It was 20 years ago, also on the Friday after Thanksgiving in 1966, that I had my first appointment with a psychiatrist. Boy, was that a fucked-up 15-year-old who walked into Dr. Lipton’s office. I remember some of the questions he asked me: “Do you smoke pot?” (when I said no, he asked if I was socially retarded) and “Do you like girls?”
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Teresa and Michael seem pretty comfortable in their relationship. At times, he can be nasty to her, but he does it in a playful way. “Isn’t he mean?” she asked me. “No, I’m cute,” said Michael. “He’s cute,” I said. And Michael said, “Sure, he’s not going to say I’m mean because he doesn’t want to spend the whole summer with you.” The man is correct.
At 14th Street, a guy grabbed at a woman’s neck; he quickly ran away as the doors closed. What he’d done was snatch three gold chains. The woman, a young West Indian, said she’d just bought the chains and still had the receipt for them. “I never usually sit next to the door,” she told me. As we made our way into Brooklyn, she kept saying “I just can’t believe it.”