Far Too Experienced
“I know you.” The sedan pulled over as I schlepped up Benedict Canyon Drive. Looking in, I recognized Charlie and a couple of his girls, a skeevy looking guy at the wheel. They didn’t appear to be particularly benign and I considered them with cautious respect. While one needn’t respect dangerous sleazebags, one is always best served respecting danger. You don’t need to respect the barking dog to appreciate the menace of its bite. “Oh, yeah. We met at Brian Wilson’s place. You ever get your tracks laid down?” This caught him off guard. He glanced at the girls. “No. We’re hoping to get some new stuff laid down tonight. Want a lift?” I considered the odd contingent and sensed a percolating menace that I didn’t want to see brewed. “I’m good. Thanks.” Charlie looked at the driver and silently they drove down the dark mountain road.
I’d been staying with Pome Schneider, producer of the minor pop sensation “Turb You Lance” by the none-hit-wonders Blew Boy, and was on the tail end of a drug run when I’d passed them. Even though my car was up the road, I didn’t have the sense that I would have taken a ride with them even had I been stranded in the Mojave in dire thirst. Safer at God’s mercy than man’s. Which is ridiculous because, should such a thing as God exist, It made man, thus proving that It is not only not merciful, but exceedingly cruel. Regardless, I would have walked.
But I had a car, a tough black ‘68 Camaro generously donated to the cause of Art by the beautiful and gracious Jean Seberg, who had travelled to Minnesota to film Airport with my occasional drinking cohort Dean Martin and an all-star cast. Jean had loved the sex, adored the X, and was so ecstatic that she made it into 2 chapters that she gave me her car, at least until her cuckolded husband came for it. I figured in a city of nearly 5 million people that that would be a while.
“Nice car.” Romain looked at me with suspicion as he walked around to observe the license plate. Didn’t even make it a paragraph; good cover, 5 million – jerks. “As I suspected. So, it is you who has stolen the affections of my wife. And my automobile.” I sat at the wheel as the pump jockey at the Texaco on Wilshire and Beverly Glen filled the tank. As he had the hood up checking the oil (yes, they did that once, ever so long ago) and the nozzle in the tank, a high speed exit seemed problematic. It looked like not to be trifled with was trifling with the always trifled with and not over trifles. My only advantage was my four loaded pistols and absolute disrespect for authority or social convention. I had become as jaded as the rest.
“I am no thief sir. I take only that which is freely given. I hold no expectation because I know that without expectation there is no disappointment.” Billy, the asshole taking forever to finish up with the car, approached the window with the dipstick. “You’re about a quart low.” I looked at Romain who turned to Billy with a curt, “Fill it up.” I sat there like an imbecile while Billy put oil in Romain’s Camaro, him mad dogging me from about two feet away as I tried to look nonchalant, disaffected.
It was uncomfortable, but when Billy finished up, I had him give the bill to Romain, who blew up. “The impudence! You Americans act as though the world is here to serve you!” Removing the keys, I stepped out of the car and went around to the trunk, opening it. “While that is our stated ethos on a national level, not all of us appreciate being lumped into that mad collective.”
I grabbed my pack and bindle, closing the trunk, handing him the keys. “You have my sympathy for your romantic problems with your wife, sir. They exist independently of her dalliances. I had hoped to enjoy the car, at least for a few more pages.” He looked at me hard. “Don’t start that shit here. I demand satisfaction.” Great, more demands…and satisfaction no less, very difficult.
“Listen, you’ve got your wife, you’ve got your car, all filled up and everything. You’ve got money and acclaim and success, none of which I have or am ever likely to. What the fuck else do you want from me?” He looked at me, sneering. “I challenge you to a duel.”
We faced each other, sweat beading on our foreheads. Our seconds looked at us as though we were mad; dueling in 20th century U.S.A., this could not end well. But I figured if Clint fucking Eastwood wouldn’t give this man his satisfaction, then I would. Clearly he wasn’t getting it at home. Unlike Mr. Cowboy Clint, I understood the rules of dueling, the most important one being that the person challenged gets to choose the weapons. I chose what I knew: drugs, until blackout or surrender. Winner kept the car, Jean was a free agent.
