Volume CXXXIII, Number 18 March 1, 2002 f

Beyond the Pines: nightmare night
LUDWIG RANG
COLUMNIST

Ron's hopes of selling the stuff he'd brought with him from the West Coast literally went up in smoke. That of innumerable joints smoked by us and our friends, squatting on the bare floor like a bunch of Indians passing the peace pipe.

Among these as related last week was the organiser of illicit flights to Havana via East Berlin; a prominent member of the Fair Play for Cuba Committee, surely on the lists of both the FBI and CIA.

Having gone to school in East Berlin he of course was able to talk with me - or whisper, in case the place was bugged - in fluent German.

One day he suggested we all go to St. John the Divine, the cavernous und unfinished modern Cathedral on the upper Westside, to hear Martin Luther King. The Civil Rights leader's speech , expected to be critical of the Vietnam War, was billed as heralding a possible bid for the White House.
But when hearing a young black from the Deep South calling King an 'Uncle Tom' I realised our liberal idol would have a long way to go before getting to that particular mountain top.

Aptly named Willy Blackman, the 19-year-old had a number of cronies, none as lithe and black as he, but hefty types of various shades and ages clearly after more than just the occasional joint.

One afternoon while I was on my own in the 8th Street pad two of them turned up quite unexpectedly, politely asking me for a 'loan', yet in a manner implying they wouldn't take No for an answer. Presumably they needed the money for harder stuff than what was on offer at Ron's.

I had no cash on me I truthfully told them. So they suggested we take a walk to my bank near Tomkins Square, center of the Lower East Side, as Washington Square is of the Village. Here I cashed a cheque and gave them the money.

Whether Willy was on heroin too I don't know, but he was certainly into all sorts of other things besides pot, for example amphetamines, which he called 'speed'.

One evening, having got thoroughly stoned first, he took me uptown to a party of white friends, Civil Rights activists like himself, but affluent middle-class kids. They of course lionised someone who just about epitomised the new adage 'black is beautiful', and Willy lapped it up.

At the height of the party he produced some 'speed', to 'top up' our high, insisting I should join him in taking it. I did, but with dire results.

On our way back to 8th Street by cab Willy to my embarrassment started talking in exaggerated southern accent, and yelling Watermelon! every time he caught sight of a grocer's fruit display on the sidewalk. But it was when I noticed a revolver on the seat beside the driver that mild embarrassment turned into acute paranoia.

Panicked into thinking the driver might use it I assured him that my black friend was 'quite harmless'. However this made matters only worse, with an embarrassed Willy wildly apologising for his white friend having a 'bad trip'.
Which was to go from bad to worse, and as the night wore on to turn into a nightmare.

Back at the pad Ron and the guys I had given money were getting quietly stoned, and passing their joints to us.

But it wasn't until one of the latter casually mentioned he worked in the morgue at Bellevue Hospital that paranoia turned into panic.
Suddenly in my fevered imagination it all fell into place: they were heroin addicts after my Bolex film camera, which they meant to take from me and sell to finance their habit.

My fears were exacerbated by the memory of having been mugged a few nights earlier, right outside the house, by three black youths. Shoving me into the dark hallway they took my wallet, containing forty dollars, and threatened to take my high-heeled boots, bought in London's Carnaby Street. Shall we kill him, one of them cheerily asked.

No doubt that was what Willy's friends were planning to do I was convinced, before taking my Bolex. So I must stay awake. When I saw Ron dropping off I threw a glass of water over his face. You're having a bad trip he gently said.

When it began getting light outside, and they'd all dozed off, I made my decision. Grabbing the Bolex and my Greek shepherd cloak I fled.

There happened to be a police car parked on the corner. Greatly reassured, I started aimlessly walking south along the river, then cross-town to the West Side, heading north after a while.

After an hour or so, about 6 a.m., I found myself on West 23rd Street walking past the entrance of a hotel called The Chelsea. Not aware this was the Manhattan abode of famous literati and artists I blithely marched in.

A bleary-eyed night clerk looked up in astonishment. Had I been out filming he politely inquired, with clipped British accent. (He'd been secretary to the poet Robert Graves he later told me).

Yes, I said, almost convinced myself that I had.

As I came down again later that day, after a hot bath and a good sleep, I found myself standing in the elevator next to a big man with craggy features vaguely familiar to me from photos: the playwright Arthur Miller.

Fame at last? No. But at least, safe and sound, among the famous.