Back in ’71, my father took me to see The Anderson Tapes when it opened over in Times Square. Early in the summer evening, he parked the car — a distinctive black and white Buick Wildcat — on 47th St. As we were walking away, scantily clad street walkers started running down the block headed towards a hotel across the street. As the crowd of hookers bottle-necked the doors, an equal number of similarly attired — and seemingly employed — gals started trying to push their way out. Shrieks and yells drowned out the usual cacophony of summer in the city sounds. Then, the block became filled with uniformed New York City Police — all smiling and laughing. Each of the cops, gently grabbed on of the women. Unresisting, they allowed themselves to be directed into the building.
In a strange Mobius strip twisting of reality and flickering film illusion, my father’s car appeared in a police surveillance photo. A little while later, some Jersey City Detectives stopped by the bar and asked my father what he was doing on 47th Street that day. When he told them that he was there to see a movie, the officers chuckled, saying that that was as good a story as any.