DETROIT REDHEAD, 1963-1067
When I first met her she was about eighteen. I was sitting in the Forty-second Street Bickford’s restaurant drinking coffee and talking with a character known as Johnie Pimples—a young cat—a typical Forty-second Street hustler—open for any suggestion where a dollar s involved but most of the time making it with fags for a place to sleep—a couple of bucks’ eating and show money, occasionally scoring a ten spot or twenty—spending it on clothes—a chick—across the bar on his acquaintances—while he gave them a rundown on how smart he had been beating the queer—or how someday he was going to go to Los Angeles—maybe try and get in the movies—if only he could get rid of all these goddamned pimples.
He had heard a lot of actors had bad skin but what with the latest developments in plastic surgery, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do—that is if a guy was photogenic— which incidentally didn’t always mean a guy had to be especially good- looking. He knew he was photogenic because some gay photographer—one who always came looking just for him—wouldn’t pick up anybody else— good for a sawbuck every time—had told him so.
We had been talking about Pimples’ brother—who was some kind of big shot in Brooklyn—something to do with the rackets—who didn’t like Johnie—wouldn’t let him in the house when he went home. His brother was boss since his mother had died. His old man stayed drunk most of the time and since his brother paid the bills there wasn’t anything he could do. We were both sitting facing the street—Pimples had just finished telling me how someday he was gong to have a place of his own—make a lot of money— and he’d bet sometime his brother would need a few bucks and that it would sure give him a lot of pleasure to tell him to go to hell—when I watched her walk by—slowly—head held high—carefully looking everyone over—half smiling as she notice Pimples and continuing on down the street. She was wearing a simple plain skirt of some dark material—a soft pink sweater— loose and fluffy—a single strand of pearl beads around her throat—hardly any makeup—and later I discovered she had on a pair of saddle-type oxfords. At first glace she looked about sixteen and not at all typical of the usual chick found walking alone on Forty-second Street glancing in Bickford’s window.
I commented to Pimples about her and he said he knew her. He said she had just busted with Knuckles. Knuckles was one of the local pimps and was known for the rough way he handled his girls—also because most of his girls were fine. According to Pimples this one had hit town from somewhere in the Middle West. Knuckles had spotted her coming out of the Fiftieth Street bus terminal—somehow began a conversation with her—taken her to his pad—kept her there under lock and key until she began cooperating. He had broken her in with several of the Forty-second Street hustlers—just to get her started—and recently she had cut out with some trick who had eyes for her—didn’t care she was a whore—and had set her up on her own— threatening Knuckles with the cops or something like that if he didn’t leave her alone.
We continued to sit and talk when shortly she came back and walked into the place and up to our table. She glanced at me and then spoke to Pimples asking him if he had seen someone called Larry. Pimples said he hadn’t and asked her to join us for coffee. Pimples got up and walked over to the counter to get her coffee and she sat down at the table and asked me for a cigarette. We talked and she spoke of having come from Detroit, and one or two experiences she had encountered. Then she began talking about Knuckles and how green she had been, but that now she was beginning to learn her way around and there would never be another episode like that one to contend with. She opened her purse and took out a pair of brass knucks, which she explained she always carried with her and “I’ve got this also,” she said as she removed a switchblade knife from her bag, snapping the blade open. “I can use it—if necessary—although I hope it is never necessary—I hate violence.” Meanwhile Pimples had returned with coffee for all of us. We sat drinking the coffee and when we had finished we decided to leave— Pimples had a meet with a fag who—so he said—was good for a double sawbuck—and Vickie suggested if I had nothing better to do I walk her as far as the subway at Seventh Avenue. There was something attractive and enthusiastic, warm and beautiful about her.
