do song sets for a small amount of money. That was the original reason she'd moved to New York in 1969.
When I arrived at Sue's apartment, bearing a suitcase and my guitar, it was with the idea that I'd be staying at her place, but I was soon dissuaded of that notion. Her apartment was a studio about the size of a walk-in closet, and I couldn't imagine trying to share it with her, especially since she smoked. Not to worry, she said, because she'd arranged for a place through her friend, Yonel, who owned one of the chess studios.
We walked a few blocks to the studio, where I met Yonel. The first thing that came to mind was that he looked just like Picasso. He obviously adored Sue and "would do anything" for her. He had the key to a friend's apartment just south of Houston Street, a few blocks away. Unfortunately, he thought it only fair that I should pay a small daily fee to rent the apartment. Since I was only 20 years old and naive as a rock, that seemed reasonable to me, especially since I couldn't afford even the cheap hotels in the area. Sue said it was a good deal, so I handed over all but about $20 of the money I had, and I took the key. I asked him whose apartment it was, and he said it belonged to an older woman who had left for the summer on an ocean cruise. She was due back in early September and actually didn't know that I would be staying there, but he was sure it would be fine with her. I didn't ask if she would see any of the money.
When I saw the apartment, I relaxed a little bit. It was a one-bedroom place on the fourth floor of a nice-looking building and, best of all, had air conditioning. The apartment had very few pieces of furniture--a bed without linens and a TV in the bedroom and a sofa in the living room. I'd been told that she was in the process of moving in, so most of her furniture hadn't arrived. The place was clean and safe, so I was happy.
First Impressions Of Greenwich Village
This was my first visit to Greenwich Village, and I was looking forward to getting a real taste of the life there. I loved that the streets were so filled with people and music of different cultures. The Bleecker and MacDougal area had several famous folk music clubs--The Gaslight Cafe, The Bitter End, The Cafe Wha?, The Bottom Line, The Village Gate, and The Olive Tree. I wanted to visit them, but money would be a problem.
Sue also warned me about the dangers of Greenwich Village, especially after the tourists went home around midnight. She said it was probably the most dangerous area in New York City, including Harlem. The police never appeared in pairs--only three or four together--and many of the local residents were just flat-out crazy, with some type of mental illness and/or addiction to drugs.
I did not immediately take my sister's warnings seriously, but that changed on the first night of my stay. Twice in my life I have been witness to someone's violent death, and both of those events were during my seven-day visit to Greenwich Village. That first evening began very pleasantly. Sue had a friend named Paul, who worked at CBS in mid-town Manhattan, and he came down to the Village to take us out to dinner. We laughed a lot during the meal and, for dessert, shared several liqueurs I'd never tried before. We also played a question-and-answer game he called Conundrums, which I immediately loved.
After a couple of hours, he paid the bill and we walked out the door. I remember that the restaurant was on a corner of some block, and it was raining lightly. Just as we stepped out, a car ran a red light and hit a pedestrian who was crossing in the intersection right in front of us. The car screeched away, and no one in the crowd was able to get a good look at it in the rain, much less see the license plate number. The only other detail I remember from that night was that the person was pronounced dead at the scene. It was a shocking end to my first day in the Village and a sobering lesson that cars often didn't pay attention to the streetlights around there.
Settling Into The Routine
On the second day I realized that $20 wasn't going to last me longer than another half day, so I had to make a serious decision. Either I would cut my vacation short and fly home that day, or I would try to figure out how to make some money, since Sue had very little money herself. Those were the days before ATM's and debit cards, and I did not even have a credit card. A personal check would not be honored at any bank, and no one would cash a check. Two ideas came to mind. I could earn a little money doing odd jobs, especially at the clubs, and I could busk on the street with my 12-string guitar. There were a lot of street musicians in the area, so I decided to stay another day.
Much of that day was spent accompanying Sue on her daily routine. We spent time in the chess clubs (she played and I watched), had a meal together, and then went to the Feenjon in the late afternoon for coffee. During the day it was a cafe where you could buy a sandwich or linger over a cup. I did a lot of lingering that week. Sue introduced me to the club manager, waitresses, and several regular patrons, and I didn't think there was a normal person in the bunch, although many were pleasant and eager to tell you their life stories. The club was a typical coffeehouse of the 1960's and early 1970's-- lots of intellectuals, philosophers, musicians, and derelicts.
