THE PHOTO ESSAY

THE $85 WEEKEND: SOMETIMES LIFE JUST STEERS YOU IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION

By Michael Doherty

Michael Doherty is a film and television editor based in Toronto. He is also an avid traveller with a keen eye and some amazing experiences.

NEW YORK CITY – SEPTEMBER 1978

Friday dawned bright and sunny, a beautiful early September day. I took a $7 cab ride across the Champlain Bridge in Montreal to the South Shore, stuck out my thumb and began my first trip to New York City. The plan was to see the progressive rock band Yes the following night at Madison Square Garden. They were playing Friday and Saturday nights. A friend at my university had arranged for two tickets; I was to pick them up Saturday at his friend’s place in Long Branch, New Jersey. I had hoped to go to New York with my ex-girlfriend, but she changed her mind at the last minute, so I had an extra ticket, which I intended to scalp.

WALKING ACROSS THE BORDER

I got a ride almost immediately in a pickup truck and made it to the border in about 20 minutes. The driver was heading for a town on the Quebec side, so I hopped out and walked into the U.S. The customs guys appeared interested in my little trip. “Hey, Chuck, it seems there’s a big concert at the Garden tomorrow,” he yelled to his buddy across the room. He was checking my reaction. The officer searched my bag and wished me luck. I clearly looked young, and was clean-cut – obviously different from most of the “transients” who came through the border.

It took about half an hour before I got my next ride. In a nice van going all the way to Peekskill, a bedroom community north of NYC, I joined a husband, wife, and their 12-year-old daughter, who was sleeping in the back. The woman made me feel completely at home. “Here, Mike, have some lunch. I made some tuna fish sandwiches. You must be hungry. Feel like a nap? Sure you do. Come up to the front, dear (to the 12-year-old). Let Michael lie down for a while.” I slept for two hours. A perfect ride. They treated me like a son.

It was raining slightly when they let me off at the train station in Peekskill. “You’re better off here than on the road hitchhiking,” the woman said. She was right. I took the commuter train for the 30-minute trip into Grand Central Station, staring out the window all the way in. A few of the folks were obviously going to the Friday night Yes concert, as there was voracious consumption of beer and loud talk about the band.

I arrived in New York at 6:30 p.m. and phoned the couple in New Jersey to confirm they had the tickets. I was hoping they might invite me over to spend the night, as I had nowhere to stay. But no one answered.

THE STRANGER WITH A PLACE TO STAY

A man noticed me hanging up and sauntered over. “How ya doing?” he said. I answered, “OK.” (I don’t mind talking to strangers. You never know what good might happen.) “What are you doing in New York?” he asked. I explained the concert and the unanswered call to New Jersey. “Listen, why don’t I show you my place? Here’s my number, and you can stay with me.” I said sure (keeping all options open) and followed him out into Manhattan, down a couple of streets and over toward his apartment. He pointed out an anonymous high-rise and I already knew I’d never find it again.

He told me I could leave my bag. I had a generic soccer bag, trying to create the impression I could be returning from a tennis game, rather than being a new tourist in town. I was feeling a little suspicious and said I’d rather hold on to it – “Man, I just met you five minutes into my first trip to New York. I’m not about to leave my bag with a stranger. And can I ask you a question? Are you gay?” I’d been approached in bus terminals in Los Angeles, San Francisco and Chicago, so I knew the game.

My question threw him a bit. “C’mon, man. What difference does it make? I’m trying to do you a favour, offer you a nice place. You’re new in town, I can see that. Why is everyone so paranoid? That’s why things are so fucked up, man!” He was off to choir practice and said he’d meet me at 11:15 p.m. at the same place in Grand Central if I still needed a place to sleep.

EVERYONE WAS SELLING SOMETHING

I put my bag in a locker at the train station and took the subway to Madison Square Garden. The subway was like everything I’d heard: aggressive, noisy, dirty, exciting. I watched a very wasted, loud guy get on, all big arms and legs; he crashed down into the seat opposite me, looking around and talking loudly to no one in particular. I chose to watch and keep my mouth shut. I made it to Penn Station, and walked out into the street area in front of the Garden; it was crowded with concert-goers and, it appeared, thousands of scalpers. Everyone was selling something: T-shirts, black beauties, hashish, cocaine, tickets. I really got into it as I stood around and watched the mayhem, listened, moved 100 feet, stood, listened, watched some more, smiled, moved another 100 feet, and smiled again.

I started to get hungry, so I crossed the street, looking for a restaurant. The first one I tried was closed – a Friday night across from a full house at the Garden and it was closed. So odd. I turned around and saw two women, each about 18 years old, standing on the corner. I asked them if they knew where I could find an open restaurant; it turned out they had just tried the same restaurant and had decided to go to Beefsteak Charlie’s in Times Square. “Want to join us?” A no-brainer. I was feeling great, the rain had stopped, the streets were wet and I was running, hopping between cars and laughing with two strange girls on our way to dinner.

TWO GIRLS AND A $6.95 STEAK

Beefsteak Charlie’s charged $6.95 for a steak and all the beer or wine you could drink -- a gold mine. We sucked back seven carafes of wine between mouthfuls of meat and explanations of who we were. We then poured out onto the street and wandered over to Rockefeller Center, looked around, hired a hansom cab, and rode around the streets of midtown for I don’t remember how long. We smoked joints, laughed, talked it up with the driver, all of us really drunk and high. It was magical. There was no rain, yet a very low cloud ceiling hung over everything.

