Washington Square N.Y.C.

Diamonds And Rust--Washington Square--Our Breath Comes Out White Clouds, Mingles And Hangs In The Air, Speaking Strictly For Me, We Both Could Have Died Then And There


St. Patrick's Day Parade
N.Y.U. '70

Two hours after I began my search for Sandy's apartment I got off
the subway in Queens, a N.Y.C. Borough across the East River from
Manhattan. Considering my reputation for getting lost, the two hours
it took me to find Sandy's apartment was an amazingly short time.
Just four blocks from where I surfaced, I buzzed Sandy's apartment
building's security door. After riding the elevator to the seventh
floor and knocking on her apartment door, the three of us, Mike,
Sandy, and I, had a friendly reunion. We spent the rest of the
evening reminiscing. Sandy didn't get paid for four more days and
the cookie jar was empty, so our next day sightseeing activities
were somewhat curtailed. To further the group's survival, I was
happy to contribute my twenty dollars, but that still left us with
only a few dollars to spend for entertainment.

Sandy's one bedroom apartment was no penthouse; it had wood floors,
cracked walls and leaky water pipes. Sandy's roommate moved out
after Mike moved in, and stuck Sandy with the rent. Sandy and her
roommate shared the exorbitant $250 per month rent, but now it was
not going to get paid. Nobody seemed worried about next month's
eviction; instead we concentrated on taking advantage of what little
time was left.

During the day, Mike and I walked the streets of Manhattan and spent
a lot of time just sitting on the benches in Washington Square. We
would meet Sandy after she finished work at 5 p.m., and the three of
us would ride the trains back to the apartment. This routine was fun
for the first couple of days, after that, well, let's just say
everybody was glad when Jimmy, a friend from Houghton Lake, showed
up with Sandy's car. Sandy made arrangements to have Jimmy deliver
it, so she would have transportation back to Michigan. With Jimmy to
keep me company, Mike was free to stay home; he had seen enough of
N.Y.C. anyway. Jimmy and I went to Time Square, Central Park, and we
climbed to the 90th floor of the Empire State Building. The
elevators to the observation area, another seven stories up, were
jammed with people, so we figured we were high enough already. You
couldn't see much farther out than a few miles anyway because of the
smog.

N.Y.C. was truly the Big Apple of all cities. Whatever you wanted
could be found there, and when you found it, it was usually bigger
than expected. For instance, on St. Patrick's Day, Jimmy, Mike, and
I took the train into Manhattan to see the parade. On the subway we
met this chick who told us to go to 86th street because that's where
the action would be. At the time, we could only guess at what she
meant. It was a beautiful day on Park Avenue and we did not expect
the amazing crowds gathered to see the parade. At the start of the
parade, everybody was there to watch the parade, but as we
approached 86th street things got a little more frantic. When we
arrived at 86th street, all hell broke loose.

We were pushed and shoved in every conceivable direction by a mass
of drunken kids. For the most part, the kids were 10-to-18-years-old
and they didn't hesitate to act their age. Everybody was holding a
drink and by the end of the day, you not only had to worry about
being splashed by alcohol, you also had to worry about getting
pissed on by some kid who couldn't hold his bladder any longer. The
more modest of the mob would squat or stand over in Central Park.
The pigs had everything they could do just to keep the kids off the
parade route; the condition of the youths was not their concern. We
had to step over more than one kid who was sitting or lying in his
or her own puke.

Getting out of that crowd was no easy task. A pig on a horse almost
knocked Jimmy to the ground. He couldn't get out of the way because
the crowd pushed him into the path of the horse. Using Central Park
as our escape route, we arrived back where the parade started in
time to pick up Sandy. Come evening, we were all huddled around the
kitchen table playing Canasta. In N.Y.C., our days were full of
unpredictable excitement, but nights were predictable to a fault. It
was cards, cards, and more cards.