It was 1972, I was 23, teaching on Long Island. My adventurous girlfriend had rented a small apartment in New York. The kind of neighborhood where if you left your second-story window open, a burglar crawled through.
The night that happened, Deirdre was alone, but she knew how to take care of herself. She offered the guy a cigarette, talked him out of attempted robbery and sent him on his way.
“Weren’t you scared?” I asked. “No, I’m from Chicago,” she shrugged.
Now she was inviting me into the city for a rock concert. The Kinks at Madison Square Garden.