We sat in the bar at his hotel, the Sheraton-West on Wilshire, and traded shots of Goneliver married malt scotch, lines of cocaine and joints (which we smoked outside as to not annoy the normals). I figured if I couldn’t get a car out of the deal, I could at least have him buy me a snootful. After about 6 hours they kicked us out of the bar and we went to his room. The seconds, Amanda and Charlotte, were invaluable in helping us walk and especially keeping us from punching them, each other or the clientele and staff. Romain’s status as an ambassador was useful in keeping the authorities at bay as we got drunkerer and stonedererer.
In his suite things got dodgy – he apparently had no qualms about my choice of weapons as he was an excellent shot…taker along with all the other stuff as well, and without the limitations demanded by the public nature of the bar, the gloves came off. “Americans do not respect the property of others.” He was going off on that again. I didn’t care; I was trying to find my face. I had worn it in there, I was sure, but after taking some of the stuff he had in his little purse in that tiny bottle, I was having difficulty identifying many of my parts. I had apparently been mistaking them for some of the parts of Amanda and Charlotte, one of the reasons we’d been requested to debark the bar.
“Your government’s imperialist nature has seeped into the very core of your citizens and to lie, to steal, these become not such big things.”
I looked up over the end of the sofa at him. He seemed worn, tired, a life of struggle epitomized in the emissions of his gross excess. His anger at me had become a general ennui, disgust at so much, so very empty. His righteous indignation had sloshed away into the obliterated acceptance that all relationship is destined to atrophy, to wither, to die. Love isn’t all you need and it only lasts as long as the lovers and usually not even that. He was wallowing in a quagmire of self-pity – I had to snap him out of it, there was a car at stake.
“My government’s imperialism notwithstanding, I believe we are ass deep and sinking in Vietnam owing to a handoff from your government.” I toppled back to the floor then crawled around the end of the sofa as he responded, “Ah, but we accept our defeat with quiet dignity, we knew when it was time to leave. The U.S., you dig in, leave your little army bases everywhere you go. You never even stopped your Korean War, just declared a cease fire.” Charlotte helped me up on to the sofa, keeping my busy hands at bay. “God knows what they have in store in Vietnam now that Nixon’s commander-in-cheat.” He looked at me very solemnly. “It is not God that knows, but someone, God knows.”
“Someone God knows? Doesn’t God know everybody?” Uh-oh, this didn’t bode well. Romain considered me dismissively. “Not someone God knows. Someone, God knows.” His accent had become more pronounced as he drank/drugged, which made his inflection less pronounced when he pronounced things more. “I’m not getting the difference, maybe it’s a reading thing.”
Charlotte looked nervously at Amanda; this could get stupider fast. He tried again. “We are talking, I am not reading to you.” For some reason it seemed that if I looked at him and used more hand gesticulation he would appreciate my position better. “No, I mean I would get it if I was reading it rather than you speaking it.” He looked at me, almost insulted. “What, you cannot understand me all of the sudden?!” I really turned on the histrionics. “Oh, I understand you. It’s just that I don’t understand you. You understand?”
We went on like that for several more hours, Amanda and Charlotte so overwrought that we had to send out for thirds. About 3:00 the next afternoon, as we were ordering fourths, Romain went down. I, in my American excess, had excelled! I had out-consumed the foul French hero/cuckold – I had prevailed. I proudly gathered my pack and bindle, scribbled him a note, kissed the thirds farewell (with a fourth in the stairwell) and stumbled away from the luxurious field of honor, victorious. As I staggered through the lobby I heard, “Art!” Now, I reasoned, art is usually something one sees, so by said reasoning I must have misheard.
“Arturo. How are you my friend?” It was Herbie. I’d met him that night so many pages ago at the Troubadour when I was rolled by Ducks.* I seemed to recall a drug transaction. That’s right, he owed me money. Or I owed him drugs. Perhaps both. I couldn’t be certain.
These kinds of dilemmas can become so expensive when one is utterly annihilated and others exploit the situation. I had to keep on top of it, not let this fellow get the drop on me. I knew his name but had forgotten how to talk. It all came back to me. “Herbie, how the fuck are you?!” The sound of my voice so filled me with admiration and humility that I remembered what a great guy Herbie was and embraced this near stranger as an old and trusted friend.
