Flying Phone 1979

Two days ago I had visited Professor Bertell Ollman at Bellevue. He was lively. Happy too. It was good to get out of the house. He remains a swalwart comrade true to the revolution.

I left and headed over to catch the M15 downtown. It was fezzing. I had good winter gear. I hadn't been afoot in Kip's Bay in ages. At the corner of Second Ave and 25th Street I looked up at a building in 1978 or 1979. I had been hired for Mark Amitin as an assistant for the ALBEE DIRECTS ALBEE tour. I met the playwright several times. Gentle and polite. The complete opposite of his producer. A constant screaming storm of chaos. One warm Spring morning he exploded into a shouting argument with an Ohio theater owner. Mark's monologue was 90% or more searing. Five minutes non-stop. He looked at me and said, "And what?"

I knew better to say a word, but shrugged.

He slammed down the receiver and tore the phone out of the wall. Ten seconds later he threw it out the open window from 22nd floor.

"I'm going to lunch."

No explanation.

When I returned from the pizza shop, two precnct cops were in the apartment. They had the samshed telephone. It has narrowly missed a taxi. Someone called 911. They traced the phone to this apartment. Mark slipped them $100 and that was the end of that. Except I had to get a new phone.

Took all afternoon.

A madman.

I haven't heard from him in over a year.

I caught the bus to Chinatwon for a bowl of Pho at Pho Grand.