I was living on the Lower East Side—Henry Street—with an ex-show queen named Bozo and a fellow I had met on Forty-second Street and had hung around with all that past winter and spring—Andre—very much the ladies man—whose real name was Fred Veda. He had lived most of his life in Yonkers, New York. He had left home and was hanging around Forty- second Street—picking up a few bucks here and there—mostly from the colored homosexuals that go down to Forty-second Street to look for lovers and young men. He was well liked by them and had known some for many years. He had lived at one time in the Village with a colored poet. He had met Bozo and Bozo had loved him and invited him to share his apartment. Andre had accepted Bozo, and while I had run into some difficulty in a place I had been living, he and Bozo invited me to stay with them.
While walking with Vickie I suggested perhaps she might like meeting a friend of mine and to come on down to my place for a while. She said she had other plans for the evening but she would like to fall in some other time. We made arrangements for seeing each other again. We became friends.
Vickie wasn’t a beautiful girl in the generally accepted sense of the word. She was self-conscious of her height and when we first met she had been in the habit of carrying herself slightly round-shouldered to minimize her tallness. Her hair was an almost mahogany red she wore shoulder length —softly waved and lightly fluffed at the ends. Her skin was pale with a dusting of freckles. Her eyes, green and rather widely spaced, were expressive and always held a sort of bewildered gentle look of innocence. Her mouth was a bit wide with a full underlip and very red. Her body was beautiful with long legs and small well-shaped breasts firm and high she never encased in brassiere. Her movements were graceful and when she walked she took long free steps. She wasn’t beautiful—but decidedly striking in appearance—and later when she became a bit more confident of herself and took to wearing more glamorous type clothes, she was something to see cutting down the street.
She was a strange mixture of gentleness and extreme violence. She was filled with doubts and confusion. She was lonely and rushed about seeking love and understanding. She felt very much alone. She was unable to make any sort of adjustment—she would try and conform—only to find herself feeling sadly rejected. There was a certain strain of creativeness within her she was unable to release, causing her frustration. She was a dreamer—a lover of the sun and the river. She liked to walk and many was the night we walked all night long, ending up in Chinatown for breakfast.
She became well known and had many people interested in her. Most of the cats from the Times Square area knew her and were in love with her to some extent. There were several chicks she made it with.
Her mother had died when she was a young child and she had been raised by her father. She had a great love for her father and it was when she discovered he was homosexual she had left home. Eventually she became more understanding and learned to accept his deviation—this after she had experienced love for the first time.
Vickie was living up in the seventies in an old brownstone front. She had a large first floor room with two huge windows that reached from the ceiling to the floor. One could step from either window to stone balustrades on the sides of the steps to the sidewalk. The room was oblong in shape with high ceilings. One entered through two large sliding doors. Opposite the doors was a big mirror built into the wall. Vickie arranged a small lamp with a dim bulb immediately in front, using it as the only light. A street lamp burning outside cast light in thru the windows.
She met Andre and they fell in love. She had kept her appointment with me and I took her down to my place and they met. He was good-looking and should have lived during the time of buccaneers—flowing capes and hats with plumes. He knew New York from one end to the other and soon he and Vickie were to be seen at any hour in almost any part of the city. They went for long walks and spent hours talking and dreaming what the future might hold for them. They loved each other unstintingly and planned to get married until his family stepped into the scene and let him know in no uncertain terms they wouldn’t tolerate him marrying a whore. Vickie had tricked with his father at a convention and was embarrassed and ashamed when Andre had invited her home to meet his people and they were introduced. It upset her far more than it did Andre, but his father nearly hit the ceiling when he learned they were planning marriage.
(For magazine readers the article continues here)
The plans for the marriage fell through.
