Read on about the fascinating adventures of Maddy in New York City - I know you will enjoy her adventures.
Part I
BIG CITY GIRL MOVES TO A BIGGER CITY
Every word of the following is absolutely true
1970's
After graduating from Roosevelt University and appearing in a very good production of The Crucible at Court Theatre on the University of Chicago campus, I moved to NYC in August, 1971. I traveled there by car, driven by a friend of a friend. The friend of the friend was the sole driver. My job, which I did very well, was to keep asking "Are we there yet?" Packed into the car were an old Woolwoth-purchased steamer trunk, my bicycle, my late grandmother's 11 inch black and white tv, my Ouiji board and Max, my 9 month old puppy, who insisted upon squeezing himself in the front seat between me and the very annoyed friend of a friend driver.
Without Howard Cohen, I wouldn't have had Max. One night, about a year or so before the move to NYC, Howard and I decided to drive to EJ Korvette's, rumoured to have a terrific music department. Howard drove. At a stoplight, we noticed an animal shelter on the corner. We looked at each other. "Why not?", we said. In less than an hour we walked out of the shelter with 3--THREE--puppies. We didn't make it to Korvette's that night because we had 3--THREE puppies rolling around and playing and peeing and barking and napping in the back seat of Howard's car. We found homes for 2 of the puppies but kept a little black and white female, who became known as Queenie. Queenie lived with Howard (we lived blocks from each other in Hyde Park) and I would occassionally chip in for Queenie's care and take her when Howard went on vacation.
Then one day, Queenie managed to get pregnant. Don't ask. The night she went into labor I was working a very busy shift at Chances Are in Harper Court. (I had 2 jobs at the time-the Medici, as well) Howard called me as each of Queenie's pups were born. "Another one!"--there were 9. We found homes for all of them. I kept the biggest, fiestiest black male--my Max. Thereafter, Queenie was spayed.
Once in NYC, I did what many newbies did. I scoured the Village Voice newspaper (unfortunately gone now) for apartments for rent ad--"two girls, seeking a third, to share 2br, east 97th street, across from police and fire stations". The proximity to "police and fire station" was a real selling point back then. I met with the 2 "girls", who were working in the same doctor's office. Max and I moved in. About 3 weeks later Max and I moved out. My 2 roommates were soon indicted as accessories after the fact to the murder of their doctor-bosses' wife. This, in my first few weeks in NYC.
Answered another Village Voice ad. "2 girls seeking a third to share 2br duplex in Brooklyn townhouse". It was a good apartment in a beautiful Italian neighborhood. Max and I moved in. It didn't take long for wierd stuff to start happening. Really wierd. Light switches would turn on and off by themselves. Small personal items went missing by all of us. There were times when Max wouldn't come up the stairs. One night a visitor said he saw what he thought was a fourth roommate (there were 3 of us). I broke out the Ouiji board. We were "told" that one of us (not me) was in danger. At this time, there was a famous "ghost hunter"/psychic guy named Hans Holzer who lived in NYC. I found his address and wrote to him about what was happening in the apartment. Incredibly, a week or so later, Mr. Holzer called me. He said his staff usually read the letters he received, but somehow my letter was left on his office chair. He said there was definately something "going on" in the apartment. He said to throw out the Ouija board--it was not a toy. He said something "bad" could happen and we wouldn't know how to handle it. He said he would call again to set up a time to come to the apartment. Anyway, I was cast in a summer stock company on Long Island that summer of 1972 and never went back to that apartment. All this in less than a year in New York.
Mid-70's. Max and I moved into a sweet studio apartment with a separate kitchen and 1 teeny closet in a fourth floor walk-up in Brooklyn Heights, with NO ROOMMATES. My first solo apartment. The rent was $150 a month and I was concerned I wouldn't be able to handle it. I had some very colorful neighbors, including a guy named Pope Hill, who was an astrologist. One day, as I was coming out of the building to walk Max, two 30-ish looking guys, dressed in suits and ties and short haircuts, stopped me on my way out. "Do you live here?" "Yes" "On the fourth floor?" "Yes". "Could we speak to you for a moment?" "Who are you?" They were FBI. They took out a file with a picture of kidnapped heiress Patty Hearst in it. "Is this about Patty Hearst?" "Yes. We think that she may be living in the apartment next door to you". OMG, as the kids say today. They showed me a picture of an Asian woman standing in a crowd and asked if I knew her. I said "no'. "Please look again". "Sorry, I don't know her". "Please look again. Isn't this your next door neighbor?" The photo was of Wendy Yoshimura who may have been involved in the Hearst kidnapping. My neighbor was an Asian woman--but she was not Wendy Yoshimura. "We have reason to believe Patty Hearst may be involved with your neighbor". Wow. Then they pulled out another file--mine. I had been involved in a rather infamous incident in Grant Park in August, 1968. Even Walter Cronkite commented on it. A couple of years later my drama professor and I were questioned by the FBI about a play we were doing. "You were in Chicago in 1968, right? Funny, you don't look like a radical". (I wasn't a "radical') I responded by saying something awful about J. Edgar Hoover and walked off. I never heard from the FBI again. My neighbor wasn't harboring Patty Hearst. Maybe Poe Hill could have advised them.
