They put me to work right away. I agreed to hand out flyers and pamphlets in my neighborhood and spend some evenings registering folks to vote. Today, though, I stuffed envelopes in a room with ten other people. I sat next to a very nice couple and talked with them the whole time. Mitch Perry and Alice Graves. I suppose they’re in their late twenties. Mitch might be in his thirties. He told me he’s in “investments,” and that his family came from Spain. I didn’t think Perry sounded like a Spanish name, but he said his family had been “homogenized” over generations. Alice, on the other hand, looks like she has Latin blood. She said she’s from Florida and thinks her ancestors were from South America. They’re not married, but I got the impression they live together. When they mentioned going to clubs in Greenwich Village, I said I liked going to Café Wha? and listening to beatniks read poetry. Mitch and Alice also often go there, too, and they have friends in the Village. Mitch and Alice support Kennedy and hope he’ll get the nomination, so we immediately bonded and became friends. A lot of people are for Humphrey, and there are even more for Adlai Stevenson. Lyndon Johnson (a fellow Texan!) is a wild card, but he hasn’t declared if he’s running or not. The Democratic National Convention is next month in California, so that’s when we’ll know for whom we’ll ultimately be campaigning.
At any rate, I felt welcomed and wanted. It also gave me a sense of patriotic pride that I’m doing something for my country.
Who would have thought?
JUNE 19, 1960
I’m writing this at 12:30 a.m., but it’s really still Saturday night to me.
I just got home from meeting a man at a party!
More on that in a minute. I haven’t written, dear diary, because I’ve been so busy. And that’s a good thing, because I’m also having fun! I love working for the committee, and I’ve been doing more than what is asked. I like the people there and I think they like me. I’ve found myself suddenly in the middle of a group of… friends?
Besides Mitch and Alice, who I see a lot of these days, there’s Chip Rangel, who makes all of us laugh. He probably weighs 280–300 pounds. He cracks jokes all the time and is always in a good mood. It’s infectious. I believe he has a crush on me, poor thing. Because of that I don’t get too chummy with him. Karen Williams, who’s in her 40s, I guess, is a schoolteacher and she plays that same role at headquarters. It’s become a running joke that whenever Karen tells us to do something, Chip says in a low voice, “Who made her boss?” Now he mumbles it every time she comes into the room, before she even speaks, and it’s hilarious. I struggle to keep from busting out laughing and making a fool of myself. There’s Mr. Patton, who’s in charge, and Mr. Dudley and Mr. O’Donnell, Mrs. Bernstein, and Mrs. Terrano, and a whole bunch of other people. They’re all nice and enthusiastic and fun to be around, even Karen when she’s not worried about stuff getting done in time.
As we get closer to the national convention, things have become crazy. Everything’s well organized, I’ll give them that. It’s just that there’s so much to do and there aren’t enough volunteers. I tried to get Lucy and Peter to volunteer, but they passed.
What do I do? We sell pins for a dollar or any donation, stuff envelopes and mail them, we deliver signs and literature around the city, we register people to vote, and try to talk intelligently to pedestrians who ask us about the Democrats. Most everyone I’ve talked to on the street is nice and stops to listen for a moment and maybe asks a question or two; others are downright rude and say nasty things as they walk on. I really didn’t realize how divisive everyone is over politics before I started doing this. Most of my life I didn’t pay much attention to Republicans or Democrats or politicians in general. Only recently have I discovered what a hot button it can be for some people. Geez! One guy started yelling at me that the Democrats were Commies and that I should “go back to Russia.” All I’d said to him was, “Excuse me sir, are you registered to vote?”
Since none of us know who the candidate is yet, it makes our jobs a little tougher. On the other hand, there’ll be a broad choice in Los Angeles. Actually there’s a big disparity among the volunteers on who should get the nomination. There are quite a few for Kennedy, but also a bunch for Stevenson and Symington. The younger people seem to be more attracted to Kennedy. I think his campaign is the best. His younger brother Robert is running it from Massachusetts. He’s some kind of hot-shot lawyer with the Justice Department.
