It’s a typical Saturday night and they are doing what they always do on the weekend — head down to The East Village, drop by a couple of clubs to catch some music. They come down here without knowing who we are going to see. It’s more a summer night excursion than anything else, no definitive plans, no particular place to go.
The first stop is the Irving Plaza, an old Polish ballroom on Irving Place. However no one is playing who they want to see so they move on to the next destination, The Ritz, formerly the old Webster Hall. Again nothing is happening so they go on their merry way, decide to give up their search for music and find a place to eat instead.
They walk up East 11th Street, turn onto 4th Avenue, wander aimlessly looking for a cheap bite to eat. Along the way they encounter a group of four homosexuals, arm in arm, skipping down the avenue singing The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. They’re having a great time, a much better time than they are.
They turn the next corner, still looking for a place where they can sit down and fill their empty stomachs. Up ahead stands a man in a black suit and a shock of bright white hair. An African-American woman stands beside him, and they are gazing through the window of a clothing boutique.
Hey, isn’t that Andy Warhol?
No, that isn’t him.
Yeah, it’s probably just some guy who wants you to think it’s him.
Hold on, I’ll go see.
Two of them stay put as the other walks up the street, keeping a close eye on the man with the shock of bright white hair. He’s convinced it is Warhol. The hair, the glasses, the pasty white complexion, who else can it be?
He walks up to them, peers right into the man’s face.
Yep! It’s him!
Andy’s face twists into a grimace and he takes a few steps back, both his hands begin to rise. He looks at the young man, bewildered, frightened. He takes another few steps back, both his hands up now, as if surrendering to his fate, as if he’s waiting for something to happen to him.
How are you doing?
Andy takes another step back but relaxes a bit, then waves, looks at them as if they had just emerged from another world, as if they were the strangest thing he ever saw. There is no conversation, just a polite greeting, perhaps tinged with a little star stricken excitement. Andy meekly says hello, then continues on with his companion. They watch Andy and his companion walk away, thrilled that they actually ran into this world famous artist.
Holy shit, I can’t believe that it was really him!
See the way he looked at us?
Poor Andy probably hadn’t expected to be bothered by these starstruck kids from Queens while he was minding his own business, enjoying the summer evening with his friend. At the time the kids hadn’t known the full story of Warhol’s life. They only knew who he was and admired his work. They hadn’t known he had once been shot and very nearly killed and by just approaching him, they scared the living shit out of him. However his expression was less fear than it was that he was looking upon something grotesque, strange, and other worldly. This celebrity artist, this major figure in American culture who built his whole reputation—as well as his whole persona—on being strange and unusual would look upon these three kids from Queens as if they were something unusual, repellent, as if his entire social circle had been nothing but a sea of normality. Perhaps it was, from his perspective. Perhaps their normality was the very thing he found so strange.
New York City, July 1998
I liked this piece the first time I read it, I still do