It wasn’t very cold, but it should have been.

It should have been because it was the second week of December in 1980 and this was Manhattan, where the winds off the East River funnel through the canyons of steel and become bone chilling arctic gales. The kind of days where walking on the street is as treacherous as walking on a glacier, compounded by not being able to see through eyes half shut from the frigid air.

Yet there I was walking over to Z’s apartment in nothing more than a standard coat. I did have my gloves in the pockets, just in case the temperature turned by the time we got out of the club.

My friend CJ Benson had asked that I come by the East Side club where she was rehearsing her cabaret act and give her some feedback. I initially demurred, saying I didn’t really know anything about cabaret acts, at least not in the way I knew theater. Nevertheless she valued my opinion and wanted my input. I suggested I bring Z along as she was a cabaret performer and could give more of an insight. CJ was hesitant. Z was a great singer, a marvelous cabaret presence, and an acerbic, withering wit who spoke her mind and let the chips fall where they may. CJ knew I could be diplomatic and give constructive criticism if I didn’t like her act. Z could not.

Nonetheless, CJ acceded to my wishes and Z was allowed to come along. Thus I found myself walking out of the subway station and down 72nd Street to pick up Z at her apartment. I’m a gentleman. You invite a woman to go somewhere with you, you don’t say meet me there. You pick her up at her house even if there is no expectation of an extended return there at evening’s end. That’s my way of saying this was a platonic relationship.

Z shared an apartment with a male musician friend (she was expert in platonic relationships with men) who had one of those musician quirks wherein you knew not to mention a particular song you had heard unless fully ready to hear a detailed and at times excruciating delve into the nuances of the song. As I knocked on her door, I hoped he wasn’t home, but could take some comfort that our schedule precluded my being forced to listen to any lecture he might have up his sleeve. Z answered the door and I think sharing my thoughts quickly bid her roommate goodnight and swept out the door.

Z was dressed in a trench coat and scarf, the scarf I thought a bit much but then again that was Z, always a bit much. It wasn’t enough to have the right clothes, she had to have the right look. A trench coat without a scarf? Unthinkable, even if the scarf was unnecessary. Nothing was ever unnecessary with Z, every item of clothing, every glance or physical movement was deliberate. It was as much a part of her personality as her wit or the withering glare she gave you when disagreeing with a point you had made.

As the club was on the East Side and we were on the west I thought it best to catch a cab. Here’s a pointer for potential New Yorkers, you increase the likelihood of catching a cab if you go to the corner of two major streets. From her apartment building the next major intersection was 72nd and Central Park West.

That particular corner is dominated by one building, the Dakota Apartments. It was at the time, and probably still is, the most famous apartment building in the city, not only for it’s inhabitants but for it’s imposing physical presence and it’s history. Even today it’s rare to find no one milling about on the sidewalk outside the building either to gawk at the architecture or to gape at who is streaking out of the limo that just pulled up to the door.

In the second week of December 1980 it was even more crowded than usual. The building’s most famous tenant, John Lennon, had just released his first new album of music in five years. While there were always Beatle fans to be found outside the building, the release of the new album, Double Fantasy, had amped up the congestion.

As we walked down 72nd Street I realized getting a cab from the Dakota side might not be the best procedure, so I grabbed Z and said “let’s go over to the other side”. Looking back to grab her arm I noticed a nebbish of a guy sitting on the ground and reading The Catcher In The Rye. Oh Christ, I thought, could you be any more stereotypical? I laughed and guided Z across the street where we were able to grab a cab.

There is much more to the story. Just click on the link 

Continue reading “The Winter’s Tale”