Kennedy was dead, Johnson was president, and it seemed to me that everything started to go downhill from there. The next thing that happened that I'll never forget was President Johnson's first visit to New York as president. I'll preface my description of this event by recalling that the anti-war movement of that time was using the phrase "Upside down!" and flying the American flag in that position with the blue field of white stars at the bottom left of the flag.

Before his visit, the President sent the secret service out to check his route, which happened to be Third Avenue, the street I lived on. So one cold winter day, probably shortly after New Years I got a visit from the secret service. A couple of tall, well-dressed, obvious agents came to my street door and rang the bell. I looked out on them from my balcony (fire escape) and they identified themselves and asked if they could come up and check out my loft. I said "Sure, come on up," and went down and let them in. I had nothing to hide (other than a few roaches), no guns, no weapons of any kind and no anti-government posters. They snooped around, found nothing, thanked me and left, after informing me that the new president would be driving in a motorcade down Third Avenue in the next few days.,

Very soon the day came. First I noticed there was no traffic on the street. Then I could hear the sirens in the distance coming closer. Soon there was a collection of Bowery winos on my corner and across the street and on every corner that I could see from my front window. You will recall that I mentioned there were trashcans on every corner in a previous chapter. The motorcade approached, first a phalanx of cops on motorcycles, then a black limo flanked by more motorcycles and followed finally by another three rows of motorcycles. On my corner and every corner, as it passed, these groups of derelict veterans put one of their comrades upside down in each of the trashcans. There, as President Johnson passed by, were these tattered pants and worn out boots waving in the cold gray air, as far as I could see up and down Third Avenue. I don't know if this made any impression on the cops or the president, but I swear it happened and I, for one, shall never forget it. Of course it was simply ignored by the mainstream media.

That winter season was culminated by an extremely cold spell of weather which lasted for a few weeks. In that kind of weather the drunks who passed out, and there were always a few of these unfortunate wretches every day, would stiffen up as they slept, often leaning against the chain-link fences that surrounded what little yard space was left on Third Avenue. These small patches of open space, like the one across the street on the opposite corner, were used as large trashcans where empty bottles would be tossed till they reached a knee-high depth behind the chain-link fence. These stiffened sleepers would awaken late in the afternoon and find they couldn't straighten up from the position in which they had fallen asleep. This was usually with their legs spread eagle straight out and their bodies bent at the waist. Now, to add to their predicament, the sidewalks were covered with a thin layer of ice as the evening temperature dropped. They were dangerously slick and complicated the process of standing up for the stiff awakening drunks. Using the fence as a ladder, the vets would claw their way up to a bent-over standing position, only to slip and fall again, sometimes over and over again. After these many attempts, usually their limbs would loosen up a bit and they would be able to hobble down the street, clutching the fence, the walls and doors of buildings, till they finally reached the shelter of the flophouse they lived in. These were a number of small cheap hotels located upstairs over street level businesses.

But the one event that drove me out of my New York loft was having to witness one of these filthy, shabby, drunken, derelict veterans freeze to death on the corner across the street from my loft. It was a slow process and at first I was unaware it was happening. This was nothing out of the ordinary for a bitter cold winter day on the Bowery. But as the day wore on, I began to realize that this man was in trouble, unable to straighten up or remain standing.

My good friend, Phil Hefferton lived on the top floor of the loft building. I called him down to check out what was happening across the street. We both peered out my frosted front window watching this poor guy slip over and over again on the icy sidewalk each time he tried to stand. Phil confided in me that his father was an alcoholic and had died of pneumonia and exposure in the winter many years before. We were concerned, but couldn't bring ourselves to bring this wretched creature into our homes and lives. We called the police and told them about the plight of this man, that he was in trouble and needed medical assistance. At first we got a polite response and a promise to check it out, but no one ever came, so we called again and again. Finally we were told to take him in if we were so concerned. Now this was a big man and these guys in general were no fun to be around. They were filthy, morose, hostile, angry drunks who robbed each other of their shoes, boots, and any money they might have whenever they found each other asleep in a drunken stupor on the street. It was an everyday occurrence to see a drunk passed out on the sidewalk with no shoes and his pockets inside out and empty, completely oblivious. This was the norm for these alcoholic vets. They were out there and there appeared to be no way you could help them to get back. It may seem cruel, but it was a matter of survival. You tried not to notice the action on the street most of the time, but you just couldn't help not being able to block it out completely. I was filming it.

I remember walking to a friend's loft and passing a man curled up sleeping in a doorway. My visit completed and on my way back I noticed he was still there. Looking closer, I saw that his scalp was covered with a seething mass of maggots, like a wig. I thought, "Is he dead?" Then he groaned and moved slightly. He stayed there in that condition for several days. Then he was gone. I don't know what happened to him. This episode took place in the summer, so I know he didn't freeze to death. 

But back to the winter scene I was describing. It was evening and the streetlights were on, the man was still there on the corner, only now he was fully down, stretched out on the sidewalk, curling into a fetal position. We were hoping someone would come to his rescue. We couldn't help waiting for an ambulance to come for him, or a squad car or something. We called for help for him to all the agencies we could think of. We got promises but no action and finally the cops told us to take him in ourselves, which was just unthinkable. They were angry with us for bothering them with this tragedy. We couldn't believe it. I cooked us a little dinner, then Phil went back upstairs to his loft, and I cleaned up and went to bed.

I awoke early the next morning and of course the first thing I did was to peer out of my front window. To my horror the man was still there, still lying on the sidewalk curled into the fetal position. I had hoped some help would have arrived during the night, but obviously it hadn't. The man was spasaming, his legs and arms twitching. He was near the end. I called again for help for him and got the same results as the day before. I gave up. I forced myself to continue my own scene. I had breakfast, fed my cat, got dressed and started practicing, at that time a daily ritual. I had a really great interior still life I was working on, a view of my loft reflected in an oval mirror on the short wall above the sink. It was going well, fast, easy and nearly flawless. Probably the best still life I had ever done. So I let myself slip back into my own environment, "Inside."

But of course this didn't really work. After several hours of painting and practicing, I couldn't help looking out the window to see what was happening on the corner across the street. The man was now still, not moving, curled in the fetal position. I assumed he was dead. I went back to work. When I looked out again, he was gone. Not much else was changed and a contingent of replacements were loitering, sloppy drunk on the corner, leaning against the fence. The weather was getting warmer.