I walked all over the Village and Chelsea feeling as if I had stepped into a
movie set. It was a few days before Christmas, and for the first time ever I
saw vendors roasting chestnuts on an open fire -- Mel Torme singing in my
head. Every cafe and every brownstone I walked by were right out of
paintings by Edward Hopper.
But before going any further, I must digress a little and write about the
journey that took me there.
I hitch-hiked from Hattiesburg, Miss., leaving home on a cold December
morning wearing a borrowed Army coat and carrying a change of clothing, a
sketchbook and $100 in traveler's checks in a borrowed backpack. My brother
drove me to a spot on the highway just north of town where I began my trip.
Little did I know that my traveler's checks had fallen out of my backpack in
my brother's car.
My first ride was with a couple and their little boy. They took me as far as
Meridian. Then a woman in a sports car picked me up. She told me she was a
prostitute and a recovering heroin addict on a state-run methadone program,
and she was going to visit her boyfriend who was in jail in Atlanta. She
stopped over in a motel just outside of Atlanta and offered to let me stay
the night in her motel room. No, there was no sex involved. I watched her
shoot up, and the next morning she told me she was going to try and break
her boyfriend out of jail. She offered me money to drive the getaway car.
When I declined to help her, she very nicely said she understood, and she
went miles out of her way to take me to a good hitch-hiking spot on the
north side of the city. I hope she successfully freed her boyfriend.
The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, except for the guy driving a
Corvette like a maniac. I thought for sure he was going to kill us.
I can't remember all the details, but I definitely remember that I did not
spend a cent between Mississippi and New York. Everybody offered to share
their food, and the second night on the road someone let me stay overnight
at his house in -- somewhere, I can't remember where. When I got to my final
destination, not New York City but Newark Airport, I had a dime in my
pocket. I went to an American Express kiosk to cash my traveler's checks,
and that's when I discovered they were missing. Luckily pay phones cost 10
cents back then, and I had a dime in my pocket and a girlfriend in the city.
She caught a bus to Newark and took me home, and I stayed with her until I
found a job and a place of my own in a fleabag hotel near Washington Square.
For years prior to moving to the city I had been active with the New York
Correspondence School, a loose conglomeration of artists and writers headed
by the great Ray Johnson. Among the artists in the "school" with whom I
regularly corresponded were a theatrical agent named George Ashley and an
artist named May Wilson, who was known by a select group of artists as the
Grandmother of the Underground. Seventy years old at the time, May had moved
to New York from Baltimore after her husband died. She was a collage artist
and one of the more sensitive souls I have ever known. I spent one wonderful
afternoon visiting with her in her apartment in the Chelsea Hotel, well
aware of the storied history of the Chelsea and awed by the sense of being
in the presence of greatness. I never again saw her after that visit.
Sadly, that's just the way things go. I got involved with other people.
I called George Ashley and made a date for dinner and theater the following
night. The next afternoon I planned to see The Dancers of Bali at Lincoln
Center. It was an early afternoon show. I'd have just enough time to catch a
subway to George's apartment after the show. Standing in line at the box
office, I heard the guy in front of me say to the ticket taker, "Tickets for
I couldn't believe it, but it was him.
That evening we had dinner at George's apartment and then took a cab
downtown to see an Off-Off-Broadway play. Dining with us and sharing our cab
was a theater critic from (as well as I remember) the Times. Over the next
few weeks, George took me to so many plays and cast parties that they all
become a muddle in my memory. One person I met who later became famous was
Charles Ludlam, founder of the Ridiculous Theater Company. There were
probably others whom I can't recall. I also remember an amazing party after
a play at La Mama where we danced wildly until about four o'clock in the
morning. All night long George kept introducing me to women by saying, "This
is Alec. He's straight."
Of all the plays we saw together, I remember only sketchy impressions of
one, and I can't recall its title. The main character was a dominatrix
wearing black leather and spike heels, and carrying a whip. She was tall and
beautiful and had a husky voice. Later, at dinner, I was intimidated by her.
There was a chubby young woman in a skimpy costume who roller-skated around
stage singing "Some day my prince will come." Her boobs kept falling out,
and she kept stuffing them back in. Yes, I would remember that. And there
was a very campy gay boy who drew great laughs when he threw a log in a
fireplace and said, "Toss another faggot on the fire."
As with May Wilson, I soon lost touch with George.
Walking around Chelsea one day, I happened upon an intriguing little store
called The Boggle Shop. Inside were hundreds of soft-sculpture animals and a
skinny man with big eyes and a long nose. He introduced himself as Ed
Ed immediately recognized my Southern accent. "What part of Mississippi are
you from?" he asked.
I said, "Hattiesburg."
He said, "I'm from Eupora, a little town up near the Delta."
"Yeah, I know Eupora. That's where my mother's from."
"Really? What was her maiden name?"
"Peery. Carolyn Peery."
"Was she James Robert Peery's sister?"
That didn't surprise me too much, because James Robert was a writer who had
two best-sellers back about the time I was born. Of course a man about the
same age from the same little town would know him. But Ed more than knew
him. He said they had been best friends all through school.