My home was a fine oddball top-floor (third) loft-turned-apartment on Cork Street, a block-long cul-de-sac in the West Village, an easy dog walk from the Hudson River dock area. This apartment, inherited from an actor friend upon his marriage to an older and much wealthier lady two years previously, was a cocoon, an oasis of sanity in the midst of New York, a city for whom my love affair was on the serious wane.
One immense 40 x 36 room with brick walls and planked doors, plus a separate bathroom and two closets. The room was divided into three areas: a splendid kitchen with a free-standing butcher-block stainless-steel sink unit, built-in wall oven and cabinets; a sleeping area with a comfortable king-sized bed which could be screened off on two sides or not, as desired; and the main living area, sofa, easy chairs, rolltop desk, built-in bookshelves, stereo, and a working fireplace. Two small skylights, no more than two feet by two, broke up the expanse of the beamed ceiling, one over the bed, the other over the kitchen area.
The rent: $126.00. A steal at twice that.
On the evening of September 9, Kate and I returned to find the apartment thoroughly burglarized. The front wood door had been cut through, a hole punched out, and the lock slipped. The feelings upon being robbed I’d read about or heard from friends all applied. After the initial shock, a lockjaw rage at this invasion of privacy, more than distress at the loss of the articles in question: TV, stereo, typewriter, camera, a selection of clothes, cuff links, etc. A dirtying of my home, my place.
After the police had been called, had come and gone with such ill-concealed boredom that one almost felt like apologizing for having been robbed, Kate and I managed to squeeze a laugh out of it.
Pete Williams’ wife had just that day given me a large bunch of fresh dill wrapped in white paper. I had placed it, still in its wrapping, in a large glass of water on the butcher block. Kate, who would put dill on ice cream she loved it so, noticed its absence. “Hmn,” she said, “maybe we should find out what Julia Child was doing this evening.”
Although insurance covered this first robbery, the investigator notified me I was hereby dropped—that year’s policy was up in seventeen days—because the building was now a bad risk. The bakery on the ground floor had gone out of business, the aging hippie couple who made jewelry on the second floor had moved to New Mexico. The building had been sold and there was a rumor it was to be torn down. There was no one living there but me; if I were not home, a burglar could have a field day, he could hammer and saw to his heart’s content, could even throw a hand grenade at my door and there would be no one to interfere.
Kate went shopping with me for replacements and my Aunt Claire sent a check which helped make up the difference between the current price of the items in question and what I received from the insurance company.
So I was robbed. Not too bad. Except for the nasty taste left by the experience itself. The apartment was no longer Safe Harbor; it had been violated. Whenever I went out I wondered if I would come home to find the door knocked in or ripped off. The hallways were eerie and not kept clean now that the building was empty except for me. Light bulbs by the stairs were not replaced unless I replaced them.