In the summer of sixty-six, a year before the Newark riots, my life took a sudden change. I’d been living in Jersey for about eight months and, for me anyway, things were different in those days. The weather was warm, the ice vendors were making money, the streets were full of laughing kids, and everyone was getting along fine.

Me? I was doing okay. My mood was good, and I had a bit of dough. So, I went up onto the pitch covered roof of my apartment block to drink a few beers and smoke some pot. I call it my asphalt beach.

The apartment manager, Joey, didn’t like us going onto the roof. He wanted to keep it for himself and jerk off or something. He’s an asshole.

Continue reading →