This is where it starts, or where it started. I am guessing 1982, my father took the family out to dinner in Hoboken. It was my first visit to the mile square city. I spent the afternoon buying clothes and records in the east village on St. Mark’s Place. Then I drove back to Lodi, changed my clothes and drove back to Hoboken. I didn’t really have much of an idea of where I should be going, but somehow I figured it out.
I’m not sure if it was called Sinatra Drive back then but as I made the turn around the bend, I was taken aback by the majesty of downtown Manhattan. The Twin Towers were impressive. I found a parking spot and soon joined my family for a nice Italian Dinner at Gerrinos at First and River Streets
My brother Frank had started going to Hoboken regularly, and it seemed this club called Maxwell’s was in the New York Times every week. The family dinner was on a Saturday, and the following Monday, at my job driving into Manhattan twice a day, I took a detour through Hoboken.
That Monday morning I was driving down Washington Street and at 7th and Washington by Village Market I saw this dandy in a mustard colored blazer. I knew he was gay, and flamboyant. And no one seemed interested in him, no one was denigrating him. He was a local peacock going about his business unharried.
I’m fairly certain that was a deciding factor in my moving to Hoboken. I had seen The Bongos live at the Meadowbrook in Cedar Grove and liked them very much. So much so I had blisters on my hands because I had been pounding the stage with my hands.
It turned out that The Bongos were a local band from Hoboken and played Maxwell’s frequently. Although The Bongos were my favorite, I do remember initially going to see The Individuals with Frank at Danceteria in Manhattan, just a block or two from where I am writing this. I liked the Individuals, but the Bongos had better songs.
I eventually made it to Maxwell’s on my own. I was intimidated by everything. I ordered a Coca-Cola from Martha, who was bartending, and I tried to be invisible. I don’t think I spoke to anyone, and I am not sure if I made it into the back room to see the band.
Obviously I kept going back. Living with my parents enabled me to have some cash and could afford Maxwell’s though I was drinking sodas and usually was not charged for them.
Sometime after that, I met Rand and Jose. They worked in the midtown Manhattan offices, where I made my twice daily trips. I noticed them from a distance and was alarmed by the fact they were behaving a lot like me. I found out they lived in Hoboken, and I asked if they went to Maxwell’s. They knew of Maxwell’s but found it too expensive, so they usually hung out at 923 Garden Street or 1105 Washington Street.
Jose lived at 202 Monroe Street, where Bill Wrice and I went to a party. Bill and I worked for the same book publisher that Rand and Jose worked at. I met Peter Missing at Jose’s party. Back then I thought it was a big deal, nowadays not so much.
I soon fell into this group of college graduates. I thought they were very intelligent and they did too. They also thought I was relatively smart as wee or so I would like to think. Many good times were had. Weed was smoked, films were made, powders ingested. I preferred the white pony whereas some enjoyed the white horse.
One time I introduced Jet Watley to these college graduates. Things were going well as far as I could tell, winding up at a bar on 7th Street in the East Village where one of the graduates, the “cook,” overdosed on the white horse and started turning blue. I didn’t see it myself, but Jet told me what he saw as this college graduate “cook” was carried out to the street where he recovered.
Jet was not impressed and might have been worried for my well-being after meeting the college graduate who turned blue from an overdose. He needn’t have worried since I was and still am against that particular substance.
A Google Gemini rewrite as a Kurt Vonnegut essay
Listen:
This is where it all started. Or where it began to start. I am guessing it was 1982, though time, as you may already know, is a very strange accordion.
My father took the family out to dinner in Hoboken, New Jersey. It was my very first visit to the Mile Square City. That afternoon, I had been over in the East Village on St. Mark’s Place buying clothes and vinyl records—the crucial armor of any young man trying to convince himself he exists. I drove back to Lodi, changed my costume, and then drove back to Hoboken. I had no real idea where I was going, but somehow I figured it out. Human beings are surprisingly good at navigating by blind luck.
I’m not sure if the road was called Sinatra Drive back then. But as I made the turn around the bend, I was struck sideways by the majesty of downtown Manhattan. The Twin Towers stood there, gigantic and quiet, like two silver monoliths holding up the evening sky. I found a parking spot and joined my family for a nice Italian dinner at Gerrino’s, on the corner of First and River Streets. So it goes.
My brother Frank had started going to Hoboken regularly. It seemed like a little club called Maxwell’s was mentioned in *The New York Times* every single week. Our family dinner had been on a Saturday. By Monday morning, I was back at my job, which required me to drive into Manhattan twice a day. I decided to take a little detour through Hoboken.
Driving down Washington Street, right around 7th near the Village Market, I saw a genuine dandy strutting along in a mustard-colored blazer. He was gay, flamboyant, and magnificent. What amazed me was that nobody was paying him any mind. Nobody was yelling at him or denigrating him. He was just a local peacock going about his morning business, completely unharried.
I am fairly certain that was the exact moment I decided I had to move to Hoboken. A town that lets a peacock walk in peace is a fine town indeed.
Around that time, I had seen a band called The Bongos live at the Meadowbrook in Cedar Grove. I liked them so much that I pounded on the front of the stage until my hands broke out in blisters. It turned out The Bongos were local boys from Hoboken who played Maxwell’s all the time.
I had previously gone to see a band called The Individuals with Frank over at Danceteria in Manhattan—just a block or two from where I am sitting and writing these words today. The Individuals were fine, but The Bongos had the better tunes.
Eventually, I worked up the nerve to go to Maxwell’s all by myself. I was intimidated by the whole scene, of course. I ordered a Coca-Cola from Martha behind the bar and tried my absolute best to become invisible. I don’t think I said a word to a single soul, and I’m not even sure if I made it into the back room to actually see the band that night.
Naturally, I kept going back. Living with my parents meant I had a little spare cash in my pockets. Maxwell’s was cheap enough anyway, especially since I was only drinking sodas, which they usually didn’t bother charging me for.
Sometime later, I crossed paths with Rand and Jose. They worked in the same midtown Manhattan offices where I made my twice-daily delivery runs. I had noticed them from a distance first, alarmed by the realization that they were behaving a lot like me. When I found out they lived in Hoboken, I asked if they frequented Maxwell’s. They knew of it, but found it a bit too rich for their blood. Instead, they hung out at 923 Garden Street or 1105 Washington Street.
Jose lived over at 202 Monroe Street. A fellow named Bill Wrice and I went to a party there one night. Bill and I worked for the very same book publisher as Rand and Jose. At Jose’s place, I met Peter Missing. Back then, I thought meeting him was a very big deal. Nowadays, not so much.
Before long, I fell in with this whole circle of college graduates. They thought they were very intelligent, and so did I. They also seemed to think I was relatively smart as well—or at least, that is what I like to tell myself.
Many good times were had. Weed was smoked, amateur films were made, and various white powders were ingested. I preferred the white pony—cocaine—whereas others preferred to ride the white horse—heroin.
One evening, I introduced a friend named Jet Watley to these college graduates. Things seemed to be going smoothly enough, winding up at a dive on 7th Street in the East Village. That was where one of the graduates—a guy we called the “cook”—took a turn on the white horse, overdosed, and began turning a bright, unmistakable shade of blue.
I didn’t witness the blueing myself, but Jet filled me in later on how they carried the “cook” out onto the sidewalk, where the fresh air somehow dragged him back to the land of the living.
Jet was not particularly impressed by any of this. He was worried for my well-being after watching a college graduate turn blue on the pavement. But he needn’t have worried. I was, and still am, entirely against that particular substance.
And so it goes.