Introduction to TRAX New York Volumes 1-3: Why we did this project

Not the best smelling place in the world—New York in the 1960s and 70s. But that fact had nothing to do with our leaving the city. To us, the sights, sounds and smells of New York would forever be latched into our memory as some of the things we would miss most; to us they greatly contributed to the charm of the city.

We were moving in pursuit of educational opportunity. I had been offered what was described as a "fellowship" to study at The Dropsie College of Hebrew and Cognate Learning in Philadelphia. I understood that as a part of this arrangement I could be granted scholarly access to thousands of Neo-Sumerian documents archived at the University Museum (University of Pennsylvania). New York University, where I had studied for the past four years, could offer nothing comparable.

We strategized this move for over a month, making every effort to iron out all the details. Over the course of the week leading up to our move, we loaded most of our belongings into a plywood camper that my father had constructed and placed on the back of our 1963 autumn-bronze Chevy pickup truck. We transported these items from our apartment to the camper, one or two at a time, trying not to alert our "neighbors" that we were moving. The neighbors we were trying to elude were the dealers and junkies that lived around us.

You see, the East Village (east side of Greenwich Village) neighborhood where Evie and I had lived for the past two years was not surrounded by white picket fences or rose-filled flower gardens. During those pre-Rudy Giuliani years, crime, really violent crime, was out of control throughout much of that area. For example, when we first sat down to write this book, we could recall in detail seven murders, all occurring within a few blocks of our apartment. That was just during the two years we lived there. Of those seven murders, we actually witnessed three of them firsthand.

In one case (the stabbing of an old man) I inadvertently photographed the whole killing while in progress, thinking it was only a fight between two junkies. Simply put, the East Village was a tough place to live in 1972.

But that was not the case where we lived—531 East Sixth Street. Our building was unique to the block. There, and in the street immediately outside, I personally ran security. I did so to the degree that I became known in the neighborhood as "The Man": a moniker most commonly attributed to a police officer. I was able to play this role because I always carried a big stick (yes, an actual big, weighty stick). And, I had convinced the junkies and dealers that I was willing, if not madly anxious, to use it.

It should come as no surprise that the bad guys hated us. We had made some very serious enemies. And those enemies were not about to let us leave without exacting revenge. They were so intent on this, that they turned the final moments leading up to our exodus into one of the most bizarre experiences of our lives.

As I explained above, over the previous few days we had loaded (piecemeal ) most of our belongings into the plywood camper on the back of our pickup. But, we had held off to the end taking out our more precious possessions. Those items were stashed in three over-sized laundry bags. In the bottom of the first bag we laid several photo albums. On top of the albums, we carefully positioned our cameras (each individually wrapped in bath towels). These included a Nikon Photomic T, a Canon 35mm camera, and a Bolex 16mm movie camera.

In the second bag we packed our most serious weaponry. That consisted of a couple shotguns (with ammunition), an assortment of knives, a hunting bow (with arrows), and an unregistered WWII semi-automatic pistol (long since disposed of). Because the long guns extended beyond the top of their bag, we placed the third bag over the opening of the second, and secured the bags in the middle with rope, which also served as a handle.

I had been hesitant to load the bags in the camper until we were actually all set to leave, because all that protected our stashed belongings was a four-dollar padlock on the rear camper door. No way would I allow that much firepower to reach the streets of New York, especially not in our neighborhood.

The street people knew we were moving. Even though I had tried to be discrete by spreading our preparation out, it had still attracted attention. As I would toss something in the camper, skinny shirtless guys would walk up and say something like: "Hey, man, you movin’?"

To which I would reply, with stick in hand, "I ain’t goin’ nowhere, man."

The local junkies and dealers knew better. They were not going to let us leave unscathed—too often, in their eyes, I had interfered with their business. They were upset that they had never really got the best of me. Every time I caught one of them trying to get into our building, I kicked him out. Every time someone was getting mugged in or around our building, my stick and I came to the rescue. Eventually they simply decided to avoid me.

Looking down from our third-floor window on this steamy evening, through the rusted black steel construct that was our fire escape, I counted five or six troublemakers leaning against (or standing by) our ticket out of

town. I could deal with one or two at a time, but I knew I would fail against those numbers. I wasn’t sure how we were going to pull this off. I could easily see that the big stick option was not going to work—not this time.

I went down to the first floor and knocked on the super’s door. She (Mrs. Bono) lived directly below us with her sister, and together they ran things. They both commanded respect in the building, and on the street—no one ever seemed to bother them. Strangely, I don’t recall either of them ever toting a purse. So no one knew where they carried their money, or had the guts to find out.

Their biggest assets were their physical strength, and their wisdom. They were both large (but not overweight) tough-looking women, and they always went out together. I suppose if Mrs. Bono had a third strength, it would have been her lung power. She could (and frequently did) dress down a junkie half a block away.

I knocked, and she came to the door.

I said, "Hi, Mrs. Bono. I think I have a problem."

She knew we were moving to Philadelphia, and she was sad to see us go. She too had come to accept that I was the building’s "cop." On several occasions she actually came up to our apartment to enlist my help in kicking out burglars and breaking up fights. No one ever bothered to call the cops—certainly not Mrs. Bono.

"What’s your problem, Mike?" She asked.

I explained to her that I thought I had five or six "friends" hanging around our truck, and that I was sure they were determined to get even with me before I left town.

Mrs. Bono’s second-floor apartment extended the full length of the building, with its entrance more toward the rear. It was in the hall just outside her door that we stood and talked.

"I know you got some enemies out there," she said smiling. "Wait here; I’ll see what’s goin’ on."

With arms swinging, she walked briskly and with total confidence toward the street. She never seemed to be afraid of anything. She propped open the usually-locked inner door with a door stop. She approached the outer door, and looked to the left, then to the right through the glass, then opened it. Holding it open with her left foot, she looked around to scrutinize the situation. After only a moment, she closed the outer door, and kicked the stop out of the inner.

Then, with checks puffed in a big grin, she headed back to where I was standing (at her door as ordered). I can still envision the silhouette of her broad form as she walked back toward me—backlit by the light of the street streaking through the small windows in the doors. She was an imposing figure of a woman. "Mike, you don’t have five or six buddies out there, you have at least fifteen. They are lined up against the building half-way down the block!"

I knew she was exaggerating a bit, but I got the picture. "Great," I said. "That’s even better. … Got any suggestions?"

Jokingly, Mrs. Bono suggested that we could call the cops. We shared an aversion to the police for this type of situation. It simply involved less paperwork if a person solved his own problems.

"Yeah, right," I responded. "like they are going to help me."

Besides, I wanted to avoid generating any police interest as to what I was loading into the truck on my last trip. Possessing an unregistered firearm in the city was a felony. Possessing the types and quantity of firearms and ammo that I had, who knows. I had to come up with an alternative plan of action.

I went back up to the apartment and told Evie what Mrs. Bono found outside. We looked into each other’s eyes, and contemplated our alternatives.