The Hippie and the Pixie

I went to NYC for the first time in 1975. It was the end of my Road Trip around the U.S. I arrived by bus, so my first vision of the city came as I exited Penn Station onto 42nd St. It was just after noon and the streets were crowded. I wore jeans and a flannel shirt and hiking boots and had a bright orange backpack. I probably didn't look like a native. But I hadn't walked a block when a pretty girl took hold of my arm. "You want a date," she said. She looked like a secretary on her lunch break. "What?" She repeated for me as if I might be slow, "Do--you--want--a--date?" I was slow alright. "Oohhhh!" I managed. Seeing that I had come to some awareness, she added quickly, "It's twenty for me and five for the room." I chuckled at that and said, "Hey, hippies don't pay for sex." And quick as a pixie, she giggled and let go of my arm. She had simply disappeared.

I didn't get a photograph.