On the "nice but a little odd" side was a young woman who waitressed at the club. One of Sue's few friends, she would sneak coffee refills for me. I don't remember her name, but I do recall that she was 18, had just run away from her home in North Carolina and was there with her husband, who ostensibly was from Florida and had been kicked out of the CIA. It was one of the more believable stories I heard that week. Sue told her that I had no money, so the young woman immediately invited me to join her and her husband for dinner the next night at their place. I was delighted to accept.
Although the Cafe Feenjon was packed with strange people throughout the evening, one character stands out in my memory. This guy came in wearing a black trench coat (in the sweltering heat), was very tall and spindly, had deep-set, vacant eyes and long, unkempt hair. But the oddest thing about him was that he always carried a bass guitar case with a heavy chain dangling between the handle and his wrist. The chain was long enough to drag on the ground, so you could hear Chain Man coming before he opened the front door of the cafe. Although I saw him every day, I never actually saw his bass guitar; the case could have been empty. No one paid any attention or got very close to him, and that bespoke the Village craziness in those days. It was a different kind of circus than I'd ever seen.
Time To Earn Some Money
Over the next few days, the weather got hotter, and I got more comfortable wandering around the streets. To blend in, I adopted one cardinal rule--little or no personal hygiene. Showers were not taken, and hands were not cleaned. I carried my guitar around with me (which was not uncommon in the Village), and I'd sit on the sidewalk in shade, leave the guitar case open, and start playing anything that jumped to mind. I had to be careful not to take another busker's "station," for each person had his usual place for playing. I also learned to not make eye contact with anyone, but to acknowledge any donation with a "thank you" and nod of the head. Soon I'd get a few coins from many passersby; it really was quite easy when the uptown tourists were in force. I had an advantage over many street musicians, because few played a quality instrument and even fewer played a 12-string guitar.
There were times I felt in danger the next few days, but I quickly adopted a successful means for keeping people away from me--I began to talk to myself. Since it was long before the days of cell phones, you stayed away from anyone who was talking to himself while walking or sitting alone. Most people didn't want to be part of that conversation. When danger seemed most present, I became a real street person.
In addition to the busking, I dropped by clubs and restaurants to see if I could do anything to earn a little money or a meal. I was handy with a broom or rinsing glasses in a bar, but my favorite accomplishment was unloading sacks of potatoes from a truck in exchange for a cheeseburger and a coke. That was the best cheeseburger I ever had.
The goal was to wind up with enough money to get me through the next day. I really learned the lesson of living day-to-day, and, at the young age of 21, I was a bit in awe of those who had to do it every day.
A Respite From Danger
In addition to the increased anxiety over money, I remember distinctly that my sense of being in danger grew and grew throughout the week. Intellectually I could reason that I was probably safe, but the emotion of fear crept into everything I did. Some people, like my sister, felt that it was exciting, but I was glad this visit would only be for a week.
The next evening I joined the young waitress and her husband for dinner at their little one-bedroom apartment. It's funny how you can remember so many tiny details from a relatively benign event that took place 45 years ago, but it is because of the relative safety and camaraderie that I recall that dinner. They had very little food but were willing to share what they had--three cans of corn heated up, some jello, and Coke. We ate like kings. The window was wide open, overlooking one of the busy, baking streets eight stories below, and a small transistor radio was on the windowsill, in harmony with the cacophony of taxicabs from the street. I remember hearing Edwin Starr's song, "War," which fit right in with what was occurring outside. I listened to their life stories--how they met, how they escaped from parents and the government job, how they loved each other. I remember the man had lost two of his fingers, which he attributed to some CIA plot that had gone wrong. It didn't matter. They were happy, and so was I.
A Brutal Awakening
Because I was so low in money, my breakfast was usually a Danish and a cup of coffee at a Blimpie diner on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal. I preferred sitting next to the bank of windows bordering MacDougal Street, where I could write in my journal or watch the people passing by. You could sit there as long as you wished; no one hurried you to eat and leave.
About the fourth morning, I was seated next to the windows and noticed six teenage boys lined up next to each other and leaning against a parked car. They were directly outside of where I sat in the diner, but I was oblivious to them. With each woman who passed by, they made gestures and called out what must have been rude comments in Spanish. (They were probably from the Puerto Rican neighborhood in the East Village, not far from where I was staying.) Most of the women ignored the young men, and a few of them yelled back at them.