Sometime in the 70's I was in the worst production of Camelot in the history of bad productions of Camelot. 1974 or 1975 I was in a summer company in Pennsylvania. We did an excellent Wait Until Dark (I did it off-Broadway the following autumn), an okay Fiddler on the Roof and a fun Midsummer Night's Dream. One night our Puck missed an entrance and we were stuck improvising Shakespeare. I made some of the best friends I ever had that summer. In the summer of 1976 I went back to Pennsylvania in a different company. We did one of the worst productions of The King and I in the history of bad productions of The King and I. But we did an excellent Godspell. And--a truly awfu, phony patriotic 20 minute 3 character play called Carol of Courage. It was, after all, the Bi-Centennial. We performed it 7 times a day, 7 days a week. We were the last stop on the tour of the Gettysburg battlefield. We lived in an awful trailer. I made some of the best friends in my life.
1977-my first NYC blackout
Summer of 1977. Early one evening my boyfriend and I were having dinner in the Village at a place called Elephant and Castle. Lots of candlelight, so we didn't really notice when the lights went off. But within minutes there was a lot of noise from the street and someone came into the restaurant and announced what was going on. At this point there was only minor pandemonium outside. Some guys jumped in and started to direct traffic. My boyfriend and I lived in separate apartments--in Brooklyn. I was very concerned about Max and getting home to him. It was still light out, but we would have to walk lower Manhattan and across the Brooklyn Bridge in the dark, albeit with who knows how many other stranded Brooklynites. All of a sudden a cab pulls up right in front of us and the passenger got out. We begged the reluctant driver to take us to Brooklyn, and he did. Once at my building I ran up the 4 flights in the now pitch dark, put a bag together, grabbed my flashlight and Max. Off we went to my boyfriend's apartment which was, incredibly, right across the street from the haunted townhouse I lived in a few years back. On the way, we crossed the commercial street and saw that the Baskin-Robbins was giving the ice cream away. There was a party atmosphere in the streets--folks with candles and transistor radios, gathering on brownstone stoops and generally in good spirits. It was a memorable night.
Around 1979 I left Brooklyn behind and moved to Manhattan. A friend was moving to LA and she just packed her stuff and handed me her apartment keys. One could get away with that back then. Another sweet studio with a separate kitchen. And a big closet. It was one flight up, windows facing the leafy street, in a brownstone in a neighborhood that would eventually (but not quite yet), be among the most desirable in the city. I lost my Max-my boy who would've taken a bullet for me. Then along came Rocky, an 8 month old Golden Retreiver whose family decided they just didn't want him anymore. But I did, so I adopted him. That was one of the best decisions I ever made.
1980's
During the late 70's into the early 80's I appeared as a prisoner on the Guiding Light, a runaway hippie girl named Brenda on Another World, and nurses, nurses, nurses on As the World Turns--small to very small parts on soap operas that are long gone. The most fun was Another World. The studio was in Brooklyn, just a few stops away from Coney Island. I remember one time we wrapped early and a few of us got on the subway and went there for hot dogs at Nathan's (good, but not Carl's) and a ride on the Cyclone, the park's almost 100 year old wooden roller coaster.
I got work on several Woody Allen movies, including a scene in Stardust Memories that took place in a very active garbage dump. I worked on Tootsie (almost cast as production assistant on the film's soap opera); almost cast as Emma Goldman in Ragtime (someone else got the part and all her scenes were cut!); almost cast as a nurse with two lines in Once Upon a Time in America (filmed partly in Italy so an Italian actor was cast); Rhea Perlman instead of me as a social worker in a womens' prison. It was a feature film but I don't remember the name of it. I was called to read for director Sidney Lumet's movies-you get the picture. Lots of nibbles during this period but no real bites.