Vickie continued living an active life—meeting people—settling down to a more practical attitude concerning her prostitution—lining up several johns who were regular weekly customers contributing various sums of money—from one who paid her $50 to one who was giving her $150— moving from a one-room apartment to a three-room apartment—buying furniture—new clothes—occasionally acting as a fence—buying and selling articles of jewelry—learning to play drums—making it with the bop musicians—being seen at Birdland—The Royal Roost—swinging up to Harlem—eventually picking up steady with a cat who was a junky— beginning to take an occasional joy-pop herself. Every now and then I would run into her and we would sit and talk—usually over coffee in some cafeteria—but I wasn’t seeing her steady during that time. She had gotten pretty hung up over Andre and it was a disappointment things hadn’t worked out per plan. She said she guessed that was life and that now since she had organized her life—such as it was—perhaps it was well she hadn’t married. She was still seeing Andre off and on and they would spend a day or two together—but the big passion had cooled down. Once I ran into her one morning about five A.M. in Kellogg’s Cafeteria on Forty-ninth Street—a hangout for a big group of Times Square pimps—whores—thieves—show people—musicians—potheads—and junkies. She was with two brothers just in from Cleveland, Ohio. I don’t know exactly how they had met originally but she apparently had known them for some time and they sat reminiscing about some of their past experiences. She introduced them as Bob and Don Brandenberg and at the same time told me, “They are the greatest. Get to know them.”
Later—after I did get to know them—Bob told me he met Vickie about a month prior to when we met and that they had been introduced by one of the musicians—blowing sax up at the Roost—he had known in Cleveland. He had looked him up when he hit town looking to cop some pot. He and the cat had fallen up to Vickie’s and she had turned them on. He and Vickie had eyes for each other so he had made it with her until having to return to Cleveland. He had gone back to Cleveland—taken care of some business—picked up his brother Don—and it was just after they had returned to New York we met.
Don was a merchant seaman and had come to New York to get a ship.
Vickie suggested—since she had a meet with one of her johns later in the morning—I take Bob and Don downtown with me. She said they were nearly broke and were tired. She slipped me a couple of sticks of pot and told me to light up when we got home.
Bozo and Andre had been in the process of severing their friendship for the past few weeks—and Bozo took an immediate liking to Bob. He suggested Bob and Don stay with us until they could make other arrangements. Andre took an instant dislike to both Bob and Don and decided to move out immediately. We all managed to settle in comfortably. Don and I spent most of our time looking for a ship. I had decided to go back to sea and we both thought we would enjoy making a trip together. We finally got what we were looking for in the way of a ship—and we made about an eight-month trip. It was one of the best trips I ever made while going to sea.
When we returned Don decided to go back to Cleveland. Meanwhile Bozo and Andre split up and Bob and I took over Bozo’s apartment and turned it into a tea pad and thieves’ den. There were four or five fellows making the place a sort of headquarters. They would spend the night going out and scoring—coming in—in the morning—with quarts of beer—pot— bennies—and a friend or a chick—and we would sit around and ball— people sometimes falling asleep—so there was some kind of action constantly.
We painted the walls black with yellow panels and a Chinese red ceiling. Long black and yellow drapes hung to the floor over the windows. A crescent-shaped lamp with a red bulb hung from a cord suspended over a black L-shaped couch. There was a distinct Oriental opium den atmosphere.
Meanwhile Vickie had gotten hooked on junk. When I got in touch with her she invited me to come up to her room. She had lost her three bedroom apartment and all her furniture and was living in one room up on 102nd Street just off Central Park West in a strange building with all sorts of unnecessary staircases—hallways—different levels on each floor—little closets and cupboards in the hallways all painted different colors so the whole effect was almost surrealistic—and most of the people living there even stranger. There were musicians of all kinds—bop—jazz —hillbilly— pop singers—even an old man who used to sit out in front on the stoop – twanging a Jew’s harp. There were various types of show people— including a group of out-of-work midgets—who quarreled and screamed at each other all hours of the day and night. There were several young college students from Columbia—three old ladies who were always drunk and sat in a room on the first floor near the entrance every day with the door open—a half gallon of wine on the table—watching everybody who came in and went out—what a bitch she is—or he beats his wife—etc.—loud enough so people could hear. And then there was Vickie and her group of friends, most of whom were using junk.