After we argue about the best candidate, we usually get into the debate of who the running mates will be. Kennedy hasn’t picked one yet.
So now that’s my life outside of the Second Avenue Gym.
Back to tonight. I’ve gone out with Mitch and Alice a couple of times to Café Wha? and listened to music and poetry readings. We watched Kennedy on The Jack Paar Show the other night at their apartment on E. 52nd Street between Lexington and Third. Whatever Mitch does in “investments” must be pretty nice, ‘cause I can’t believe what a nice place they have. It’s a very nice space on the sixth and highest floor of a big building. I didn’t ask them, but it looked like they’d just moved in. The furniture was sparse and there were no decorations. But they have a great television!
Tonight Mitch and Alice invited me to a party in the Village and at first I balked because I didn’t want to be a third wheel. Alice said she and Mitch love having me around and that I’m “fun.” She also said I needed to meet more men and find someone I like so we can double date. So I went.
The party was in an apartment on Christopher Street. It was the same block where Studio Tokyo used to be. The building is still there, but since the fire it’s been boarded up and under repair. It was the first time I’d been over there since it happened. It made me miss Soichiro. I must remember to give his daughter, Isuzu, a call sometime.
I have never been to a party like this one! The hosts looked like beatniks. Ron and Pam, a couple. He had a mustache and hair on his chin and she wore sunglasses indoors. They were both dressed in black. There were other people who looked like beatniks, too, the kind of crowd I’d see at Café Wha? and the Village Vanguard. And there were two Negro couples, too! The place was small, like many New York apartments. It was just a one bedroom. I’d say there were 25 people or so in that living room, kitchen, and bedroom. There was no way all of us could’ve fit just in the living room, so we spread out into the three spaces. There was wine and vodka and bourbon and beer and Coke, and a lot of smoking—the apartment was full of smoke. Some of it was that marijuana stuff. A tiny group was using the bedroom for that, and I didn’t go in there. It made me a little nervous being in an apartment with it because it’s illegal. I’ve seen people smoke it at jazz shows, though.
I thought the food was interesting. I’d never had stuffed mushrooms before. The stems had been removed and the caps were stuffed with bread crumbs and parsley and cheese and I don’t know what else. Someone made a big pot of spaghetti and we ate it off of paper plates. Jazz music played from the hi-fi and there was a lot of chatter. People talked about politics, movies, art, poetry, books, theatre, and music. I’m afraid I might have come off too dumb. I like all that stuff, but when I mentioned Elvis Presley I got a bunch of dirty looks. Alice stood up for me, though, and admitted liking Elvis, too. Most of the people there were for Kennedy, so that gave me points.
Around 9:00 or so, I was on the floor next to the sofa. I was listening to an NYU professor talk about Jack Kerouac when a dark and handsome man settled on the floor beside me. He wasn’t quite as beatnik looking as the rest. He did have facial hair though, what he later told me was a “goatee.” His name is Michael Sokowitz. He’s from Austria but is now living in America. He speaks with a European accent. I guess he’s in his thirties. He told me he’s a writer and that he’s working on a lot of things, mainly a novel. I asked if I could find any of his books at the store, but he said he hasn’t been published yet. We talked for about twenty minutes and then he said his eyes were watering from all the smoke and asked if I’d like to go somewhere and get
coffee. I said sure. The smoke was getting to me, too, so we went to a coffee shop he knew over on Bleecker. There he told me he got his American citizenship two years ago. He came to the United States in 1957. Michael asked me where I was from and all that. He was surprised to hear I work in a gym. He said, “Women shouldn’t fight,” but I told him, “Sometimes they have to.”
Michael has very intense brown eyes, did I mention that?
Sitting there with him was bizarre. He had such an exotic accent and looked like a Russian Cossack or something like that. I must say Michael created a lot of mystique about himself during that short little date. He made me want to know more about him and see him again. It sounds corny, but I find him mysteriously attractive.
