JUDGE NOT

Lest Ye Be The Jury

I am old enough now to have decades of poor judgments to look back on. It started at age 12, when my best friend wanted me to go with her to see some guy playing music in Greenwich Village. We had just watched The Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show and were crazy mad for music. We made the usual plans: I was at her house for the night. She was at mine.

When the day arrived, she was sick, so I said I’d go and tell her all about it. That night, I put extra quarters in my glove and hopped on the crosstown bus. It let me off in front of Washington Square. Nervously, I scurried across the park to MacDougal Street and, “The Café Wha,” where a long, line of people was headed down the stairs to the basement. I followed.

At the bottom was a smoky dungeon with no windows. The crowd noise was deafening. I squeezed my underage self in the back corner trying to be inconspicuous. Suddenly it grew quiet. A disheveled guy with a guitar walked past me and up onto the stage. He looked like he’d worn the…