I can't leave the 70's behind without remembering the best job I ever, ever had. After a stint as Aunt Abby in a very good production of Arsenic and Old Lace in an upstate summer theatre, I came back to the city with no job. Before I left for the theatre, I was the shop steward for our restaurant workers union at a place in Brooklyn Heights, a few blocks from my sweet fourth floor walk-up. (Mario Cuomo was a customer there. Very kind and respectful to the staff. He should have been president-but that's another story). Management, who did not hold our union kindly, managed to get rid of me because I chose Aunt Abby. That left me with no pay-the-rent job when I returned. Back to the drawing board.
There is a street in the theatre district called Restaurant Row. On 46th, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, it is literally all restaurants, one after the other, on both sides of the street. Italian, Russian, French, Turkish--you name it. I hit that street. After numerous "thank yous" in various accents I walked into Joe Allen. The room was not very big. The tables were covered in red and white checkered tablecloths, like the kind you see in inexpensive restaurants in the movies. Each table had a bottle of ketchup and salt and pepper shakers, with a stack of paper napkins held between them. There was a cigarette machine at the front and the very limited menu, chalked on a blackboard, hung above it. Joe's walls were covered with dozens of posters of Broadway shows...all flops. Big flops. In fact, a show made the Flop Wall only if it lost a million dollars or more. It actually was a kind of weird honor to make the Flop Wall. And the wait staff were all guys. I figured I didn't have a chance.
But fate lent me a hand. I was hired on the spot--the first non-guy to ever work that floor full time. And so began the best job I ever, ever had. Joe's was, and still is, the most popular theatre restaurant/hang-out in the area. The entire wait staff were actors or writers or some kind of artist and we were there to serve the theatre community. Joe's would fill up for pre-show dinner and fill up again after the curtains came down. The patrons were theatre goers and theatre artists and locals and tourists--everyone came to Joe's. We handled gaggles of Wednesday matinee ladies and tables full of Long Islanders and New Jersey-ites rushing through dinner to make an 8pm curtain. There were chorus kids in their first show and veteran actors and producers and directors and every kind of theatre folk you could imagine. Movie stars, too! The night Robert Redford came in, even the straight waiter (there was one) gasped. There were times when we had to dodge Alice as we raced around the floor. Alice was Joe's yellow Labrador who would roam freely around the place, getting attention and bits of burger from the customers. We busted our butts on that floor and we never stopped laughing. We never stopped laughing.
There were perks besides seeing Redford up close. Joe fed us, of course. There was access to house seats (seats held aside for VIP's) for every Broadway show, through Joe's clientele. Those tickets weren't free, but they were the best. This perk came in very handy when family or friends came to town and I was happy to access those seats for them. Looking at you, Mose. Sometimes we were offered free tickets to preview performances. That was a blessing, with ticket prices rising frequently. I met my agent at Joe's. A casting director customer hired me to play a catatonic (I kid you not) in a Public Television documentary that was shot in an abandoned hospital. A cousin of mine in Chicago actually saw the film on channel 11.
Eventually I was put in charge of training all the floor staff. At some point Joe's was going to open in Toronto, after successes in London and Paris. Joe wanted to send me there to train everyone. I declined, because I had a rent stabilized apartment and a boyfriend. Mistake-but not the apartment. After about 4 years I moved on from Joe's and eventually into law school. Joe's has changed. White linen tablecloths and napkins replaced the red and white checkerboard and paper. There are no more ketchup bottles on the tables. The blackboard came down, replaced by printed menus. The prices went way, way up. Nevertheless, I still go there once in a while, particularly when Hollis comes to visit. She has been a fan of Joe's since the beginning.
Joe died in 2021 and there was an outpouring of affection for him in numerous NYTimes articles and other newspapers and local media outlets. What I remember were those hilarious, flamboyant, talented, generous, loving, supportive guys that made up Joe's staff over the years. They became some of the best friends I ever had. Many were lost to AIDS. I want to honor them now by stating their names: Matt Fetzer; Wayne Melton; Jesse Villarin; Jason Mohler. I can still see their faces. I can still hear them laughing.
