New Years 1966, Karen Kaplan broke my heart. I mean shattered, in pieces, all the life sucked out of it. The high school ring returned without warning. Out of the blue? Well………maybe not.
It was a Saturday, the last day of 1965 and all of us standing in front of Woolworths store on Wall Street in uptown Kingston were pretty psyched. Seventeen, New Years Eve, parties to go to and lots of alcohol. Plus, and this was icing on the cake, all this would take place in the presence of Karen Kaplan. There wasn’t much more I could ask for…….all pretty sweet.
A minute about this girl of my dreams. A year younger, brown hair, the cutest freckles, great looking, and a body one could only fantasize about. And she was mine, or so I thought. So Karen, myself, and a bunch of friends just hanging out that afternoon planning the big night. Uptown Kingston, on Wall Street, was the place to be on a Saturday afternoon. Packed with people doing last minute shopping and crowded with high school kids, it was the scene in K-town. Kids in cars cruising by, windows rolled down despite the freezing weather, and radios blasting. Simply THE place to be! I remember standing in this group of friends just carelessly talking and bantering when noticing that my senior class ring which Karen was wearing was barely staying on her finger. I said to her since we were in front of Woolworths and they sold everything worth having, that she should go in and buy a guard for the ring. It had cost my parents what was a lot of money back in those days, and the last thing I wanted to happen was to have it go missing. It meant a lot to me and I would like to say that I had worked hard to earn it but that would somewhat of an overstatement. Lets leave it at meaning a lot to me. And my parents, who did not know it was now in Karen’s possession would not have been pleased upon hearing of its disappearance. A strange reaction on her part. She refused the money, the suggestion to buy the guard, and just blew off my concerns. Not wanting to start a fight with a big night planned, I let it pass. It should be noted here that in my behalf, let me say that I was young and a bit naive; no actually, a lot naive. A more accurate assessment would be not the sharpest tool in the shed in these matters.
I don’t remember the specifics of that evening, just the bizarre and nightmarish highlights. Lets start with her refusing to purchase the ring guard. Looking back, a very logical, sound, and considerate action since she had plans to return the ring to me somewhere, sometime that evening. The words spoken and explanation given are beyond recall and really don’t matter. So often in these circumstances, they are said to ease the pain and provide some comfort. Bottom line was that although she was my dream girl, I was not her dream boy. She had had enough of me and was moving on, alone. It must have been a devastating moment. A true sucker punch to the gut. I speculate, since I have no memory of the actual breakup. Reason being, following this catastrophic event, I along with my friends got very, very drunk. Where, how, with whom exactly, is all lost from the memory banks. Just several highlights which define and describe the evening quite well.
Nate Armstrong’s Bar was a downtown Kingston “establishment” that, probably, looking back, was the coolest place in town. On lower broadway in Kingston, it was one of the few buildings remaining in that stretch that had up till then survived urban renewal. Made up of two narrow rooms, with as many lights ( one over the bar, the other over the jukebox ), it was a down and dirty place that served minors and was frequented by many of the African-American people of downtown Kingston. It played the best music and had the best fried chicken in town, made by Nate’s grandmother who held court in the kitchen in the rear of the small building. One dollar bought you a chicken breast on a piece of Wonder bread served on a simple paper plate accompanied by a single napkin. That, with ice cold draught beer, and soul music was as close to nirvana or Detroit, that you could ever hope to get. So somehow that evening, following the early evening human sacrifice, we found ourselves in the smoke filled, barely lit confines of Nate Armstrongs. How long, what happened exactly, I have no idea. We were there and had the smell of greasy chicken and cheap beer to prove it as well as one hell of a level of intoxication. The night was a blur, or should I more honestly say a blackout.
I was dropped off at my front door by someone, who rang the bell and sped away. My dear grandmother answered the door and got me in the house and on to the couch. I remember sitting there petting the dog and trying to explain to my grandmother what had happened in an effort to elicit sympathy for this horrible turn of events. There were two problems with this scene. First the dog was not there. Second, babbling and slurring through the tears as the reality of the evening began to return, was not the way to get the consolation that I was seeking. As kind as she always was, she got me into my bed, and left me to sleep it off. It was a terrible night and looking back, I was lucky to have survived. During the night, my body decided it had had enough of the fried chicken, beer, and wonder bread. Out it came. Too drunk to know what was happening or to get out of bed and stagger into the bathroom, I lay the entire night in my own vomit and was very fortunate not to have choked to death. Needless to say, in the morning it was not a pretty site. Still partially drunk and incredibly hungover, I have no memories of how I and this situation were greeted by my parents. Lets just say it could not have been good. And I am quite confident that their expression of disappointment, disgust, and anger was not tempered by their sympathy. And, thinking about it, it should not have been.
I do remember my friend Clint being at the bar with me. Clint, a transfer from a school just outside New York City, was the coolest kid in our graduating class. Although Caucasian, Clint had had to be a true “soul brother” in a previous life. He loved jazz, knew all about soul music, wore wing tip shoes, and cuffed khaki pants with a button down shirt. He walked with a swagger, had an attitude, and spoke a different language than my other friends. Clint was unique, and the essence of hip. I found out several days later that Clint did not make it home that evening, but he had tried. Unfortunately, he had passed out on some ladies lawn somewhere between Nate’s and his house. He was found the next morning by someone, huddled up in a ball and barely sober. Not sure how it went for him when he got home. His father was a big guy and not one to smile much. Did not see Clint for a while after that evening,
So that was the kickoff to 1966. One hell of a way to start the year. Ditched and almost dead by choking on my own vomit. I would like to blame this rather inauspicious start to the new year on you know who but, she did what she needed to do. I could say that Karen Kaplan made the wrong decision, but who’s to know. Karen, if you ever come across this, I would have made a great boyfriend……loyal to the end or as the pattern evolved, until someone better came along. Karen Kaplan, cute as a button, unbelievable body, and as it turned out, really good decision-making skills.
You are probably, at this point, questioning what constitutes a good time in my mind. I would agree that this particular incident in terms of being ditched and narrowly escaping death does not quite constitute a great time. The break up hurt a lot and the alcohol poisoning was nothing to shake a stick at. In those ways, it was rough and very upsetting to a lot of people. But I will speculate on the events in between. I had been to Nate Armstrongs before, and it really was the essence of what was cool in those days. People at Nates didn’t just dance, they grooved. A slow dance was a sexual experience. Beer was ice cold and really cheap. And the fried chicken was the best……..there was simply no comparison! Amazingly, as white high school kids very much wet behind the ears (except for Clint, of course) we were accepted or at the very least tolerated. More to the truth of the matter, we were probably a source of amusement. Not really knowing how to dance, or hold our alcohol, or for that matter when to know what was enough fried chicken, we, the white kids from uptown were part of the show. I never had a bad time at Nates. Like so many other kids like me, for a brief period of time we could pretend that we were black and cool. Nate’s in some ways was a theme park for kids like us. Our Detroit in what was otherwise a pretty lame town.
So no grudges or bad feelings here toward Miss Kaplan…….it was a long time ago and I am sure that I enjoyed myself for most of that evening. Not sure my tears and sadness stood a chance once the magic elixir kicked in and Nate’s started to heat up. Don’t know how her new year started………probably with a great sense of relief. I am certain however, that we both moved on to new pain and glory. Just how things are………like it or not.