Liza and not so gay after hours

​

Part of 

Memoirs of a double visionary

 

I must admit that a lot of my recollections from the nights in NYC when I was in my late teens are hazy.  The stories and events I do remember tell the tale of why the memories are hazy.  Some of the things I saw were memorable, and some made me turn away in an attempt to forget.  They were eye-opening, even if I wanted to shut my eyes.  One episode I do remember with enough clarity to tell the story was a night when I went to an after-hours club.  There were two I can remember, and their names were Thrush and Oopoos.  I don’t remember which was which, but they were both in nondescript warehouses in lower Manhattan’s meat district or the East Village Bowery area.  Both had giant open spaces for dancing and whatever, but one had a wide staircase that led to the restrooms in the basement.  I remember going down the stairs and underneath the stairs fours guys were enjoying each other in ways that I didn’t think would be enjoyable.  I did watch for a moment, but not long enough to call it gawking, more satisfying my curiosity.  They didn’t seem to mind.   

 

The bathroom was not fancy; in fact, it looked like a bathroom for warehouse workers, dingy with a central hand-washing station.  There was a long urinal and a few stalls, most with their doors gone.  I wasn’t shy, but I thought it best to use one of the stalls for my stand-up business.  As I walked past one of the stalls, there was a guy nearly passed out with a needle in his arm.  It wasn’t the first time I had seen someone shoot up.  (I had a friend Jimmie Kurtz who was a heroin addict, and I had watched him shoot up.  I never liked needles, and one time he was booting, which is taking blood in and out of the syringe to get a rush, and he forgot to put the blood back in.  He then squeezed the needle into a winding paper cup, and the water turned red!  I didn’t throw up at the sight, but it made enough of a visceral impression that I never had any desire to do shoot-up drugs.  I have a few other stories about Jimmie’s heroin use, but that is for another story.)

I finished my business and went back out and walked past the guys doing each other.  I took another glimpse and thought, not for me!

 

I don’t remember whether this next story was that same night or another.  But some nights, especially after hour club nights, I would stay in the city and not go home to Teaneck.  One night, a friend with whom I often stayed said I could stay at another friend's place.  He said his friend was Liza Minnelli’s manager, and he was out of town.  So he gave me the key, and I went to the brownstone apartment a few doors down.  It was in the theater district near the Film Center building on 44th Street where I worked.  I went in, looked around, and got into the futon bed/couch combo that was in the living room.  I fell asleep quickly but was rudely awoken by a hand on my lower back, making its way down.  I jumped, and I think I gasped. I am not much of a screamer, even when panicked.  I looked over, and there was a guy who clearly was interested in a little more late-night fun.  He looked at me and said with a lisp, “It’s cool,” and I distinctly remember saying in a loud voice, “no it is not cool.  I found out I am not as cool and experimental as I thought, but I’m ok with that. There was another crossover opportunity when I lived in New Orleans, but that is for another story, too.