Part II
Early spring, probably 1982 or 1983. During that time of year lots of summer stock companies come to NYC and hold auditions for their coming seasons. The auditions were held in rehearsal studios in the Ansonia, a residential hotel where many theatre artists lived. The acoustics in those studios made everyone sound like Streisand. Even the women. Hundreds of actors showed up for these auditions. Here's how the process worked: Each company posted their season, along with a sign-up sheet. Sign up, wait, then get called into the room, in a line with a dozen or so other actors. You were looked over and if you were the wrong "type", you were excused, without auditioning. I signed up to audition for 3 companies that were all doing Fiddler on the Roof, which I had done twice before. Finally I am called in with about 20 others. We line up across the front of the room. They look us up and down. They get to me. "Too Jewish. Thank you". Too Jewish--for Fiddler? Maybe they were from Idaho. OK, back to the waiting room til I join another group called in for another company. In the room, they look us up and down. To me: "Not Jewish enough. Thank you". It was in that moment that I decided to find something else to do in the world that required passion and commitment. It didn't take me too long to figure out what it would be.
During the early 80's the building where I lived changed ownership. The new landlord was a son of a bitch bastard scum blood-sucker who tried very hard to remove the rent regulated tenants-including me. It couldn't be done legally, so other methods were employed. One very cold November, he stopped buying heating oil for the boiler so we would have no heat or hot water. This kind of tactic-and worse-was happening all over the neighborhood as the area, the Upper West Side, became more desirable. It was always desirable to me, even in my earlier years there. It was filled with actors and writers and artists of all kinds, plus the folks who had been there since the neighborhood's bad old days.I loved those characters. The supermarket, which was not so super, had sawdust on the floor. The guys behind the miniscule deli counter wore costumes on Halloween and the fruit guy could pick out a good melon with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back. There were dusty old bookshops and real bakeries. And the best--there were 6 movie theatres in walking distance, plus Lincoln Center. Heaven...but I digress.
Back to a very cold November, and my building with no heat or hot water. On purpose. I was the youngest tenant in the 10 apartment building. A few of my neighbors were elderly and scared. Others were the staff of the French restaurant downstairs. And scared. Somehow, I managed to organize these folks and we opened an account with the oil company and started purchasing the fuel ourselves. And, voila!, as my French neighbors would say--I knew I wanted to work to protect tenants. I started law school in 1984 at City University of New York, a school established specifically to promote public service careers. I graduated in 1987, in the school's second graduating class. Not entirely finished with my former life, I wrote and directed a video about my class which was shown at the graduation. I loved every minute of that project. The audience laughed and wept in all the right places. It made me wonder why I hadn't gone to film school...
Maybe I should have. After all, I may have belonged in the clink before I even started law school. Around 1981 I married a Brit buddy of mine to help him stay here. Something about a visa. Anyway, we went to City Hall, with a best man (the groom's boyfriend), two bridesmaids, flowers and pictures and everything. The whole deal. I "dressed" my apartment with my hubby's clothes, toiletries, etc., while he continued to live 10 blocks away with his best man. He hired an immigration lawyer and waited. And waited. Then one night I got a phone call from my better half. An investigator showed up at his building and his neighbors covered for him. Now the investigator was on his way to me, looking to find a happy couple. That deserved another OMG. The investigator arrived (it was after 10pm!) and I gave the performance of my life. I turned the tables on him. I was angry, weepy and a little intimidating. I blamed the government's slow movement on our case, causing so much stress that my ball n' chain and I were living apart. I cried that we may have to leave the USA and live in a socialist country because our case was lost in a bottomless government pit. There were some tears. His. By the end of the interview the poor guy was apologizing to me and promising to do whatever to move our case along. But soon there was an amnesty from the Federal government and Brit buddy was safe. We got a quick, easy divorce and he and his boyfriend moved to LA, where they still live. The 3 of us remain good pals.