I had been seeing Vickie regularly and using junk with her. In fact— although I didn’t give up my interest in the pad downtown completely—I moved in with her.
She had changed considerably from the young innocent girl I had first known. There was still the quality of gentleness and wide-eyed wonder about her but on the surface there was a patina of indifference. Somewhere along the line that certain spark of aliveness distinguishing her from the other girls—that special little flame so completely hers—had been quenched. She now lived entirely in a world of fantasy. We spent hours simply sitting —listening to music. She had managed to keep her phonograph and records —and would place a stack on the changer—then lie back—listening.
Somehow we managed to get by financially even though our habits were costing twenty-five to thirty-five dollars a day. She had kept two of her johns and would see them every week. I still had some money from my trip and was doing some stealing. We lived together in this way for about five months—all through the summer and up until about Christmas of that year. We had a rather beautiful kind of love—devoid of tension—anxiety—and emotional violence. We were at peace with each other and I look back at that time with a deep feeling of gratitude.
Just about Christmas things began going bad for both of us. We were having trouble keeping our habits going. Money was becoming difficult to obtain and we had gone sick once or twice—making us irritable. We had an argument where we both said miserable things to each other. Things got so bad we couldn’t make the rent and Vickie was afraid to go out and leave her things because the landlord might lock the door. Finally we decided to pack everything up and move downtown.
Most of the cats making the scene downtown kind of fell in love with her. She babied them—listening to their troubles—let them tell her about their dreams and plans—played music for them—read them poetry—so they understood it—for the first time. Occasionally when one or two of them had a job they intended pulling—breaking and entering a store—they would take her along and then when they got back they would talk about how cool she had been or how much heart she had.
The bathtub was in the kitchen and it was entertaining to watch Vickie bathe. She was beautiful sitting in the tub with her hair piled on top of her head—the tub overflowing with frothy bubble bath—heavily scented with something called Shanghai.
One morning she had one fellow painting his toenails silver. He was just out of prison—having served almost ten years. He never forgot Vickie and years later when I ran into him, he asked about her and said, “Man—that was some redhead.”
She used to go out alone and cut around the city and she took to wearing our clothes. She would put on a suit and a man’s shirt or sometimes she would go glamorous in a dress and high heels.
About this time a young Italian cat named Ricci began hanging around the pad. He became friendly with Bob and they formed a partnership. They planned a caper in Washington, D.C., and spent much time running back and forth between the two cities. Finally they made the take in Washington—but at the last minute—when they were making their getaway —one of them dropped a match pad with a telephone number on it. The cops found it—traced the number—and grabbed them in Washington. We got the news about three-thirty in the morning. One of Ricci’s boys from Long Island came by and told us we had better clear out before the police had a chance to locate the pad.
Vicki and I packed up—bag and baggage—called a secondhand furniture man—and sold everything in the place to him—and were out and gone by two o’clock the following afternoon.
Vicki had met a young cat who lived in Philly and had pleaded with her to make the scene there with him. She decided to take him up on it— figuring it was a good idea to get out of New York at the time. We said good-bye and it was nearly two years before we saw each other again.
Things continued to go along pretty rough for me until I took a fall for possession of a five-dollar bag of heroin and was sentenced to six months on Rikers Island. I served the six months—actually less than six—since I got five days a month off for good behavior. I had of course kicked my habit— cold turkey—while in prison. When I came out I was very careful—not doing any stealing—getting by bumming off friends and acquaintances until I got a job on a ship and went back to sea. The following winter—shortly after coming back—I went down to Texas and stayed not quite a year with a friend. After returning to New York in the late fall I got hung up again on drugs—acquired a partner who taught me how to burglarize. I worked with him until the middle of the summer—when we split up because he wanted to go back to his hometown.
My habit was pretty heavy by this time and again I found the going rough.
