At twilight we were smoking a joint in Washington Square when I heard a woman call my name from the middle of the park by the fountain. It was Elise, our classmate who’d run away from home a month earlier. She was wearing a black leather mini skirt, teetering on spiked heels. She was with an older black man she introduced as Maurice. They were generous with their stash, our small talk ebbing into the pregnant silence of the very stoned. Standing there, I just couldn’t get over the contrast. It was amazing - Elise was pale and nordic - blonde on blonde, Maurice was dark as night. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me!” Elise begged. I wouldn’t, for it was almost too heavy to comprehend at the moment. Yet not surprising for some reason. We headed East toward 3rd Avenue and The Palladium.
Things were certainly looking up for Phil and myself as we made our way up through the East Village. Our classmate was an obvious prostitute and we were quite buzzed for the mother of all concerts. Nighttime had now taken on the dimension of an unearthly realm with masked invaders, Frank Zappa look-alikes and Halloween revellers of every conceivable size, shape n’ temperament , all gathering on 14th St. under the venue's radiant marquee. The thinning of the veil between worlds living and dead was palpable. It was all quite a spectacle
“OK! This is it! The Big one! Sit back, relax, we’re gonna be here awhile!" More than three hours later Mr. Zappa (to borrow New York Times vernacular) was immersed in a hypnotic duet with Indian violinist L. Shankar that went on for a small eternity. I knew then that we’d missed the final bus out of Port Authority back to NJ. It was around 12:30 AM when we finally got out of the concert onto 14th St. and we still had to get back up to 40th St and 8th Ave. We were screwed. The early morning hours in 1978’s Port Authority was a netherworld of low lifes - career criminals, hard drug dealers, pimps, prostitutes, murderers, and fast talkers. We were clearly out of place! I got a sinking feeling when the Information Desk clerk confirmed our bus line had stopped running at 11:30! Not only that, but a couple beat cops were walking around swinging their clubs yelling “In or Out?” as another cop began to pull a metal gate across the length of the terminal's front lower concourse. Looking around, it was a very easy choice to make.
From a phone booth outside Port Authority, Phil called his in Woodcliff Lake. Calling mine was out of the question. By now it was just past 1:30 AM. It seemed as though no sooner had Phil hung up the phone that we both turned around to see Norman Good in his pajamas, bath-robe and slippers leaning on his car door at the corner of 40th St. and 8th Ave. with a grin on his face.
Postscript: Despite just a few hours of sleep, we both made it to school the next day. I didn't speak of Elise to anyone, neither did Phil. However, something strange happened later in the day. After school, as I was getting ready to go to my part time job cleaning offices at Mercedes Benz's HQ in Montvale, there was a knock at the front door. Opening the door I found a rather handsome guy in his late 20's/early 30s wearing levis, a flannel shirt and down vest standing there. His shiny black, new pick up truck was parked in our driveway next to my dad's. He introduced himself as Detective (I forget who), flashed some ID and asked if I'd come out to talk to him. What could I do? He asked me if I'd had any contact with Elise since September when she disappeared. My heart was pounding in my chest "How does he know?" I thought, before lying through my teeth and answering in the negative.
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