The skyscrapers rose around us, disappearing into the sky, their lights fading away into the ambient orange of the mist – itself lit by the many lights from all the building windows. The huge spotlights at Rockefeller Center were particularly beautiful against the low clouds. I loved it.

We found our way to the top of some building, all alone, and smoked another joint while continuing to talk about everything. It was well past my 11:15 p.m. meet-up back at Grand Central. In fact, it was near 3 a.m., and the women were convinced I was crazy to stay with the man I’d met earlier. “Christ, don’t be a fool. You can stay with one of us! You don’t know anything about the guy!” So we went back to Grand Central, picked up my bag, and drove (they had a car!) to a small town outside Dover, New Jersey, about 50 miles west of Manhattan. By then we were sobering up; we made it there safely.

SLEEPING ON HER PARENTS’ FLOOR

I slept on the floor in the living room of a fairly nice suburban house; the parents were asleep upstairs. I got about three hours’ sleep, as the woman I stayed with had to be at work at a local café at 7:30 a.m. We walked over in time for her shift. She gave me a coffee; I nursed it while watching her work, then asked for directions to the train station, said goodbye, and left.

I hitchhiked the five miles or so to the station. It was another beautiful day, warm and sunny. I got a ride in a pickup truck with a middle-aged construction worker on his way to work – Thermos, brown bag, checked shirt, red cap. I took a train to Newark and then another to Long Branch. I walked up to a small house owned by the couple who had bought the Yes tickets for me. They offered me a beer and lunch, which I accepted gracefully and gratefully. After a couple of hours, the husband drove me back to the train station for the ride back to Manhattan.

I got back into the city at 3:30 p.m. and went to the Empire State Building observation deck. It was a bright, clear day and the view was, of course, fabulous. When I was 6 years old, I had held a picture of the Empire State Building in my hand and swore I would get to the top one day. Part of the reason for this trip, 16 years later, was to do just that. I had also said I would become an architect, so I could build something as spectacular. I have yet to accomplish that.

NEW FRIEND HELPED SCALP EXTRA TICKET

I left at 4:30 and went over to Madison Square Garden to see if I might scalp my second Yes ticket. I hung around, watching and listening to people, getting a feel for what price I might get. After a few minutes, I started talking to a man my age. We chatted for quite a while, then went across the street for a hot dog and beer. He said he’d help me scalp my ticket and, after 20 minutes, found a man who paid $25 for it, $3 more than I’d spent for both. We shook hands, said goodbye, and I entered the Garden at 8 p.m.

The man I’d sold the ticket to showed up and gave me a wry grin. Perhaps he thought of me as one of the many who make a living as a scalper. He lit joint after joint after joint, passing them my way for the whole show. I got wasted. The music was good, although the dope had me spending most of the time thinking about my life, its direction – basically, everything.

I was really high and not particularly interested in talking to anybody. In fact, I avoided talking to anyone. What a difference from the night before. The dope interfered with my ability to settle in and listen to the music, to have a good time. I left the show and walked out into the cold air, stoned, with no idea what to do, no idea where to stay, and in no mood to blast around Manhattan hoping to luck into a bed for the night. The energy for that attitude was gone. I decided it was all the proof I needed that it was time to stop smoking dope. I quit for good that night.

CALLING THE STRANGER WITH A PLACE TO STAY

I wandered over to Penn Station and tried sleeping on the floor with the local homeless people. It was no good – the site too noisy, the floor too hard. I walked to a phone booth and called the fellow from my arrival at Grand Central, waking him up. “No, man. Not a good night to come over.” I figured he had company. Probably just as well, I thought.

I went back out and studied a tourist map on one of the billboards. I noticed an ad for the YMCA and figured I’d give it a shot. I walked to the West Side Y and, as I was going in, a leather-clad guy on his way out stopped me and said that after midnight (it was 1 a.m.), I wouldn’t get a room unless I said the other Y had sent me over. I thanked him and did exactly that.

It worked. I got a room by myself with a sink, bed, and shower down the hall, for $8! With the room now secured, I considered heading back out into the city. I had second thoughts, and decided to just get a good night’s sleep. Down the hall, I ran into a tour guide from Quebec City who was showing a group around. He offered me a lift back to Montreal in the morning if I needed it. I said I’d think about it, thanked him, and went to bed.

GIVING UP A FREE RIDE HOME

Sunday dawned beautiful and sunny, so I passed on the free ride. I went up Broadway, had breakfast at the Howard Johnson’s, bought a Sunday New York Times and watched a softball game in Central Park. I strolled back down Broadway, checking out the shops, looking at all the people, and being greeted with “Hi, man,” as I wandered about. I was also trying to decide how to get back to Montreal.

I contemplated hitchhiking, but had to cross the George Washington Bridge up at the tip of Manhattan. Not really wanting to figure out how to do that, I stopped thinking about it and went into a theatre to see Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey in 70mm Super Panavision. It was stunning. It had always been one of my favourite movies, and the huge curved screen really did it justice. At times, it felt like I was watching in 3D. It was one of the key films that influenced my decision to go back to school and get a second degree, in film production, a few years later.

Leaving the theatre, I decided to bus it up to Montreal. I walked over to the Port Authority to catch the bus, past a sex worker and her pimp on the corner. I politely said no, thanks, as she grabbed my shoulder. “See me in three years,” I joked, and paid my $28 for the ticket home. It was an $85 weekend in total. Not bad at all.