Yeah, I know ... I promised you readers the true story of that night and so far I'm only up to the renting-the-apartment part. Well, let’s get to it then.

We rent that place. Right away friends’re telling us Dave and I oughta host a "housewarming" party in a coupla weeks. And, verily, it comes to pass. Now, neither of us being all that gregarious in nature (nor the least bit pleasant), McManus spends most of his time slumped in a stuffed chair on the porch while I sneak off to Maria's for a sour egg and a shot. Just as I'm washing it all down with a bottle of Schlitz and a Dean Martin double play, in walks the Ghost of Hippie Caravans Past. Dig, glowing hot above the Seeburg 100 floats the jack-o-lantern face of Bobby Niznik. Well, it takes Niz about 20 minutes to catch me up on what he’s been doing and just 2 minutes more for me to really piss him off! Next, I guess wrong that taking him to our apartment’ll help cut the friction.

I mean, it just wasn’t Bob’s crowd up there. See, Morton had offered to do a "piece" in the new place—it being raw "space"’n all and “space” being the only thing he hadn’t enough of living at his parents house. I dunno. Anyway, the piece turned out to be this sculpture. A jungle-gym kinda thing made out of 2x4s and hex-bolts. Gorgeous. Precise. Built right into the corners, tight to the walls of the large middle (dining?) room, and from floor to ceiling. It was a perfect maze. And it’d been completed, I recall, just in time for our party. Or, maybe, as I think about it now, it was the actual reason for the party. Anyway, I just thought that good ol’ Niznik ... and the sculpture ... and all those people ... uh, —Oh, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking!

Long story short, I can’t really say who was and wasn’t around when Bob pushed me over the second-floor porch railing. He grabbed my ankles just in time and held me there, upside-down, calling me a “fucking snob” until I ...— well, I believe some sort of apology and the word “uncle” was required before Niznik’d even consider hauling me in. Hardly the kinda night one forgets, hey Char?