Point of View: A Correction

As constant readers, those of a certain age at any rate, undoubtedly noticed, when I wrote two weeks ago that I was paying $65 a week to rent a one-room apartment in Alphabet City in 1965, I was wrong. 

The monthly rent was indeed, as I had originally written, $65 a month. But then, wondering if there ever were a time when landlords, even in the East Village, charged tenants a mere $16.25 a week — substantially less than what you’d pay for a bottle of Mud House, Frenzy, or Cairnbrae now — I panicked and called in to stop the presses. 

Of course, the nice thing now is that a reporter or columnist can plead to being not entirely guilty inasmuch as an error in Thursday’s print edition can be set right by Friday in the website one. 

Yes, $65 a month. I know because I read it in the first “Point of View” I ever wrote, dated Oct. 26, 1967, which I found in a folder in my desk’s upper-left-hand drawer, a folder that I had intended to be opened only in the case of my death, but which I might as well dip into now, shamelessness apparently being in vogue nowadays. . . .

“. . . My one-room apartment, whose walls I painted yellow, red, green, and candy-striped, was a real joy. When the cockroaches shyly hid on the arrival of guests, I worried.” (N.B., Mary.)

“My landlady, Mrs. Messina [I got that right], a Hogarthian character, told me to ‘bar your door — people are crazy these days.’ But what was there to steal? I felt this way despite the fact I probably lived in the high-rent district, since I paid $65 a month for my apartment, slightly more than I could have received from a weekly welfare check.”

I was just about ready to go on unemployment when The Times hired me as a copy boy — at around $65 a week, I imagine, for I do remember having adhered rather closely to the tenet that no more than a quarter of one’s income should go to housing. That advice is a stretch now. Those were the days.

At any rate, until summoned several months later to apprentice in Riverhead with Larry Penny’s late older brother, Art, a Long Island Press reporter and Times stringer on weekends, I was rather content living on society’s margins as I recall — sufficiently desperate, I suppose, not to feel so.

Sufficiently trusting too in my invincible surmise that in time all would work out. 

And, lo, that’s what happened. All — well, just about all — are working out these days.