“I am well. And you?” What a great guy, not even mentioning my obvious staken drunt. I was still teeming with pride. “I am very good, sir, thank you. Just defeated France in the intoxicathalons and am amazed to be walking upright.” And of course I wasn’t. I had apparently walked into a potted plant, a great big sucker, stumbled and ended on my back on a porter’s luggage trolley. Herbie was kind enough to keep me from rolling across the marble lobby floor which I’m certain reduced the ire directed at me, but it was clear I wasn’t long for the Sheraton.
“You seem a little under it. I’m here with a friend, but if you like when he’s done with his business, we can go hang out at my place.” I wasn’t at first sure if I had said that or if it had been Herbie, but then I remembered that I was there with an enemy, or at least antagonist, so it must have been him. “Yes, this sounds like an excellent suggestion.” Herbie looked at me. I was seated in the back of a black limousine looking through the window at him standing on the sidewalk. He seemed a little flustered; behind him, just inside the front glass of the hotel, an even more flustered looking security guy; beside him an annoyed desk clerk, and beside him a cute little redhead, who pointed at me through the front doors.
“What?!” Herbie seemed less congenial; temperaments change so fast around this place. I felt a little spinny, so I sat back, closed my eyes. When I opened them I was surprised to find myself seated next to Herbie while directly across from me sat Jimi Hendrix, who looked at me quite amused. “Well, it looks like your friend is back.” Beside me: “Art. What are you doin’ man?” As it turned out I was preparing to take a leak, but fortunately for all involved Herbie’s quick thinking saved the spray. “This your place, Herbie? Man, it’s kinda small.” Jimi sat back and laughed heartily. Herbie shook his head. “What are you on, man?” I remember hearing, “The Froggy bottle…” then it got very dark.
“Man, the dude is fuckin’ wasted.” “Where’d you find that?” “How can he snore and fart at the same time but not wake up?!” Voices swirling through the blackness, disjointed, barely intelligible. “Go for it. It’ll only hurt during and afterwards…” followed by a tremendous explosion! The room suddenly alight, I flailed wildly and toppled madly to the floor, rolling, trying to extinguish the flames. Getting a grip on myself, I realized that I wasn’t on fire and in fact thrashed about on the living room floor of Herbie’s friend’s uncle’s place. Upon that realization I also realized I shouldn’t have a grip on myself at least until I established who was there observing my antics. I sat up slowly, a fairly laden coffee table before me, some grass and papers on a dinner plate.
I gathered up the requisite amount and twisted up a decent joint in a single fluid move. All right, several single fluid moves. Training pays off. Lighting it, I looked up.
Across the coffee table, through the exhaled emission of my smoke and at the distant end of the room’s vast expanse, sat Herbie, who watched me intently, from a chair 8 feet away. His earlier disquiet had dissolved into quiet amusement and he shook his head as he considered me. “You okay, man?” I puffed on the joint, considered the smoke then looked back at him. “Yeah, I am. Thank you. Whatever the vile Frenchman had in his vial sent me on tour.” Beside me, back and to my left: “I’ll say it did. You were all kinds-a fucked up. Pretty fucking funny.”
I turned to see Jimi sitting in my cloudy vapors, smiling widely at me. I offered him the joint which he accepted. “Nice roll.” I exhaled and leaned back against the couch, “Thank you, sir.” I turned toward him. “Nice rock.” Jimi puffed and then smiled back at me. “Thanks man.”
I clambered back onto the sofa, checking out the room. “I trust I was properly embarrassing.” Jimi handed the joint back to me after Herbie found himself as unable as Jimi to traverse that great expanse to get it. Jimi laughed. “You were great, man. You had everybody in that place on fire. It was hysterical.” Herbie looked a little concerned. “So was that desk clerk, Amy. I thought for sure they were gonna call the cops.” This was all news to me. “Really? What twist of fortune precluded that delight?” Herbie leaned forward and looked around conspiratorially.
“That security pig got you down, then looked at your ID. All the sudden everyone got all concerned and they gathered and started talking. All the while you’re trying to push things into Amy’s butt. They came back over, helped you up, put your wallet back in your pocket and put you in the limo. Fuckin’ weirdest thing.” Jimi again received the joint and smiled at me as he puffed and elaborated, “I heard them talkin’ about the French Embassy, some shit. They hardly noticed me when I went through. They looked like they’d shit when we got in the car with you.”
