Vignette: Quick Rescue in Amsterdam

 

At the last moment.

I was a neophyte visitor to Amsterdam, unknowing of the wiles of city life, much less that of a foreign port. I came with a group of forty men on a flying road tour but stayed aloof from the others, not wanting people to think me a tourist; so I spurned their invites to roam about the red-light district. I was better than that, I thought. Yet, like it or not, I was a tourist nonetheless.

I found out how much a tourist I was after leave-taking from my acquaintances. Wandering through the streets solo, I also wanted to try out a marijuana café, stopping into a tobacconist for a pipe and rolling papers.

Not far down the road I spied such an establishment and ventured inside. It was poorly lit, with serving counter to one side with a couple of stools, all occupied. 

The men on the stools, and the counterman, all looked like the cast of a B-grade film about dirty, violent bikers. At the bar’s end was a sign – in English – “More seating upstairs”. 

I was hesitant, realizing right then my hotel key, passport, money and all my identification was in a bright blue pouch hanging around my neck, yet I was about to make a step toward going upstairs.

At the last moment I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned. Before me stood a tall, impeccably attired, muscular African man, hand outstretched, saying “You dropped your cell phone on the ground” and sure enough I had. 

Just as quickly, in an urgent tone, he said “What are you doing here? Get out. Get out of here NOW!’ and motioned me to follow him. Without any hesitation, I did and we both rushed down the street to civilization and safety.

Vignette: "Second time in New York City

 

Night Scene NYC

My second time in New York City was the first time I’d seen it by myself.

On invitation of a stranger, I’d gone for a weekend of debauch but he was a no-show. I stayed anyway.

It was the summer of 1967. I’d gone to get away from a convulsed, confused scenario living in a house of drag princesses and a heroin addicted male housemarm whose grandmother thought I was fourteen. Coming to NYC was a liberation though I did not yet know this.

That first time I strode out the Port Authority Bus Terminal doors, walked down Eighth Avenue searching for Greenwich Village, a place I’d long ago wanted to see.

I refused to look up or stare at tall buildings, not wanting to appear a rube. Instead I admired them from a distance, but I was in awe!

Crossing Thirty-Fourth Street, the Empire State Building, with its needle-like spire jutting into the sky, like a syringe taking in the atmosphere to imbue the city with life.

Going south, passing Fourteenth Street, the streets no longer on a grid, I knew I’d reached “The Village”.

Sauntering down Greenwich Avenue I found an eatery known as “Mama’s Chick-n-Rib” (infamous as a pick-up joint where boys and their admirers planned illicit assignations). Smug in my ability to find it, I went in and ordered lunch.

Inside it was impossible to discern the hunters from their prey; those coy young lads or the older men seeking them. One thing was sure, there were no innocents here.

I set my eyes on the cook, an elderly gent of maybe 35 years. He invited me to the Stonewall Inn. I said, “I’m only 17.”

“No matter; it’s a private club.”

That night turned out to be another first time – but that’s a different story.