1990's-2000's
A few months after law school graduation I was an associate in the most powerful tenant law firm in NYC. Nightmare. Torture. Stress beyond belief. Learned a lot. Wish I could say that I made some of the best friends...but no. By 1993 my building changed ownership again and I was offered a one bedroom apartment (rent stabilized, of course), 27 blocks north and on Central Park West. The kitchen was a hole in the wall. Literally. But there was an actual bedroom, 5 closets and Central Park. So, yes! I lost my angel boy Rocky and along came The Moose, the handsomest black Labrador on the planet. Just ask Linda Cohen. By 1996 I had enough of bosses and struck out on my own. A landlord lawyer friend rented me a desk in a corner of his office. Now I could represent who I wanted to represent and charge what working people could actually afford. I carved out a specialty in tenant law--I represented folks who were being threatened with eviction because they had a pet, supposedly in violation of their lease. I began to get attention. The NY Times did a profile of me in 2004. In 2007 I appeared on Nightline when it was revealed that upon her death, "Queen of Mean" millionaire hotelier Leona Helmsley willed a million bucks to her dog. In 2012 I represented a Kosovo combat veteran with PTSD, whose landlord tried to evict him over a medically prescribed emotional support dog. There was international coverage of that story. I received phone calls from veterans' groups from all over the country and I was interviewed on a London radio program. Oh, and my client's building? TRUMP Village, in Brooklyn. In March of 2019, the New York Daily News interviewed my clients and me. My 32 year old client was deaf and had a dog. Co-op board tried to evict her. Guess what happened? During these years I represented a rent controlled tenant with a series of dogs and attempts at eviction, which all failed. The final case ended up at the Justice Department. The Feds did themselves proud on that one.
Although most of my clients were dog owners, I had a cat case once in a while. One client had 11 cats. Her landlord protested, for naught. In 2006, I had an infamous case involving 3 pet pigeons-we won and there was a great deal of publicity over it. There were many non-pet cases, too. In the 1990's I was thrilled to represent Ned Rorem, the Pulitzer Prize winning composer, when his landlord tried to evict him, claiming Mr. Rorem didn't really live in the rent controlled apartment he had resided in since 1968. Mr. Rorem was living in it and about 25 years later, the same landlord tried to evict Mr. Rorem's niece, who was the lawful successor tenant. Then there was the Pretender to the Throne of the defunct Ottoman Empire. The landlord of his rent controlled apartment ( where he lived since 1945), tried to evict him and years later, his widow, herself an Afghan princess. All wins for my clients.
The 2000's brought a lot of changes. I lost my magnificent Moose and in came Maizie, my Newfoundland baby, who died in 2018. In 2016 my landlord converted my Central Park West building to condo ownership. Under those circumstances, rent regulated tenants are not obligated to move or purchase--so the landlord offered to move me and my rent regulated neighbors to other buildings they owned in the neighborhood. Now here I am on West End Avenue, a short block from Riverside Park, in a good sized one bedroom with an eat-in kitchen and many of the original 1933 elements. Rent stabilized, of course. To be clear--rent stabilized means that the rent goes up by whatever amount is decided upon by a Rent Guidelines Board that meets every year. Also, except under very exceptional circumstances, the tenant can't be evicted--not even if the tenant has 3 pet pigeons.
There were events in the 2000's that I will never, ever forget. On the Sunday after 9/11 I visited several fire stations in the neighborhood, to make donations and offer condolences. I wasn't the only one. Every station I went to, there were dozens of folks, doing the same thing. The firemen mingled with us and were so incredibly inviting. Then at one station a call came in and they sprang into action. They ushered us onto the sidewalks. There were dads with kids on their shoulders holding American flags. As the firetruck emerged, everyone cheered and the kids waived their flags. There wasn't a dry eye in sight. At that moment I fell in love with NYC all over again. 2003 brought another blackout. The Moose and I were on Fire Island at the time and we got to stay an extra day because the power was out everywhere. The night Superstorm Sandy hit in 2012, my building doorman rushed into the street to pull Maizie and me inside. The wind was so strong we were literally frozen in the middle of Central Park West. In 2019 there was a significant change in the laws protecting renters. Good, of course. But bad for my work. I was hardly needed anymore. I still get a client now and then. More "then" than "now". Later that year, at the end of 2019 and into January, 2020, I got very, very sick. I had Covid before there was a name for it. Or a treatment. I was lucky. During that terrible time I saw New Yorkers pull together, just like after 9/11. A rabbi and his wife who lived in my building knocked on everyone's door to check on us every week during lock-down. Other neighbors did grocery runs for older folks (which turned out to include me). At 7pm, every night for weeks, I hung out a bedroom window and banged pots with the best of them, as a show of support for first responders and medical workers. To be honest, that was kind of magical.
Here I sit, typing this inexcusably long contribution for the run-up to the 60th and kicking myself for all the things I left out and wondering why I am writing this in the first place. Perhaps it is my response to the inevitable reunion question, "so what have you been doing?"
This piece is dedicated to some of the best friends I made in my life during the years under the purple and gold. Good times and bum times, we've seen them all and my dears, we're still here.