Suddenly, two of the teenagers shouted at each other and began fighting. One of them stepped back, unbuckled and took off his belt, and swung it over his head at the other kid. The large belt buckle caught the other kid squarely in the middle of his head, cracking open his skull. He dropped like he'd been shot, and all hell broke loose. All the other guys started yelling at the kid who had wielded the belt, and several cops showed up within a few minutes, followed soon thereafter by an EMT vehicle. The obviously dead teenager was covered and loaded into the ambulance, and the kid who had killed him was identified by his peers, arrested by the police, and taken away. The other kids were all interviewed in short order, and the police then left the scene as quickly as they had arrived, as if it were a daily occurrence.
This entire episode had taken less than twenty minutes to unfold, barely a dozen feet from where I sat in the diner. No one had paid any attention to me, as if I were sitting in the audience of a movie and they were the lead characters. This was the culture here, I realized. What was perhaps most amazing to me was that, as soon as the police and EMT vehicles left, the remaining four kids leaned back against the same parked car and took up their posture of harassment, as if nothing had happened. Two of their associates were gone, and a small pool of blood remained on the sidewalk. Life and death in Greenwich Village.
The Center Of Folk Music
Although the 1960's were over, the West Village remained the center of folk music in the United States well into the 1970's. On any given night you could see folk music greats in many of the clubs--people such as Bob Dylan, Judy Collins, Phil Ochs, Eric Andersen, Tom Paxton, John Sebastian, Peter, Paul and Mary, Dave Van Ronk, Bob Gibson, and Richie Havens. That was the part of Greenwich Village I loved. The place was a hotbed for great music.
Saturday night was the sixth night of my stay in Greenwich Village, and I decided to go to the Gaslight Cafe to see one of my favorite singers, Tim Hardin. I had saved enough money over the course of the week to attend Hardin's last show, and I wasn't going to miss it. Tim Hardin is most famous for his song, "If I Were A Carpenter," but he also wrote other folk standards like "Lady Came From Baltimore" and "Reason To Believe."
The Gaslight was a small cellar club--much smaller than you'd imagine from the fame it garnered. I was one of the first to get in that night, and I took my seat in the front row of tables. Tim Hardin came out and was phenomenal, and then he began inviting other people to the stage to sing. One of the singers was Jackie Washington (also known as Jack Landron), who did a couple of tunes ala Harry Belafonte. Then Hardin surprised everyone by inviting Eric Andersen to the stage. He had been sitting in the front row near me, and I hadn't even recognized him! Andersen also did a few songs, including his folk anthem, "Thirsty Boots." My sister and I had grown up on that song in the 1960's, and it was overwhelming to hear it done by the person who wrote it.
When Tim Hardin returned to the stage and started his last set of songs, he suddenly stopped fifteen seconds into one piece and stared at the back of the room. He apologized and said he had one more person he'd like to introduce, someone who had to be seen to be believed. That was my first introduction to Loudin Wainwright III. Wainwright came up to the stage, took Tim Hardin's guitar and started singing "Four Is A Magic Number." Everyone in the place was blown away. His tongue-wagging stage presence and acerbic, peculiar lyrics were unlike anything I'd ever seen or heard, in a good way. The first verse of that song went like this:
Four is a magic number
But then again so is five
There's a sinking sinner in your gutter
He's the happiest man alive
Wainwright had just released his first album that summer, and he's made 25 albums since then. Since seeing him that night, I've had the pleasure of seeing him in Chicago, Champaign-Urbana, San Francisco, and Berkeley. I was one of only twelve people (along with my good friend, Rich Warren) to attend Loudin Wainwright's concert at Chicago's Quiet Knight, during a terrible blizzard in 1971 or 1972. Rather than sing from the stage, he suggested we all sit in a circle in the audience and exchange songs, using his guitar. So, I used his guitar and sang one of my songs for him and the others--quite a thrill for me. I reminded him of the night he'd been called up on stage by Tim Hardin at the Gaslight Cafe, and he remembered it.
After the show that night in Greenwich Village, I briefly met Eric Andersen and then made a shy retreat. Rather than go directly outside, I took a detour through the upstairs bar, Kettle of Fish, where Tim Hardin had joined a few friends for a drink. I thought that one of them was Bob Dylan, but I had had way too much excitement for one night to interrupt them.