I had pulled out my wallet and opened it before remembering, I don’t have a wallet. The last wallet I had was RJ’s and I had disposed of that chapters ago. But for some reason, in my coat pocket I had the wallet and diplomatic credentials of Romain Gary, French poly-lingual drunklomat and car enthusiast. Once again I had been mistaken for someone I looked nothing like because no one bothered to notice. I understand why. Once somebody makes a declaration, the person they make it to can either go along or disagree. Most prefer to go along. So, somebody sees the credentials without looking at the picture. They tell someone else who naturally assumes they checked that minor detail, who then goes along out of social harmony: the assumption enters play. Once two people proffer an assumption, those who follow necessarily go along because now they have numbers against them and before long, I am a French diplomat.
I had a Get Out of Jail Free card.
And the beauty was that I spoke enough French to confound the average cop or even Fed, so if they got too nosey I could rattle off a string a François to cow them into sheepish, piggy submission, the chickens. Of course if I got caught, it would double as a Go To Prison Indefinitely card, so that offered its own set of variables. I didn’t remember taking the wallet, don’t know why I would, but I realized the problem it represented to me under any realistic circumstances, none of which were evident anywhere near this.
I looked from Herbie to Jimi gratefully. “Don’t know why you didn’t bail on me, but thanks so much!” Jimi laughed. “Are you kiddin’ man? You’re a fucking riot.” Herbie shook his head with a burgeoning grin. “Jimi kept saying, ‘Gotta see this guy on some acid.’ ” I looked very seriously at them. “You got any?”
Herbie’s friend’s uncle’s place was superbly suited for entertaining, that rare Hollywood Hills house with a pool and private backyard, opening into secluded wooded areas and eventually other people’s backyards. Inside it had an open floorplan, lots of space and windows with impressive views of Hollywood and downtown. As Herbie’s friend’s Uncle – Sid, alright, we’ll call him Sid – as Sid made his living in the music business, his pad was set up with a full complement of instruments, including a grand piano, an 89 key Bosendorfer. I had only heard of the Bosie 89 and was excited to play it.
It was decided that we would regroup (I would regroup) and on the following night would enjoy the LSD Herbie had acquired for Jimi’s stay. I had little objection to this plan and was pleased to find that Sid had a 4-room house which provided me a room of my own to spread out in. I ate and retired early, still a trifle adrift from Romain’s magic potion. My dreams were strange and psychotic and I awoke in a sweat a couple of times. When I realized I was sleeping in a sweater, its removal facilitated the end of that problem. Beyond that I slept fitfully, having at least 3 fits and a dream about a Filly that shall not be recounted here.
When I awoke at the crack of 3:27 pm, I was ready for action, but Jimi and Herbie were nowhere to be found, so I went for a swim, had a smoke or three, injected some caffeine and consumed some breakfast. When they returned around dusk, I was lounging by the pool contented as a cat lying in the sun. Their numbers had grown and now included Randy California of Spirit and 5 or 6 ladies, one a redhead who seemed strangely familiar.
“Art lives!” Herbie was in high spirits as he ushered the others in. It was June and the evening was nice, warm. As the others swarmed the pool area I realized I wasn’t dressed for company. I don’t know where my nudist tendencies come from, but it is likely from watching Wilhelm chasing Elena or some other unsuspecting female around the house in the buff, in a drunken rutting frenzy. After a while, naked just seemed normal. And it is so much nicer without all the screaming.
“Who do we have here?” It was the redhead. She was short and a little stocky, not fat or flabby by any stretch, actually quite fit and had the most amazing butt. It was mesmerizing. Her hair was short, kinda bobbed, longer than Jean’s but still shorter than mine, and she had an intoxicated smile – she’d been drinking. I had been reading a copy of Ramparts when they came in and set it on my lap to cover any others’ embarrassment. I lowered my dark glasses and looked at her; had we met?
I offered her my hand. “I am Art. Pleased…” She took my hand and offered, “Amee,” then she glanced down at my ram-parts, “and who do we have here?” “That is Dancing.” She looked at me with a mischievous smile. “Dancing?” I looked into her stunning blue eyes. “Do you like Dancing?” Slightly off guard she sat on the edge of my lounge chair and moved her hand toward my expanding literary interests. “I do.” I shifted a bit, slightly banging an essay about the counter culture by Lowell Bergman entitled, “Linoleum – The New Wave.”