I was just barely getting by—I was spending everything I’d get my hands on for junk and didn’t even have a place to live. When I had about reached the end of my endurance—I was sick half the time—run down physically—without a place to sleep—dirty—worn out— my feet sore and bleeding—ready for suicide—a friend I hadn’t seen for some time—and then ran into on the street—took pity on me. He let me sleep in his place. It was days—many days—before I could get up and around. I was exhausted and slept—twenty and twenty-four hours at a stretch. I was more dead than alive and wanted it that way. I didn’t want to live. Prayed for death.
Eventually I began coming out of it—although emotionally and mentally I was defeated. I began going out on the streets again and one night at the corner of Fiftieth and Broadway I ran into Vickie. She was looking extremely well—dressed in a black silk coat and gold wool dress. When she saw me she held her coat in both hands spreading it out like wings —and sort of running toward me she reminded me of a big black and gold butterfly. She told me she had been doing quite well—until but recently working as a model—doing a little hustling on the side—living up near Columbia over close to the river—and was half in love with Ricci whom she had been seeing a lot of since returning to New York. She said she had done fairly well in Philly but had gotten homesick for New York. She was vague about what happened in Philly except to say that she had spent only a short time with the man she had gone down there to see. She mentioned having had various jobs none of which suited her very long. She had kept in touch with Bob and Ricci having contacted Don in Cleveland, and although Bob was still serving time Ricci had been home about six months.
He had driven down to Philly with a friend about a month ago and they had balled for about a week. He asked her to come on up to New York and here she was.
She also told me she was using stuff again—in fact both she and Ricci were—so she explained—half hooked. She had kicked her habit in Philly but when Ricci came on the scene he had some stuff with him and she picked up. She said she was just on her way to cop and suggested I go along. She said Ricci was waiting for her to come back to her place and after she makes her meet we would go up there and get straight.
I joined her and from then on we began seeing each other consistently. Ricci was doing fine but spent much of his time out on the Island with his people. Vickie would stop by where I was living and sometimes we would sit and talk or go out and see a movie. Occasionally Ricci would come along with his car and we would take long drives.
Ricci was anxious to make a big score and he had cased several places out on the Island he thought might be good takes. One afternoon we made one of the spots and—although the take wasn’t big—it did get us straight financially for a while. From then on we operated regularly. Things were getting better when one night the three of us got caught. Ricci had said, “This is a sure thing”—and per result we were overly confident and that was it. We were taken to the Long Island City Prison. Ricci and myself were held there for trial and Vickie was taken to the Women’s House of Detention in New York City.
I saw very little of Vicki after that. I learned she had finally broken down and written to her father who immediately flew to New York, bailed her out of prison—obtaining permission to take her back to Detroit until the day of the trial and again on the day of sentencing. On the day of sentencing she stood next to me, looking pale and tired. She was wearing something plain. Her hair was neatly combed and she stood with her head bowed. She glanced at me once, and for a moment her eyes lit up and a tiny smile touched her mouth, then once again she looked down and there was little of the Vickie I had first seen and known. The judge gave her a five-year suspended sentence and they whisked her out of the courtroom. That was the last time I saw her.
I went upstate to prison for five years and Ricci was sent to Pilgrim State Hospital.i
Almost a month ago I ran into a girl Vickie and I had known and she told me she had made a trip to Detroit last year and had looked Vickie up. She said Vickie had married and has two children. She said she is very much the typical suburban matron and is active in the PTA. We both laughed and agreed we could see her organizing the good mothers of the PTA and that Vickie was surely the one to do it.
I probably knew Vickie better than most of the people she was acquainted with here in New York, and I wonder what she had done about all her dreams and how she has managed to curb her enthusiasm for excitement and adventure. Basically she was one of the most honest women I have ever known.
There are few spots in the city I can go without being reminded that Vickie was once there also.
iRicci, also known as Allen Ginsberg, spent six months at Pilgrim State Hospital where he wrote the poem Howl and met fellow poet Carl Solomon.
