On the Bowery 1977

In 1962 my father had a business meeting in New York. He drove us down from Boston and we stayed at the Manhattan Hotel on West 34th Street. Between meetings we went to the Empire State Building, the Rockettes, ate at Tads Steakhouse, and saw the Statue of Liberty. On the way back by Yellow Cab we rode along the Boulvard of Broken Dreams. A sunny day much like that of the photo.

Spotting a man sprawled on that narrow meridian strip, I asked, if he were dead.

“No, he’s just drunk.”

I knew what drunk was since an old man hung out at the gas station in our suburban town. Red Tate. A Korean war veteran. My father sometimes gave him a buck for a bottle of wine. There weren't many bums in my hometown. There were no liquor stores, but Red Tate always had his bottle of Thunderbird.

In the next block were three more collapsed men. Lost to oblivion.

I later lived in the East Village and frequented CBGBs, passing countless enlistees to a state of inebriation on the Bowery. I never joined them, but not for lack of trying.