“I think Dancing likes you too, Amee.” She inched closer to my cover, fixing me with a salacious stare. “I think I’d enjoy Dancing with you.” My magazine popped up into a little pup tent causing Amee to smile widely. “You appear to have achieved a level of Art appreciation.” She reached in for confirmation. “Art, this is Randy California.” The cock block, delivered by Herbie, then the swarm, as introductions were proffered. By this point I had grown too big for Ramparts, even Horowitz’s Crypto/Marxist claptrap incapable of containing Art, and Amee, already feeling proprietary, pulled my towel over Dancing and provided me a little shelter.
I sat up offering my hand. “Good to meet you, Randy. Congratulations on your success.” Spirit had charted with a couple songs and had achieved a decent following by then. Led Zeppelin had opened for them on their first U.S. tour. Randy looked to be about 20, sharp, smart, another fuzzy headed type – I was in my element with Jimi and him; even Herbie had unruly locks, which made for an odd gathering, as all the guys had long curly hair and all the women had straight and fairly short hair. Fashion was a huge part of it, our gender swapping: men becoming more womanly as women became more manly. Freaky.
“Thanks, man. Jimi says you play.” That was news to me. I hadn’t said anything about my music, certainly hadn’t yet enjoyed the Bosie 89, so I couldn’t fathom how Randy could know that. Or Jimi. I ran with it. “Do some composition, not much into covers.” It was true and a significant creative stumbling block, as most other musicians spend countless hours playing other people’s songs. To even be considered a musician in the culture of the 60s/70s you had to be able to play hundreds of mostly pretty awful songs by mostly pretty mediocre musicians. It didn’t even serve to learn the really good progressive stuff because most audiences preferred “Louie Louie” or “Whippin’ Post” and most musicians couldn’t play it anyway.
Most played it safe.
“This cat is into some amazing shit, man. I woke up at like 4 fuckin’ a.m. to music like I never heard. It was like a dream.” Jimi looked down at me, big smile, glancing furtively at my towel tent. I was entirely at a loss. I had no memory of playing music, or even talking about it. I was unconscious for most of my time there. I thought. “It’s true. It was impressive, the silence of the mountaintop, the morning. It came up soft and low, like a dense fog.” Jimi shook his head. “Like a dream, man. It was like, I was dreaming and this music became like, a soundtrack, and it started driving the dream. It was crazy shit, man.”
The women/girls had gathered, introductions were shared and a potent joint made its way around unifying us as a party – we supped from the communal bowl. We were of the Brotherhood of the Buzz. The air was electric. We dropped.
The first 30 or so minutes of entheogen ingestion are marked by a giddy excitement, not unlike the feeling during the incline on a mega roller coaster, the adrenalin pumping more with each click to the top. The knowledge of that final crest, coming closer and closer, the unequivocal understanding that once you’re over the peak you are on the ride for good, including every high speed inverted loop and insane gut roiling plunge, is empowering and liberating at the same instant. Empowering owing to the personal bravery it takes to undertake such an intensely revealing journey, and liberating because of the willing surrender necessary to take the drug/ride.
“I’m not driven by money.” We had gathered around the fire pit on the pool deck, the city lights glistening below, a cozy little collective coming on strong. I always liked to keep the mood light, especially with so many unknown quantities in the play. “No, money dropped me off years ago and insisted I walk.” It started slow, a snort, a chuckle, the burgeoning awareness of humor, then the expanding delight in its release. Now laughter, and growing, first one then another and soon all of us are rolling, holding our guts, all but choking with laughter.
“The lights are amazing, man.” A voice from somewhere. I perceived the metropolis below, felt light, weightless. And then I was aloft, soaring high above the city lights, naked, free, fearless and amazing. I soared higher and higher, casting off the bonds of gravity, of reality, and floating high into space. I saw the moon, full and radiant, like a sun surrounded by blackness, distant yet seeming within my reach. I flew to it, I would touch the moon. Air. There is no air in space. There was no Art in space, but that appears to have changed. But one doesn’t breathe Art, but for all that farting, and regardless Art couldn’t compete with space for majesty, insane beauty or location – one needed space for Art. But Art, though my primary consideration, had indeed become my principal concern – for Art in space allowed for no air in Art. And for Art to thrive and stay alive air was necessary – Art could not function in a vacuum. But it appeared that I could. I was still flying closer to the moon; could I reach it before expiring from asphyxiation?