My Last Day In The Village
By the next morning, I was emotionally ready to leave Greenwich Village, but I had to get through one more day. I had enough money to get through that Sunday and decided to play it as safely as possible.
As usual, I went to Blimpie for my meager breakfast. All the tables were taken, so I had to find a seat at the counter. I sat next to some guy who looked about as crazy as anyone else, so we chatted while we sipped our coffee. I don't remember the subject of our conversation, but my impression was that he was reserved but not unfriendly. I probably regaled him of my Greenwich Village experiences, and he said very little about himself. We parted cordially, and I immediately went to hang out in the Feenjon.
That day was probably remarkable for its lack of stress. I saw Sue, the young waitress, her husband, Chain Man, and all the other "regulars" of the place. In fact, in one short week I had become a regular myself there, for several people knew me by name. I remember distinctly thinking that I would never choose to live there--too much danger, too much angst, too much dysfunction and dependence on things--but I was going to get through the day and survive.
By the end of the day I was exhausted, and I bid adieu to my sister until the next morning, when she would take me to the airport in her cab. I got back to the apartment, packed up my things and lay down to watch the news on TV. I felt trapped and isolated in Greenwich Village, so watching the news was one way to unwind and feel a connection with the outside world. That didn't last long.
The first news story they did was about the uproar over a "half-way" house that had been opened in Greenwich Village. This house was where convicted felons stayed for a period of time immediately after being released from prison. They had all committed major crimes, and neighborhood residents were not happy about it. Then the reporter interviewed one of the released felons staying at the half-way house, and I was stunned. They were interviewing the man I'd talked with for an hour at the Blimpie diner that morning, and he had just gotten out of prison, having been convicted for killing two people with...an axe! Geez, I had actually talked calmly with an axe murderer at breakfast!
At that very moment I heard someone trying to enter the front door.
It was certainly one of the most terrifying moments in my life, but it seemed so consistent with the rest of my week that I knew the only thing I could do was try to think clearly. I quickly shut off the TV. The apartment was on the fourth floor of the building, and there was no fire escape. There was no way out and no place to hide. And why would someone be breaking into an almost empty apartment? Only then did I notice that a previous resident had hung two mirrors so that, while in bed, you could get a view of the front door. As the door swung open a bit, I could see a little, old woman standing next to two suitcases. The owner had returned to her apartment a couple weeks early!
My fear of being attacked (and perhaps killed by an axe murderer who must have followed me home) soon dissipated, only to be replaced by another fear. My presence would certainly give the old woman a heart attack. So, I did the only thing I could think of doing; I began to talk calmly with the intent of not stopping until the woman stopped screaming. And it worked. In actuality she didn't scream but only gasped, and I probably only talked for about 30 seconds, but it seemed interminable. I greeted her politely and explained how I'd come to be there, and I mentioned her friend (or maybe now, ex-friend), Yonel, repeatedly. By the end of 30 seconds, I took a breath, and we both began to laugh. I greatly apologized for the intrusion.
She was a very nice old lady, who seemed to understand my predicament. She said I could stay the night and use the sofa on two conditions--that I go get her bed linens from Yonel and that I stop by a convenience store for a bottle of soda water. I was only too happy to comply. I had not noticed it was pouring rain until I hit the street, so I began to run as fast as I could. I decided to cut through the alleys to shorten the distance. The sound of the rain must have covered the sound of the chain as I rounded the first corner, because I ran full force into Chain Man and knocked him over! I didn't bother to stop and see if he was okay but kept running. I'd had enough of this adventure.
Epilogue
The rest of my stay in Greenwich Village was comparatively uneventful. It took me half an hour to retrieve the bed linens and buy soda water, and I spent a mostly wakeful night on the sofa. The next morning, I thanked and said goodbye to my friend, the old lady, and my sister chauffeured me to the airport. My guitar and I returned safely to Illinois, where I prepared for my senior year in college.
I often think about that week in Greenwich Village. For a while it cured me of wanting to live on my own as a folksinger. It also led me to greatly appreciate relatively normal people whose dysfunctions were not so apparent and persistent. I realize the week represented the true fork in the road for my sister and me. She was an integral part of the Village, and I was not. We had taken different paths in life.
Little was I to know that the following couple of weeks would begin one of the best years in my life, but that is another story.