After one quick cup of coffee and minimal chitchat, he asked me for my phone number. I gave him the one at the gym and said don’t be surprised if a man answers. Freddie is used to taking messages for me, especially since I started volunteering. He said he would call me. After that he walked me to the crosstown, shook my hand, and said goodbye.
What an evening!
19
Judy’s Diary
1960
JUNE 26, 1960
I went out as the Stiletto last night for the first time in, gosh, over a month. I’ve kept in shape though. I never stopped my exercises. My personal workout plan is a combination of everything I learned from Freddie and Soichiro, basic information I got from Billy, and my own inventions. It’s a good thing I kept up the regime, because last night I needed the Stiletto’s abilities in a very unique way.
What made me put on the outfit again? I don’t know. I just got the urge to go out. It had been a while. Maybe I just needed that little vacation away from her after being beaten twice in Chinatown. The truth is that I missed—gosh, I almost wrote “her” again. I’ve noticed I sometimes refer to the Black Stiletto as someone other than me. Isn’t that weird? Pretty soon I’ll be like Anthony Perkins in Psycho, talking to himself in two different voices! Oh, my gosh, dear diary, that was the scariest movie I’ve ever seen! It just came out and everyone is talking about it. I love Alfred Hitchcock and I wanted to see it, so Lucy and Peter went with me. Lucy screamed several times and hid her eyes during the shower part. I screamed when the detective was killed and fell down the stairs. I couldn’t believe Janet Leigh died so soon in the movie. Ewww! It was shocking! We walked out of the theater stunned.
I can’t wait to see it again!
Part of the reason why I went out as the Stiletto was because I was a little angry. Adam Clayton Powell claimed that Dr. King is being controlled by Communists. What a terrible thing to say! As if the Negroes didn’t have enough problems trying to get equal civil rights. Kennedy was in New York a couple of days ago, but I didn’t see him. Supposedly, he met with Dr. King while he was here. I would like to someday meet Kennedy. If he gets the nomination and I continue working for his campaign, then maybe I will.
I thought becoming the Stiletto again would be a good way to blow off some steam, so I went out around 10:00 p.m. It was a hot night. I figured I’d stay close to home and do my running, climbing, and jumping just on the Lower East Side. People were out in droves. I received lots of catcalls and hollers from pedestrians as I rushed past them. I waved at a few of the nicer folks. But I didn’t find any crimes in progress, and luckily I didn’t bump into any cops.
It was nearly midnight when I heard sirens near Washington Square. A fire truck passed me with its lights blazing. Curiosity got the better of me, so what did I do? Followed it, of course. I stealthily flitted from building to building until I was at the southwest corner of the park. Police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck were positioned in front of a red brownstone to my west on 4th Street. It appeared to be a five- or-six-story brick building with cement trim. The police had brought a spotlight and one of the men shined it up toward the top. I had to cross McDougal and join a crowd of gawking onlookers to get a better view.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Everyone turned and dropped their jaws. Then came the onslaught of reactions. “It’s the Black Stiletto!” “Holy cow, look!” “Are you really her?” and all the usual exclamations. I held my hands up and calmed them down.
“Hush, I don’t want the cops to see me. What are they doing?” And then I saw for myself. The spotlight encircled a figure standing on a narrow concrete ledge in between the top floor windows. The ledge was so small that the toes of his shoes extended beyond it. He hugged his back to the wall, scared out of his wits.
“He’s going to jump. Look,” the fellow next to me said as he pointed.
“Oh, my,” I responded. From the street, the guy on the building looked pretty young. High school or college age. “Who is it? Anyone know?”
A girl spoke up. “He’s a student at NYU. It’s going around that something happened with his grades, he failed or something, and he wants to kill himself before his father does it for him.”
The firemen extended the truck’s ladder, and one man began to climb toward the frightened kid. The boy yelled, “Don’t come closer! I’ll jump! I’m gonna jump!” I couldn’t hear what the fireman said to him. My instincts were to run across the street and get up there to help the poor student. With one inadvertent movement of his shoulder, leg, or arm, he could lose his balance and fall.
