CANDLELIGHT AND SPAGHETTI

 “The most wasted day is that in which we have not laughed.”

—Nicolas Chamfort, French writer. 1741-1794. Maximes et Pensees.

 

The great Northeast blackout took place in New York City at 5:27 p.m., on November 9, 1965. I was working in the United Airlines ticket service center, on east 42^nd street, where I’d spent the last eight hours hand writing tickets to be mailed to customers. The job was tedious but it provided rent ($79) and a voice lesson once a week ($10.)

Suddenly everything went black. My desk faced a bank of windows, and outside I could see that all of Manhattan was shrouded in complete darkness.

Everyone’s first reaction was fear. The cold war was in full flurry and everyone was nervous about an invasion. Staff produced flashlights and candles. We moved to a room where we could all be together. “Listen up everyone,” said the supervisor. “As far as we know, there has been a massive power outage. The entire Northeastern region of the United States and a large portion of Canada has lost power. We are going to hold tight for the time being and wait to see what happens. Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll provide popcorn and bring in drinks.”

My thoughts wandered to my boyfriend, Ralph. Was he stuck somewhere? Was he okay? We had lived together for two years. In fact, I’d told him I would marry him, and then changed my mind in a flood of tears. After he moved out, we continued to see each other.

Eventually, a voice again came over the intercom. “We’ve decided to let those of you who live nearby go home. I lived on 33^rd Street between Madison and Fifth, and was one of the lucky ones who got to go leave. However, the walk was precarious. Outside, pandemonium reigned. There was bumper to bumper traffic. Honking and angry shouts were deafening. Miraculously, people appeared selling flashlights.

Headlights provided enough light for me to find my way. I walked as fast as I could across 42^nd Street, passing Grand Central Station where a mass of people milled around. Pedestrians were everywhere.

At Madison Avenue I turned downtown and walked the eleven blocks to 33^rd Street, where my building housed the only apartments between Madison and Fifth – six over a wig shop, two apartments to a floor.

I opened the outer door and entered the tiny entrance with its six mail boxes. I unlocked the second door and felt my way down the narrow passageway to the first-floor railing which I used to climb the stairs in total darkness. At the second floor, as I was passing my neighbor Marie’s apartment, she opened her door.

“Hi Alice. Glad to see you made it home. I’m having a building party. Want to come down for spaghetti and wine?” Through the door I could see a couple of neighbors, and the apartment glowed with candlelight.

“Sure, great idea. I’ll just go up and call my boyfriend.” When there was no response, I grabbed a bottle of Chianti, and headed back to Marie. The neighbors – Anne, an ex-nun and now saleswoman, and Rudy, a soap opera actor – were seated on the couch. Anne reported she had just entered the Holland Tunnel in her car when the lights went out. Rudy had walked from his television studio. He was starring in The Guiding Light. Everyone enjoyed telling their stories, and soon laughter ensued as the wine took effect.

Suddenly, “AAAlice! AAAlice?” could be heard from the street below. I climbed out the window and looked over the ledge. It was Shelly, a male friend. I’d met him at Horn and Hardarts automat one lunchtime while I pulled a tuna fish sandwich out of one of the cubicles. He asked if I had previously experienced this sandwich and if it was good. I assured him it was worth his twenty-five cents and he asked to sit with me. Although he was married, we became friends and he’d fixed me up on a blind date with one of his pals, George Todorovich, a lawyer refugee from Yugoslavia whom I briefly dated.

“I’m stuck in Manhattan and need a place to sleep. Can I stay with you?”    

“Sure, I’ll come down and let you in.”

After I introduced Shelly to my apartment mates, we gathered around the table to eat. Shelly described his adventures getting to my building. “One intersection was in such a gridlock I walked out into the middle of the street and directed traffic. Grateful drivers gave me thumbs up and others shouted out their windows, "Thanks buddy," and "You’re great.” One driver handed him a flashlight.

Shelly asked about everyone’s jobs, and then handed out his card. He was a lawyer and always looking for business. Marie told Shelly he could stay for the night in her next-door neighbor Bob’s apartment, who was out of town. Shelly looked disappointed, but said thank you.

When dinner was over, and everyone started on wine again, I returned to my apartment to call Ralph. He was home and said he’d been walking around the Village with his new dog, Attila, a Dobermann Pincer.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re having a spaghetti party at Marie’s. I just came home to call you. Anne and Rudy are with us and Shelly. I told you about him.”

“What the hell is Shelly doing there?”

“He’s stuck in Manhattan and had no place to go. He asked if I could put him up. He’s going to sleep at Bob’s.”

“You’re so naïve Alice!” he yelled. “He can get home. He’s got friends. He’s just using this as an excuse. He’s after you. Don’t be so naïve.”

I tried to calm Ralph down, but nothing could placate him. “I’m going to hang up now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said.

Without further comment, Ralph slammed the phone down. Upset, I returned to the party. The fiesta continued.

Shelly told stories of amusing clients, and Rudy had everyone laughing at incidents on his soap opera. I never saw The Guiding Light, but understood he played some sort of a devil.

A commotion in the hall stopped the conversation. I looked over the railing and there was Attila bounding up the stairs, dragging an out of breath Ralph. Both pushed passed me, and Attila headed straight across the room towards Shelly.

Terrified, Shelly slipped up the back of the couch, nose to nose with Attila.

“Nice doggie, nice doggie,” he squeaked.

I was mortified, but it soon became apparent that Attila was nothing more than an excited dog, and Shelly was the first thing he saw as he entered.

Introductions were made, and Ralph was invited to eat the remaining spaghetti. He calmed down when it became apparent that Shelly had gotten the message.

Ralph’s evening escapades included walking around the Village. Policemen were out in droves, but everyone was on good behavior.

“Thousands of commuters are trapped in the subway,” he reported.

“What do they do when they have to go to the bathroom?” Marie mused.

No one responded. It was too horrible to think about.

As the midnight hour approached, everyone said good night, and Marie took Shelly to Bob’s apartment. Ralph escorted me to my door. I invited him in, but he declined, not wanting to ruin my reputation. But he saw that I was locked inside.

In the morning the lights were back on and Shelly was gone. At my office, I was writing my tenth airline ticket when Shelly called.

“I had a comfortable night in Bob’s bed until about three p.m. when Marie brought in a policeman friend of hers who needed a place to sleep. He joined me in the bed. I’ve told everyone I had a great night sleeping with one of “New York’s Finest” ­­–  the slogan the police department used to tout policemen in the 1960's.

*****

 

Backstage in the War Memorial Building, San Francisco Opera shared the space with the San Francisco Symphony and the San Francisco Ballet. After the opera season the Symphony moved in. I noticed that the row of base viol cases lined up backstage looked like coffins, and thought it would be fun to get on top of one and have my picture taken.

Somehow, one of General Director Kurt Herbert Adler’s secretaries got ahold of the picture, and one day, when Maestro Adler was looking for me, his secretary handed him the picture and said, “I’m sorry to report that Alice has passed away.” He was not amused.

 

Onward and upward.