“Has anyone ever died from rimming? Wouldn’t that be ass fixiation?” I heard it like a distant voice, perhaps not even mine, perhaps only an imagination of a voice, though it definitely sounded like something my voice would say. Rimming jokes in space, a first for me. I climbed from the eternal pool, the night air was crisp, I broke off a chunk and ate it. Stale. I spit it out.
I approached the moon; it was gloriously round and full. I realized that I could breathe again, took full advantage of that much underappreciated capacity, then moved closer to it. It was pink and pure and in its midst a delightful crater winked at me. I considered this: craters are not noted for their winking. This had to be one for the annals of space travel. Anal space travel? One often wondered if there would be sufficient space to travel there, but found oneself reluctant to eliminate it as an option. What kind of little shit would poo poo space anal? I felt fine but during anal, occasionally felt offal. I’d have to keep an eye open to that pussybility.
“You have the craziest mouth.” It was Amee, sweet, sweet Amee; I hadn’t seen her in ages and now she was reaching out to me, all these miles from home. I pulled back, it was Amee, sweet, sweet Amee’s ass. I had apparently been ensconced there for some time, regaling it with tails of my delight and Amee’s astonishment. My ass id trip. To most women’s sadness, most men don’t properly accord their physical affection centers sufficient attention. To most men, talking about it qualifies as oral sex. I’m more inclined to talk less of such things and find better applications for my tongue. I like licking: a libidinous libertine loves lapping the lap lips of lovely ladies.
We were in my room. Music swelled and ebbed throughout the house, laughter and crazed moaning from place to place. Amee, on her hands and knees, hung her majestic ass over the edge of the bed while I groveled behind her. We were completely blitzed and felt magnificent. “I never knew I could come on acid,” Amee moaned, bouncing slightly as I continued the great work I was engaged in. It had been 6 hours since we dropped, the initial crazy ride subsiding into a sensational, sexy and thought provoking ride of at least another 4 hours and we had broken into individual parties between the wild group encounters of earlier.
“Sensational.” I was lost and found in the same place. I remembered Amee; she was the cute girl I had attempted to sodomize at the Sheraton – Amy. While outraged to her employers, she was privately intrigued by the potential and tracked down the limo driver who told her where we he’d dropped us. As it happened, Jimi and Herbie invited her to the party, a choice I heartily approved of. I also recalled how I attained my ambassadorial status: Romain slept the good sleep; I doubt he even had anything from his little bottle, and the thirds, Linda and Barbara, were ready to debark the ring. I scrawled Perdant in black indelible Marks-a-LotTM on his forehead, then noted his wallet sitting on the table beside him. I reached in to give the girls tips, but recall some difficultly with my linear mobility. After helping me to my feet yet again, Linda slipped the wallet into my pocket, believing it to be mine. A simple mistaken identity and now I likely had Interpol on me as well. It pays to be comprehensive.
We played music long into the next morning, an honor of tremendous virtue to me. In the live creation of music we can collaborate as equals within the limitations of varying degrees of proficiency. We each share in a collective expression of something bigger than only one – our music, not my music. Herbie accompanied on drums and we played a wide variety, including some of my songs, which were well received, a huge honor as well.
I praised Randy’s lyrics of actual content, expressing my discontent at most musical content, content that they would appreciate where I stood. I offered no shortage of praise for both his and Jimi’s astounding guitar virtuosity and composition. In that venue, in that set, on that night, there was musicianship, not showmanship, which in any real analysis is merely public one-upmanship. It was truly a treat to play music together, as friends, one of the few things men play at not inherently a competition.
“You should come back to New York, you can hang at my pad.” Jimi looked at me across the dining table; we were enjoying post party repast. We had played and laughed and enjoyed a level of communion that only such shared experiences can convey. We had achieved comraderie. Jimi’s offer was directed at me as Randy was touring with Spirit and Herbie had to get the ladies back home, a task that took him the better part of 3 weeks, no particular urgency driving him or them. Sid was in Oosenburger, Lichtenstein, until July, doing advance work for Herpie’s Complex who were touring Europe with the Snoods, a cover band from Oslo.
“Well, it will greatly interfere with my present schedule of bumming around trying to avoid the local authorities, but I think I’ll have to take you up on it…”
And back to New York I went.