Before long, the news trucks arrived. Reporters piled out and took pictures of the sight. I think one journalist had a movie camera. If the jumper wanted publicity, he certainly had it now.
A policeman with a megaphone spoke from the street. “Come on, son, make your way back to the window. You don’t want to do this.”
“I’m gonna jump!”
The cop tried a sterner approach. “Get down, now, before you cause some serious trouble not only for you but for the city!”
“I’m gonna jump!” The kid was a broken record.
By now, more people had gathered to witness the spectacle. They stood with hands over their mouths and holding their breaths in suspense. I was lost in the crowd. No one except those around me knew I was there. It probably wasn’t the smartest place for me to be, but I was just as spellbound as everyone else.
At that point, a fireman appeared in the window to the right of the jumper. It must have been the same window from which the young man climbed out to the ledge. It was six or seven feet away from the boy. The fireman spoke to him, but we couldn’t hear anything. I saw the kid shake his head violently.
The jumper and the rescue team were at a stalemate. The police and firemen were getting nowhere. I finally couldn’t take the tension any longer and was compelled to do something about it. It may be the boldest thing I’ve ever done, but I pushed through the crowd and made my way to where the police had cordoned off the street. I addressed a patrolman, “Can I do anything to help?” His eyes bulged when he saw me, but at least he didn’t draw his weapon.
“Uh, Lieutenant?” he called out. The man with the megaphone looked up and saw me. That started everyone pointing and murmuring. Now the crowd was looking at me instead of the jumper! The reporters’ cameras flashed. Finally the lieutenant came over to me.
“You have three seconds to get out of here or I’ll have you arrested,” he said.
“Wait, maybe I can help,” I said. “I’ll go up there and talk to him. He might listen to me.”
“Why would he listen to you?”
I shrugged. “Isn’t it worth a try? Come on.”
“You’re wanted by the law. We can handcuff you right here.”
“Not tonight!” I said as I abruptly darted through the barricade and ran toward the building. The lieutenant shouted for me to stop. Some patrolmen tried to grab me, but I wiggled out of their clumsy holds and jumped up to the building’s stoop, which was a simple six steps up to the front door. There were two basement-level restaurants on either side of it, above which, at about shoulder level, were the lower platforms of exterior fire escape staircases. I chose the one on the right, leaped on, and started climb
ing.
The crowd applauded and shouted its approval. “Yea, Black Stiletto!” “Go get him!” “Hurray!”
I’m pretty sure some of the police drew their guns and aimed at me, for I heard the lieutenant shout, “Put away your weapons!” I didn’t look down. So as not to scare the jumper, I moved slowly and eventually made it to the top level. The fireman inside the open window said, “The kid won’t listen to me.” I replied, “Let me talk to him.”
The spotlight still outlined the boy. Now that I was closer, he appeared to be nineteen or twenty. The ledge he stood on was at eye level. He stared and shouted, “Don’t you come near me!” Tears streamed down the kid’s face.
I moved to the platform rail, indicated the ledge, and spoke. “Hey, was that hard to do?”
“Don’t come near me!”
“Was it hard climbing out the window and inching along that ledge? Can I try it?”
“No! Go away!”
“Come on, I’ve never done that before. I’m going to try, okay? You look like you could use some company.” I didn’t wait for him to respond. I pulled off my backpack and set it on the platform, raised a leg, put my boot on top of the rail, and hoisted myself up. The entire fire escape creaked. I was afraid the rail wouldn’t hold my weight, but it did. Once I was there, I realized how the kid was able to reach the ledge. There were decorative, horizontal cement grooves in the wall. I grabbed one, climbed the wall like a ladder, and then placed my right boot on the ledge. With my back flat against the wall, I slowly scooted toward the young man.
“Take it easy. I’m a friend,” I said. “You know who I am, right?” The expression of terror on his face said it all. “Don’t be afraid. I just want to talk to you.”
The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes Page 12